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Reading books fiction Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you donā€™t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself.



Fiction genre suitable for people of all ages. Everyone will find something interesting for themselves. Our electronic library is always at your service. Reading online free books without registration. Nowadays ebooks are convenient and efficient. After all, donā€™t forget: literature exists and develops largely thanks to readers.
The genre of fiction is interesting to read not only by the process of cognition and the desire to empathize with the fate of the hero, this genre is interesting for the ability to rethink one's own life. Of course the reader may accept the author's point of view or disagree with them, but the reader should understand that the author has done a great job and deserves respect. Take a closer look at genre fiction in all its manifestations in our elibrary.



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afternoon, he offers an interesting tidbit of trivia in his signature fashion. ā€œWhatā€™s my thought for today, Hank?ā€ I call from the porch as I swing gently. The space between my toes and the wooden railing is the perfect distance. Each push creates a tranquil rocking motion.

ā€œThatā€™s some mighty weak tea you have there.ā€ He squints toward the half-empty glass of lemonadeā€”fresh squeezed, of course. Is there any other kind?

One summer, years ago, I opened a lemonade stand outside the public library and netted almost five dollars. And Iā€™m sure it was Ms. Pickettā€™s advertising, or cajoling of patrons, that allowed me to make even that much. It wasnā€™t the money that motivated me. Rather, it was the surprised smile when those unsuspecting customers tasted it. The tiniest hint of lavender in my recipe made all the difference.

ā€œThatā€™s because itā€™s not tea,ā€ I tell Hank. ā€œItā€™s lemonade. With a twist.ā€ Iā€™ve always kept the presence of that secret ingredient to myself. Have I stumbled upon another example of small-town persuasion? Some people can extract thoughts that might otherwise have stayed hidden.

ā€œDid you know the -ade in lemonade means it doesnā€™t contain 100 percent juice?ā€ He glances up at me, slowing his shuffle down the sidewalk, awaiting my response.

ā€œNo, I did not.ā€ He seems proud to share these obscure facts with me each day. And to be honest, I enjoy it. As much for seeing how it changes his mood as for the knowledge. He lights up. Itā€™s like Iā€™m helping him, even though it makes little sense. ā€œSo why then isnā€™t it called ā€˜iced tea-adeā€™? I guess that doesnā€™t exactly roll off the tongue, does it?ā€

ā€œAh, and there you stumble upon a peculiar conundrum.ā€ He pauses and looks at me quizzically. ā€œThereā€™s no juice in tea, but I suppose it is interesting they chose not to call it ā€˜helio-tea,ā€™ since helio- means ā€˜from the sun.ā€™ Itā€™s the only way to make it, you know. The Georgia sunshine has magical powers.ā€

I offer a kind smile as the couple continues down the walkway without another word. Weā€™ve become familiar with this routine. They return down the other side of the street a few minutes later. Their final wave and wish for a pleasant evening occur as I take the last sip of my lemonade.

Iā€™ve invited them onto the porch many times over the past several weeks. I only do it on good days, though, ones when Iā€™m able to push those unpleasant memories into the safe recesses of my mind. Two things continue battling for my attention: the safety of ignorance and a risky acceptance of hope for something so beautiful. How do I choose? Hank and Lydia are the epitome of a perfect couple. Seeing them treat each other with so much love? On those more difficult days, itā€™s painful.

Why do I shy away from tea? Everyone else seems to love it. Am I destined to be eccentric in everything I do? A few granules of sugar cling to lemon pulp at the bottom of my empty glass. It reminds me why I prefer lemonade. I appreciate the delicate balance of sweet and sour. How two different things combine to create something delicious is a refreshing realization.

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I HAVE BEEN SPENDING more time walking up and down Main Street. Slowly, Iā€™m expanding my acceptance of Pigeon Grove. I have Hank to thank for that. Thereā€™s a part of me that longs for more of his peculiar insights. I buy fruits and vegetables from him I donā€™t need. I could choose to stop in for a chat only, but Iā€™m not ready for that level of geniality yet.

Something is different about Hank when I visit his shop. Heā€™s less analytical and distracted than he is on those afternoon walks with Lydia. He becomes softhearted and emotional in his store. Can being around produce have that effect on someone? If anyone knows, he would be the person to ask. Iā€™ll do that someday, when I have more gumption. For now, I stroll back down the street with another paper bag full of peaches and lemons. More of the former as the latter always seems in short supply.

I push open my front door and instinctively move toward the kitchen. I pull Lydiaā€™s cookbook from my shelf and thumb to the page with her peach tart recipe. It was nice of her to lend it to me. Iā€™m slowly filling my house with new things, while keeping a few of the old ones hidden away in a safe place.

Tracing my index finger down the ingredient list, I find mint and fresh orange juice. Of all the fruit on my counter, an orange is not one of them. I pull the carton of store-bought juice from the refrigerator. Close enough. Grabbing a pair of snipping scissors from the drawer, I meander toward the front porch. Those vacant flower boxes now overflow with green herbs. The varied scents and textures add something inviting to the farmhouse curb appeal. And itā€™s nice to be part of an organic and self-sustaining growth process.

I slip back inside and turn the knob on my radio, tuning to the local country station. I never listen to this music, but everyone else here does. I might as well give it an honest go. I grab the wooden spoon reserved for propping open the kitchen window. Once a willing partner, it now needs a bit more persuasion to cooperate with my desire for fresh air.

I glide around the room, from the counter to the refrigerator and back to the cupboard. Thereā€™s a natural flow to my movements. Theyā€™re somehow in sync with a combination of the musicā€™s melody and the recipe ingredients. That thought about lemonade resurfaces. Sweet and sour. How two seemingly unrelated qualities can fit so well together. How is it that music and peaches blend with such harmony? I sprinkle mint into the bowl as my thoughts, baking and otherwise, merge as one. Is it possible to mix different things elsewhere in life to create something new and . . . ?

I canā€™t think the word that follows, let alone vocalize it. Best not allow my wishes to float too high. Hope is a dangerous tightrope to walk. Especially when thereā€™s nothing to balance myself with, and no safety net below to catch me when I fall.

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WITH MY PEACH TART baking in the oven, I lean against the counter. Closing my eyes, I inhale the complementary scents of fruit and jasmine. More yin and yang, the smells coming from inside and outside. But itā€™s the song on the radio that permeates the room and conjures a sense that has no name.

Love was always for someone else, but in a world of so few surprises, thereā€™s still a few surprises left.

I think about my path through life so far. Iā€™ve always known where Iā€™m headed, even if it hasnā€™t been toward a place I dreamed of being. But now I donā€™t know. About anything. A foreboding thought creeps into my consciousness. I made a courageous choice to move here, but I feel more lost than ever. Still, I wonder, might this be the best thing that could have happened to me?

Thereā€™s something about the delicious combination of lyrics and melody. It creates a moment of internal radiance, coming from a place I never knew existed. I open my eyes to make sure Iā€™m not dreaming. Thatā€™s when I see him.

Seated on the ground across the street, a man stares intently at my farmhouse. He tilts his head to the right, then the left, before pulling out a pencil and placing it in his mouth. Clenching his teeth, he reaches a hand into his bag. He retrieves a sketchbook, never taking eyes off his subject. He continues to study it with an intense interest.

I watch as his gaze darts back and forth between the house and his pad of paper. Itā€™s mesmerizing. Thereā€™s an intimate connection between the physical world and his mindā€™s eye. I sense his imagination transforming an inanimate object into something full of emotion.

Guilty thoughts for spying on him creep in, but I canā€™t look away. Besides, heā€™s drawing my home. Home. Itā€™s the first time Iā€™ve referred to this place by that name. What is happening? Things are becoming hazy and distorted. Should I embrace this unknown feeling or push it aside?

He glances up at the roofline. As if reading my thoughts, he slides his eyes toward the kitchen window. And finds me. In a panic, I pull back, hiding behind the thin fabric of the curtain. My heart pounds in my chest, perfectly in sync with the rhythm of that song.

I tug the curtains closed and stare at my trembling hands. Even if this reaction resembles those of my childhood, it doesnā€™t feel like the same thing. Itā€™s not fear but something else. I recall that pilled blanket. It did little to protect me from the harsh reality waiting outside its permeable border.

It creates doubt that a tattered strip of plaid cloth will do any better. A freshening breeze blows through the open window, revealing a glimpse of him. Still looking right at me. Or through me. Nothing can keep him from seeing deep into my soul. Especially at a moment when Iā€™m this vulnerable.

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The charred scent of peaches invades my conscience like smelling salts. A coffee jingle about filling your cup to the brim every day replaces soothing music on the radio. I peel back the curtain nervously. Itā€™s all gone, the calming influence of that song and the presence of that mystifying man. My heartbeat is out of sync with everything surrounding me. How long have I been adrift in this unfamiliar state?

I recognize the shrill coming from my phone only after the third ring. I should thank the person on the other end. Without it, I might have noticed the smoke seeping through the oven door a little too late.

ā€œHello?ā€ I am out of breath, though I havenā€™t undertaken any physical exertion to warrant it.

ā€œClaire Bear?ā€ I havenā€™t heard that name in years. Why does this ride through life feel like a sadistic combination of roller coaster and funhouse? The monotonous climb followed by a breathless fall is nauseating enough. But the assortment of trick mirrors and shifting floors only adds to the confusion. Are there any straight-and-level pieces on this journey? The dizzying effects keep me from reorienting myself when I need it the most.

ā€œHello, Russell.ā€ I donā€™t use his childhood nickname, Stover. He was the sweetest big brother a sister could dream of while growing up. We never talked about what happened behind closed doors with our abusive mother. But he was always there to refocus my attention on something more positive.

I turn off the oven, retrieve my baking disaster from inside, and slide the window open further. A faint drift of smoke dissipates through the wider gap. The pane of glass stays in place without the need for an even larger wooden spoon that I donā€™t have. The house seems to know thereā€™s too much to handle in this moment, and it has little to do with the mess in the kitchen.

I might as well take another look. Craning my neck both ways, I hope to catch a final glimpse of that mysterious artist on the sidewalk. Nothing. The phone cord wraps around me like a lasso, pulling me back into the present.

ā€œClaire? Are you okay?ā€ Am I okay? Why didnā€™t he call to ask that while I was forced to sift through piles of boxes with bad memories by myself? Cynical thoughts bubble to the surface, but my softhearted

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