fact or fiction
Is it a fact or is it merely fiction? Fact or Fiction explores the lesser known truths in the corporate culture of Journal.
The Spell Caster and The Black Book
She lay down in despair and disbelief. “How did this happen? I thought we had something special. He just got married to this girl he had been seeing for only six months. That too, during a pandemic!” Sarah looked at the walls that imprisoned her during the lockdown and felt completely engulfed in sorrow. “He was the love of my love. He was the one I was meant to be with,” she cried. “As if the loneliness from the pandemic weren’t enough, now I have a broken heart to mend. I have never felt more alone in my entire life.” She broke down in tears, “Who gets married during a pandemic? She is not even pregnant! I need to get him back.” She began a search on google and typed ‘how to get your ex back’ in the web browser.
By Ozge Suleyman5 years ago in Journal
The Book on the Dresser
It seemed unremarkable, this little black book sitting on my dresser. I was much more concerned with other more pressing topics, like what day is it? Have I missed any important appointments? How bad do I actually feel? Can I remember everything from last night? Can I remember anything? You know, all the critical questions that welcome you back from a night of indulgence.
By Lucas Whelan5 years ago in Journal
20K For Life
It was pouring rain as Mila darted from her taxicab through the LaGuardia airport doors. Late for a flight, she had randomly booked at 2 a.m. a mere four days prior as insomnia ran a familiar lap around her exhausted body. She had never been to Greece, but clicking that costly book now button had instantaneously provided her with something to look forward to. This trip left her with little in her bank account, seemingly her new normal these days. She desperately needed a change of scenery and could already feel her spirits lifting as she settled into her window seat.
By Monique Yvonne5 years ago in Journal
WRITERS BLOCK
Every day was the same in the Writers Block, and had been for the past five years. For Minty that meant waking up in his cube, booting his terminal, taking an assignment, typing, submitting, hoping it was accepted and that money was deposited into his account.
By Kyle A. Kramer5 years ago in Journal
Curbside Collection
Curbside Collection Henry took in the interior of the kitchen. The melamine slathered cabinet faces regarded him dumbly. Their circa-1950, painted-over brass handles resembled ivory bones glued to reminders of his childhood, the upper cupboards once far beyond his reach.
By TAB The Writer5 years ago in Journal
The Mysterious Man and His Little Black Book
Brian Roam walks into “The Coffee Shop” and orders his usual; medium coffee black with two sugars, and a cheese danish. He then sits down in the back corner of the shop at his usual table. Brian then cracks open his laptop and sits there for hours, occasionally getting up to stretch his legs, and to order another coffee. This has been Brian’s daily routine for the past three months. Brian is an aspiring writer, and it was painstakingly obvious that he has been overcome with a severe case of writer's block.
By Malcolm Farrar5 years ago in Journal
Take A Chance
Today started out like any other day for me. The sounds of an awakening, urban jungle growing louder as daylight crept over the horizon. It was never the rumbling trains, arguing neighbors, honking horns or alarm clock that woke me up each day. The anxiety of facing the day with next to nothing was more than enough to jolt me awake each morning. Like normal, I sat up in my bed, stared at the drywall underneath the peeling, gray paint on my bedroom wall before preparing to go to work. I must say, despite how normal my daily routine felt at that point, I could feel that there was something different about today. Like something out of the ordinary was around the corner. Not knowing what to make of that feeling, I got myself cleaned up and dashed out of the door for work.
By Brian Simpson5 years ago in Journal
The Man At Table 12
It was just like any other shift. I still woke up 20 minutes before I had to leave for work, scrambling to get ready. I still woke up slightly hungover. I still arrived 5 minutes late when I only live 7 minutes away. Something about this shift was different and I could feel it as soon as I walked in the door and clocked in.
By Alyssa Flores5 years ago in Journal
Spend It Wisely
My alarm clock basically slapped me in the face this morning, making sure I got out of bed. It might as well have thrown cold water over me. It was that painful. I could hear it nagging at me, "Come On! GET UP! You don't want to lose your job, do you?!" No, but that doesn't mean I wanted to go either.
By Michael Devlin5 years ago in Journal
The Eye
It was a rainy summer evening in New York City, the type that made you feel as though anything could happen. The sound of the cool water hitting the tired, hot pavement, and filling the air with a sort of fog that made everything familiar to you appear in a distorted view almost called for something different or chaotic to happen. It was Penny Lipton’s favorite kind of night. Yes, her name was Penny Lipton and she hated it —it sounded like a brand of boxed tea or the name of a girl down the street who always wore her hair in pigtails. In actuality, Penny did not come remotely close to either of these things. She was short and scraggly and her hair never really did what she wanted it to. Her clothes were always dark and the only bright thing about her was the random streak of color in her hair — it was her own act of rebellion against its constant need to fight being tame. Currently it was purple, and would change at any given moment for no particular reason or purpose.
By Kathryn Kornacki5 years ago in Journal
