the scenarios that i imagine in my head about my fucking math teacher who im madly in love with. i want that man soooo bad its not even funny. And nothing is ever going to happen but i have hope. and its all fucking fiction.
It was fiction. Everything that he’d ever said to her was a complete work of fiction. He had lied from the beginning, fabbricated every single thing he’d ever said to her. From his reasons to being at the restaurant, to his relationship status, to his hometown… Now she couldn’t tell where the truth began, if it was even there at all… Now, she thought, even his feelings were a work of fiction, a beautiful piece of fantasy elaborately written…
it may be fiction me wanting to hold you naked next to me as you turn fifty,but i believe in disney.dreams can come true
by i bet you think this song is about you on 01.05.2011
“Reality through Fiction.” The man nodded. “That is our creed. As Storytellers, it is our duty to shape the world around us by shaping what is not real.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Heid quipped.
“You don’t make sense to me, rogue. Stumbling in here, slashing about. Shameful.”
Fiction is what I desire. All of the things in my life that have been designated as “fiction” have been the things that have brought me the most real joy. Whether it be fictional stories, the fiction of my dreams, or the fiction of a love that was not really a love, but FELT like one. If fiction is another word for lies, then make all lies true and let fiction be my reality.
Well this story is fake, but it isn’t all fiction. I added in some of the more fantastic parts, but the basic character of the people is the same. The most real thing in the world is a person’s heart, and I would never make something like that up.
She raised up walls of glass around her life, carefully constructed mirrors and lenses that distorted the outside world and only let the light stream in the way she wanted it to, each ray falling just right in that perfect fairytale glow no matter what happened. People said she was lying herself, but she was happy and everything was beautiful and nothing was hurt. And that was all that mattered.
Fiction is so much more interesting than the truth. The truth is what it is. Plain and simple. Point blank, like a swift kick to the nuts. Fiction, on the other hand, is what you want it to be, what it could be, what may not be but, what the hell, now it is.
I have always made up stories in my head. When I was younger, though, I would attempt to make others believe them. For example, I convinced my kindergarten that I was an alien who had white hard blood and red runny bones.
What? I got fiction last time, and didn’t know what to write about. I thought I could get a different word. But no. Guess you guys are just too smart for me…
well I made it up i suppose. it was lies. I think it started off that way anyway but I started to believe it. why wouldn’t I? I was so convincing. My mother nodded along as if it was Gospel. Funny that.
imagine you’re in a room with four white walls and you can paint a world full of colors. and that world becomes real only once you are done painting the whole thing. ceiling and floor included.
in strange dreams we allow ourselves to indulge in the fact that we are only dreaming. we will wake up. we hold on to every last second. walk up to everyone and kiss them. and watch the bigger picture erupt in our minds. the soul’s last stand.
There was nothing better than that last piece of fiction. Every page she devoured. How did people write so well. On the one hand she didn’t want to put the book down, on the other, she didn’t want this fiction to end.
It was a tug of war between fact and fiction. Each truth rung through my head and batted at my ears. I bled truth. Each anecdote of falsehood pushed itself into my mouth and bones. I drank lies.
There are many genres of books, my favourite is fiction. Fiction books are books that never reslly happened or will happen in real life, such as a monser that comes to life…See how fake that was?
It’s what I prefer to write.
My older sister had a penchant for writing poems; she even got some published. But I’ve never had much luck with them (not that I’ve tried.) I just seem to gravitate more toward prose, ever since I was 10 or so and started (crappily) roleplaying. Actually, probably before that, when I was really little and voiced my stories into the tape recorder for my parents to type up. I did write one poem recently, a long one. I was suddenly inspired and poetry happened to be how it came out. It’s my first, as far as I can recall.
I prefer fiction to nonfiction, prose to poetry, but that doesn’t mean I won’t read it. I suppose I’m more an omnivorous reader than writer.
Fiction is what you’re telling me right now. Lies, deceit, betrayal. ‘Fiction’ is just a more sophisticated word for it, just one of those words that glosses over everything and makes it all pretty and shiny.
But guess what?
It doesn’t work.
Because wover time, paint chips, so you can see the underneath layer.
The only fiction in my house is the wedding album from my first marriage. We both knew it was over– she discovered it 15 minutes before the service, and it took me three and a half years to catch up.
i don’t think fact is really that different from fiction i mean who are we to say? just because i deem something to be fiction does not mean it won’t be fact one day and vice versa history has a lot to teach us but that doesn’t mean it was ever true. maybe it will be one day but i suppose that’s our risk to take. and that’s a fact.
fiction is what i like to write the most although i sometimes feel like im cheating because most of what i write is about people in my life including myself and things that have happened to us. they are never quite the same though to me that is fiction as i am inspirted by real things and real experiences but i transform them into fiction. i dont read enough fiction though. that is what i intend to do this year and for the years to follow so i can improve my own writing by getting other inspirations from other works of fiction.
fact or fiction – what do i like to read more? i love to read nonfiction books because i learn so much from them but fiction novels can be so entertaining and thought provoking. fact or fiction? i don’t know which i would choose…
“there,all done,now don’t you feel better?” questioned the artificial intelligence.”your human ideals aren’t the stuff of fiction…my brain is.rational decisions.non-emotional responses.do you know how artifical and inadequate my thought processes are?calculations gone awry because a human feels love or anger and can actually make something impossible possible.i need more than just data.i need to feel!
Life has become an uneasy fairy tale with an ending unwritten.
and when I die it will all be here-say, fiction, a thing of the past I am just a moment.
ok, I’ll try again.. fiction, fiction, fiction … I feel like George Constanzza :)) remember Seinfeld..? it’s really to much pressure.. I don’t think I can do this..
It was harsh. It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the truth. It was grotesque, pushing its shameful ways on all who heard it. Still, I followed it and treated it as a god.
She wore her hair long. Long and straight and blond. Her figure was slight. She looked like a little girl at times, but at 50, if someone thought that he would get a little girl, he read too much fiction.
I think that there is a fine line between fiction and plain out lying. Fiction means you can embelish on the truth, it is held together by small truths. Lies are lies. But if you lie for the sake of it, that isn’t fiction. One lie leads to more. Fiction isn’t true but it doesn’t lead to more fallacies.
The story was utter fiction. The cop watched the mannerisms and wide eyes of the suspect and knew there wasn’t an iota of truth in the statement he just gave. It was going to be a long murder investigation.
fiction is the air that i breathe, like the novels that i write. because behind every fictional story there is some truth behind it. Tim O’Brien said “fiction is the lie that helps us understand the truth” and I believe it. That’s why I write. There’s more than just a made up story, there’s a truth behind that lie. Fiction.
There was a man who wished to create a Fiction novel. He struggled with an awful case of writer’s block, sadly. He ended up crying every night because he had no money and could not hold up for his family. One night he ended it all with a bottle of whiskey and a perscription pill bottle for sleeping medication that
I’d have deemed it a figment of my imagination if it hadn’t just happened right in front of my eyes. It was like something you might read in any novel: people are walking back from a night of revelry, a little dazed, and not mindful of where they’re going. Before they know it, they’ve been beset by muggers, robbed, beat up, and left standing in the cold with nothing.
the scenarios that i imagine in my head about my fucking math teacher who im madly in love with. i want that man soooo bad its not even funny. And nothing is ever going to happen but i have hope. and its all fucking fiction.
It was fiction. Everything that he’d ever said to her was a complete work of fiction. He had lied from the beginning, fabbricated every single thing he’d ever said to her. From his reasons to being at the restaurant, to his relationship status, to his hometown… Now she couldn’t tell where the truth began, if it was even there at all… Now, she thought, even his feelings were a work of fiction, a beautiful piece of fantasy elaborately written…
it may be fiction me wanting to hold you naked next to me as you turn fifty,but i believe in disney.dreams can come true
“Reality through Fiction.” The man nodded. “That is our creed. As Storytellers, it is our duty to shape the world around us by shaping what is not real.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Heid quipped.
“You don’t make sense to me, rogue. Stumbling in here, slashing about. Shameful.”
Fiction is what I desire. All of the things in my life that have been designated as “fiction” have been the things that have brought me the most real joy. Whether it be fictional stories, the fiction of my dreams, or the fiction of a love that was not really a love, but FELT like one. If fiction is another word for lies, then make all lies true and let fiction be my reality.
Well this story is fake, but it isn’t all fiction. I added in some of the more fantastic parts, but the basic character of the people is the same. The most real thing in the world is a person’s heart, and I would never make something like that up.
She raised up walls of glass around her life, carefully constructed mirrors and lenses that distorted the outside world and only let the light stream in the way she wanted it to, each ray falling just right in that perfect fairytale glow no matter what happened. People said she was lying herself, but she was happy and everything was beautiful and nothing was hurt. And that was all that mattered.
Fiction is so much more interesting than the truth. The truth is what it is. Plain and simple. Point blank, like a swift kick to the nuts. Fiction, on the other hand, is what you want it to be, what it could be, what may not be but, what the hell, now it is.
I have always made up stories in my head. When I was younger, though, I would attempt to make others believe them. For example, I convinced my kindergarten that I was an alien who had white hard blood and red runny bones.
What? I got fiction last time, and didn’t know what to write about. I thought I could get a different word. But no. Guess you guys are just too smart for me…
well I made it up i suppose. it was lies. I think it started off that way anyway but I started to believe it. why wouldn’t I? I was so convincing. My mother nodded along as if it was Gospel. Funny that.
imagine you’re in a room with four white walls and you can paint a world full of colors. and that world becomes real only once you are done painting the whole thing. ceiling and floor included.
Your love for me is a work of fiction.
Can anyone really call anything fiction? What we live, feel, and, breathe is all perception and if you believe it to be real, then it is.
not real
fact
made up
in strange dreams we allow ourselves to indulge in the fact that we are only dreaming. we will wake up. we hold on to every last second. walk up to everyone and kiss them. and watch the bigger picture erupt in our minds. the soul’s last stand.
There was nothing better than that last piece of fiction. Every page she devoured. How did people write so well. On the one hand she didn’t want to put the book down, on the other, she didn’t want this fiction to end.
It was a tug of war between fact and fiction. Each truth rung through my head and batted at my ears. I bled truth. Each anecdote of falsehood pushed itself into my mouth and bones. I drank lies.
There are many genres of books, my favourite is fiction. Fiction books are books that never reslly happened or will happen in real life, such as a monser that comes to life…See how fake that was?
It’s what I prefer to write.
My older sister had a penchant for writing poems; she even got some published. But I’ve never had much luck with them (not that I’ve tried.) I just seem to gravitate more toward prose, ever since I was 10 or so and started (crappily) roleplaying. Actually, probably before that, when I was really little and voiced my stories into the tape recorder for my parents to type up. I did write one poem recently, a long one. I was suddenly inspired and poetry happened to be how it came out. It’s my first, as far as I can recall.
I prefer fiction to nonfiction, prose to poetry, but that doesn’t mean I won’t read it. I suppose I’m more an omnivorous reader than writer.
Fiction is what you’re telling me right now. Lies, deceit, betrayal. ‘Fiction’ is just a more sophisticated word for it, just one of those words that glosses over everything and makes it all pretty and shiny.
But guess what?
It doesn’t work.
Because wover time, paint chips, so you can see the underneath layer.
The only fiction in my house is the wedding album from my first marriage. We both knew it was over– she discovered it 15 minutes before the service, and it took me three and a half years to catch up.
i don’t think fact is really that different from fiction i mean who are we to say? just because i deem something to be fiction does not mean it won’t be fact one day and vice versa history has a lot to teach us but that doesn’t mean it was ever true. maybe it will be one day but i suppose that’s our risk to take. and that’s a fact.
A great escape. Thank the universe for fiction and all the creative hard working writers that give us great fiction.
fiction is what i like to write the most although i sometimes feel like im cheating because most of what i write is about people in my life including myself and things that have happened to us. they are never quite the same though to me that is fiction as i am inspirted by real things and real experiences but i transform them into fiction. i dont read enough fiction though. that is what i intend to do this year and for the years to follow so i can improve my own writing by getting other inspirations from other works of fiction.
Delicacy is the object of fiction. Truth id the object of delicacy. and imagination is the delicacy of truth.
fact or fiction – what do i like to read more? i love to read nonfiction books because i learn so much from them but fiction novels can be so entertaining and thought provoking. fact or fiction? i don’t know which i would choose…
“there,all done,now don’t you feel better?” questioned the artificial intelligence.”your human ideals aren’t the stuff of fiction…my brain is.rational decisions.non-emotional responses.do you know how artifical and inadequate my thought processes are?calculations gone awry because a human feels love or anger and can actually make something impossible possible.i need more than just data.i need to feel!
Life has become an uneasy fairy tale with an ending unwritten.
and when I die it will all be here-say, fiction, a thing of the past I am just a moment.
ok, I’ll try again.. fiction, fiction, fiction … I feel like George Constanzza :)) remember Seinfeld..? it’s really to much pressure.. I don’t think I can do this..
It was harsh. It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the truth. It was grotesque, pushing its shameful ways on all who heard it. Still, I followed it and treated it as a god.
Fact is stranger.
She wore her hair long. Long and straight and blond. Her figure was slight. She looked like a little girl at times, but at 50, if someone thought that he would get a little girl, he read too much fiction.
It’s a fiction that my head reads over and over, and all that it could ever be was fiction. Just a silent girl, wishing for better understanding.
I think that there is a fine line between fiction and plain out lying. Fiction means you can embelish on the truth, it is held together by small truths. Lies are lies. But if you lie for the sake of it, that isn’t fiction. One lie leads to more. Fiction isn’t true but it doesn’t lead to more fallacies.
The story was utter fiction. The cop watched the mannerisms and wide eyes of the suspect and knew there wasn’t an iota of truth in the statement he just gave. It was going to be a long murder investigation.
fiction is the air that i breathe, like the novels that i write. because behind every fictional story there is some truth behind it. Tim O’Brien said “fiction is the lie that helps us understand the truth” and I believe it. That’s why I write. There’s more than just a made up story, there’s a truth behind that lie. Fiction.
There was a man who wished to create a Fiction novel. He struggled with an awful case of writer’s block, sadly. He ended up crying every night because he had no money and could not hold up for his family. One night he ended it all with a bottle of whiskey and a perscription pill bottle for sleeping medication that
I’d have deemed it a figment of my imagination if it hadn’t just happened right in front of my eyes. It was like something you might read in any novel: people are walking back from a night of revelry, a little dazed, and not mindful of where they’re going. Before they know it, they’ve been beset by muggers, robbed, beat up, and left standing in the cold with nothing.
are the words your forked tongue spats,
fact or fiction?
i cannot tell
due to your slurred diction.