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.'
Guide to Effective Wazifa for Hajat
The Arabs term "wazifa" in the Islamic tradition describes a type of worship in the form of repetition of selected verses or prayers from the Quran in order to appeal to God to assist in fulfilling a specific need or realizing a certain desire. Wazifa for Hajat is one of the mostly cited verse is the one which is recited to seek help for fulfillment of wishes or aspirations.
By Maulana Ji2 years ago in Families
"Resilience Amidst the Storm: The Deer's Tale of Courage"
Once upon a time, in the heart of a mystical forest nestled deep within the embrace of nature's grandeur, a wondrous tale unfolded, weaving threads of courage, resilience, and the indomitable spirit of life itself. It was a time when the sun, weary from its day's journey, descended beyond the horizon, casting an ethereal glow upon the verdant canopy of trees. As twilight painted the sky in hues of gold and amethyst, a pregnant deer stood amidst the tranquil beauty, unaware of the imminent trials that awaited her.
By Jonathan Strydes2 years ago in Families
"Echoes of Faith: Confronting the Unseen Realm"
Eight years ago, I was deeply devoted to my church, never missing a Sunday or any extra meetings held. During that time, something strange and unforgettable occurred. The church organized a week-long conference with a renowned speaker, which I eagerly attended as a believer. The atmosphere was electric with the joys of worship and adoration, unlike anything I had experienced before.
By Jonathan Strydes2 years ago in Families
"Shadows in the Sanctuary: A Tale of Childhood Fear"
In the sprawling expanse of my parents' high Ranch-style house, with its split-level layout dividing the living spaces into distinct realms of daily life, I found myself in possession of a unique territory—a bedroom that defied the conventional placement norms. Unlike the rest of the bedrooms perched on the upper floor, mine resided on the lower level, nestled amidst the den, garage, and a convenient bathroom. This strategic positioning, a consequence of being the eldest and sole male among my siblings, granted me not just space but a sense of autonomy that only a basement-bound domain could offer.
By Jonathan Strydes2 years ago in Families
Somehow, Someday
Outside is black, Daddy's not here. Outside is a sweet magnolia smelling place, Daddy's not here. Outside stars burst, fall, disappear, just like Daddy. I wait. I know, even if alone on the mattress on the floor he will be back; when the pink preludes the autumn sun's rising, Daddy will be here. I don't move; I don't sleep; I don't know how to call Mamma. Just when the orange, pink and yellow mix into hues I will paint someday Daddy comes in and falls onto the mattress. He said- "hey little Bird". I smell something stinky, his hair is thinning and it's longer on one side than the other. It's a red brown and I wipe it away from his sunken, deep sleep eyes. I look at him, his belly rises in it's nakedness and falls; he is covered in reddish hair on his stomach and chest. I see his pants on the floor and sneak over to check the pockets; I found about three dollars and some change and put them in my suitcase which was packed for my trip back to Mamma before he ever came home. I take some pencils from the table, I smell his cologne by the old porcelain sink and I even put a dash behind my ears. He is snoring and red-faced. I can't see a clock anywhere and I begin to worry; How will I know when to get on that airplane back to Mamma? I quietly open the door from the third floor apartment and sneak downstairs to the big door that opens to the autumn skies. I see nothing but white frost on the big leaves, a squirrel or two scampering busily and look for anybody that can get me home. Sitting, cold and hungry a woman comes out of the apartment house to warm her car. She is a teacher and must start out early. She asks me what in the world I am doing sitting outside without a coat; " where is your daddy?" she pushes on. I said something like somehow he fell asleep and I think today I am supposed to go home to my Mamma. The woman has a scowl and ushers me inside. She takes me into her apartment and gives me a big glass of orange juice; she said she'd be right back. A fat black cat jumped up on the table and purred around me; the colours of morning made a dizzying dance upon her kitchen's stucco wall. I felt okay, not like a cry-baby, but not like a fix it alright kinda girl either. Then the door opened and there was Daddy with my suitcase with the teacher woman pushing him in toward me. His hair that I'd fixed had covered half of his face and he had tears in his small, blue eyes. He said he loved me and the teacher was helping me get to my plane on time, he cried a lot and held me too tight. I left him there, with three dollars and some change, a couple of pencils to cherish in my bag and I said nothing. I fled, I flew, I would return for no matter how much his drunken, lousy time with me was, it was all mine, at least for awhile. When I got back to Mamma I would never talk 'cause I guess something was wrong with me. I just said everything was fine. I guessed, somehow, someday truth would prevail: I never doubted that one day my Daddy would remember and say, "I'm sorry Little Bird." I truly believed with all my heart he would come to me and beg me to forgive him. Why do you think that is? I knew what goodness was; I was good. He wasn't doing good things so he had to know it was his obligation to give me some peace, right? Naw. He went on and kept finding more kids, more families, holding onto our pinkie swear, our father-daughter bond that could not be broken. He used me, to lie, to cheat, to steal, to be nothing more than his soldier. I saw those skies turning dark, deep blue, grey and black; I knew it was gonna be hard times coming for him, not once, not twice, not even three times, just more and more dark, with nobody to hear me. I would learn that my truth would not matter to him, or to any, but I would know the smell of his cologne behind my ears, the rise and fall of his chest when he came back as the sun rose, the sadness of his failure to give me, his beloved daughter all that I deserved. I don't know why anything matters, goodness, truth and love are always so contrite. I lay far away from the memories of youth, of Daddy's promises and forgotten love; I do feel the edge, the blisters from his sickness, yet, in an addictive way, I crave his praise. Somehow, someday, truth prevails. Or does it?
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)2 years ago in Families
Babies Imaginary Friend!
In the realm of childhood innocence, imaginary friends often become cherished companions for little ones. For Emily, her imaginary friend was a mischievous sprite named Sprinkle. She first encountered Sprinkle in her grandmother's garden, where she stumbled upon a patch of shimmering light. From there, Sprinkle became Emily's constant companion, embarking on fantastical adventures.
By Praveen Pk2 years ago in Families
