contemporary-fiction

Call Stella 'Trash Can Girl' again and I'll beat the h--- out of you. In fact, call her or anyone else anything ever again and I'll do the same. I'm done saying nothing. I'm done letting you treat people like crap. Do you hear me?

The way contemporary literature is emerging, soon we can expect "Item poetry" in novels.

The road to heaven isn__ much of a road,_ he was saying. __t__ more like a dusty trail, roughly cut out through the underbrush. Most people don__ even notice it. It doesn__ look like a path at all, so they walk right by. Others see it, but don__ go down it because it__ ugly. Dirty. Difficult. Overgrown. If they took the road to heaven, their progress would be slow, maybe immeasurable. They__ have to give up a lot because the path is narrow.

It was a generation growing in its disillusionment about the deepening recession and the backroom handshakes and greedy deals for private little pots of gold that created the largest financial meltdown since the Great Depression. As heirs to the throne, we all knew, of course, how bad the economy was, and our dreams, the ones we were told were all right to dream, were teetering gradually toward disintegration. However, on that night, everyone seemed physically at ease and exempt from life__ worries with final exams over and bar class a distant dream with a week before the first lecture, and as I looked around at the jubilant faces and loud voices, if you listened carefully enough you could almost hear the culmination of three years in the breath of the night gasp in an exultant sigh as if to say, __aw school was over at last!

Somewhere, a rattlesnake strike makes the dance begin. Three hawks float in the light blue sky overhead. Crows caw and the sweet seduction of lavender fills my head. And she waltzes through my thoughts.

There exists an oasis where inspiration bursts forth like black gold from the fertile loam and every odd bellbird chirps a melody worth remembering. There__ no bloody map or nautical chart that can deliver you there, but you know the instant you__e arrived because you never ever want to depart.

Not because of you. You were perfect. Are perfect. You__e considerate, moral, brave. But you reminded me__e couldn__ finish.I swallowed through a dry throat. __f her.___o._ He blinked. __f me. Who I used to be. Somebody who would stick up for his friends, even if it was risky. Somebody who put other people first. Somebody who_ He let out a helpless laugh. __omebody who screwed up a lot.

She might have been there for you in the aftermath, but I was there when everything came crashing down.

I'm going to turn my life around. Make a complete three sixty.""Don't you mean one eighty?" he corrected. "If you do that, you'll end up right back where you started.""Maybe. But at least I'll have a chance of coming out of it a different person - a better version of me.

Congratulations," she said. "You win.

The dusty library air is electric with secrets/ almost palpable in the thick quiet that bounces between/ Cal and those books and me

All our good and bad memories__hey were like our B-side diaries. They were like those songs on old dusty punk albums that no one listened to anymore.

In the nights though, I couldn't help but weave the golden cloth of my dreams. Each stitch from heart to thought, and thought to heart, was painful to bear, even if it was joyous at times. Because each thread was fraught with the fears of being broken midway, lost and never found again.

Popularity is like a girl in class that you can't ignore. She give you eyes when no one looks then turns to her friends and laughs some more.

I guess it was only fitting that to them PUNK was a four letter word. However, to people like Dylan and I-punk was our hearts-our souls. We grew up with a lot of uncertainties. To be a teenager isn't always pretty, and our music reflected that.

There are moments in our lives that define the people we will become in the future, like a symptom before an ailment, or the catalyst before the cure.

That night, he laid in his bed thinking about all the possibilities. They came like waves in his mind. At first they came slow, then gradually built up speed, cresting into full on dreams, until finally, they broke onto the shore with all of their reality. First dreams, then nightmares.

In times such as these, life often begs us to seek answers when in reality there are only questions available.