fact or fiction

Is it fact or merely fiction? Fact or Fiction explores the myths and beliefs we hold about our family dynamics, traditions, and if there's such thing as a 'perfect family.'

The Buried Secret
"Incoming!" The warning came too late. A black pail hit Maddie's bent shoulder and clattered to the soft soil at her feet. An accompanying trickle of dirt found its way down the back of her shirt.
By Abigail Leavitt5 years ago in Families
What You Ask For
As soon as I saw it, I knew what it was. It wasn’t supposed to exist – a story made up by my grandfather to excuse his behavior – and yet, I was holding it. My fingers brushed off a layer of dust to reveal the smooth, supple leather covering the little book. There were no marks on the black leather; no initials or embossment indicating what lay between the covers.
By Meredith Bishop5 years ago in Families
I Can’t Forget You
“Control your breathing. Fight your tears Derrick, you're ok”. The voice in my head was comforting and so loud but the news was even louder. The news was like an ongoing siren blaring the ugly truth. I sat stiff on the couch as my mother held my hands. Her lips were moving quickly explaining and filling in blanks, but I was stuck. Stuck on the words “Your mother is dead”. “One, three, fourteen, twelve...” counting usually helps me cope but at that time I couldn’t fully grasp what was real and what I was imagining. I started to see my face vanish from all the family photos that surrounded me in the living room. Faintly I heard myself whisper “What?” desperately needing clarification. My mother explained to me that I needed to meet my father in Jamaica to prepare for the funeral. I have been to Jamica several times because that is where my father is from. However, I still had no understanding to what was happening. I heard my mother Crystal say I was not adopted. She also said that she was still my mother and my father Thomas was indeed my biological father. All that information just added to my confusion. If Crystal says I'm not adopted and she is my mother then how did I have another mother that was dead?
By Monique Peck5 years ago in Families
Questions
Why should I care if she’s dead? Why would I want her money? She never did anything for me. She never cared about me. She never wanted me. She wouldn’t even tell me who my father was, or where he was from. So why would I want anything that came from her? I have worked hard to leave her behind me. I have worked hard to make a life for myself without her help. I worked hard in school, and I worked hard to set up a successful career for myself. All she ever did for me was carry me in her womb and give birth to me. She never raised me; multiple nannies did that for her. She shipped me off to the best and furthest boarding school she could find the moment I was old enough to go. Yes, it was expensive, but it wasn’t like money was tight. She lived her life as part of high society and wouldn’t even introduce me as her daughter. I wouldn’t be surprised if her social circle even know I existed. We had more money than we could spend, but still, she spent more time working than she did with me. I hardly ever saw my mother; she was too busy working or hanging out with her high society friends to spend any time with me.
By Heather Woods5 years ago in Families
The Fall
The Underwood castle has years of folklore behind it. People believed that the castle was home to families of mermaids or a town of miniature trolls. Children often claimed to see a mermaid or merman swim in the water under the entrance gate, or a troll ringing the large bronze bells from the tower or singing in the garden, but these occurrences aren't the focus of this tale. The only thing behind the castle walls of importance for the purposes of this story are the Royal Underwood family, composed of Tristan and Marvous and their eight children; Marvous Jr, Herald, Everly, Josephine, Allurius, Jacqueline, Loch and Whyte, ranging from ages seven to twenty-one years old, all magickal and looking for adventure and excitement in their lives.
By Erin-Anne5 years ago in Families
The Tome of their Times
It’s very early in the morning as the youthful pimpled face teen, enters the great chamber adorned with old tapestry’s along one side of it’s tall walls, telling tales of conquest, ventures won and lost in times gone by. Paul was told earlier, as he was given new clothes to put on, that this would be the most important day of his life. But his feet hurt, as he walked toward the long ornate desk at the far end of the chamber. 100 feet across at least, he thought and he was feeling small listening to the echoes his new shoes made upon the polished stone floor as he grew closer. There sat the old woman he spied earlier watching him and the others When he arrived. He knew, none of them but was told, all were his cousins. Now, after two weeks of what were clearly trials of their character and integrity. He would meet his host. She sat silently watching his approach. She is very observant, he thought. He waited for her to speak.
By Dayna Ferguson5 years ago in Families
She Has Nostalgia
John is sitting on the porch bench with his grandpa, they are both filled with tears because of the sudden death of Carl's wife, John's grandma. Carl looks over at John and says; You have not said much during the funeral, you know you can talk to me about anything.
By Jeremiah Preston5 years ago in Families
Memories of Dust
I remember I had gone into the garage to get something. I can’t recall what that was now because I became distracted. There is a corner of the garage that is full of old junk. Things I’d meant to take to the tip months back. Things I meant to sell or take to the local charity shop, just a block away. I’m not sure why, after sorting through everything, I stopped and let it all rest in place, these odds-and-ends of a life. Worn-down brooms and battered lampshades. Fragments of those things that unaccountably tend to survive the death of their patron—the boxes of things that seem to mean something but which are, in practical terms, wholly useless.
By Victoria Reeve5 years ago in Families
Somewhere Buried Deep Beneath it All
Ma, I started with the first room down the hall expecting to find it hoarded to the ceiling. But you had left my room as it was.
By M. R.5 years ago in Families
Promises Made // Promises Kept
I owe so much to my mother. Over the course of my life she’s never stopped believing in me. She’s always been the first to tell me I could accomplish something. To tell me that I should go for that thing, whatever it might be, because she wholeheartedly believed I could do it.
By thWrtr5 years ago in Families
The Dirt Man
My name is Joseph C. Hagin. The C stands for Charles, as that was my father’s name. I never knew my father as he had passed on my 7th birthday. Joseph was my mother’s father’s name, so I guess my mom won out when it came to picking my first name. For some reason, every time I would ask my mother about what had happened to my father she would be extremely vague and always changed the subject. I knew his death had some strange circumstances behind it, but I never really pressed the issue. She would usually just offer that he drank too much and so on. Being born in a small town just outside of the North Dakota plains made her story more plausible as there wasn’t much to do but to drink, especially for a poor and struggling dirt man. In short, dad dug holes for a living. To say we were dirt poor is certainly a pun intended!
By Joey Fulco 5 years ago in Families
What Money Could Buy
In the year 1983 in the month of Christmas, the earth is stifled by the running bodies inhabiting the city of Moreton. Going heads of the crowded city move in unison as the industrial corporate buildings stay put and towering over them. A tenant of one of the towering buildings is me, 23-year-old Rebecca Norrys gloomily watching the uncoordinated city contributing its part to the economy. I have already contributed my part as I sit watching the city with completed task and 200 forwarded files and emails. I then shift my posture to then keep a stern eye on the clock as the minute hand goes by and time gets closer to the end of my shift. My antisocial like aura feels the office floor almost instantly and fifteen minutes starts to feel like dreadful hours.
By Jamerick Morrell5 years ago in Families