Quotes about contemporary-fiction

Language makes us human the heart knows. Memories abide in the body. They live on in the walls of our houses and in our objects. They are the sentiments which endure and sustain us in the infinite chambers of our hearts. Our hearts remember. Our hearts have this language. Our hearts sing.

Character isn't something you talk about it's something you show through your actions-through your every day habits.

character isn’t something you talk about it’s something you show through your actions—through your every day habits.

The moment-when I could no longer face myself in the mirror-wasn't easily explained nor was the oppressive misery I experienced once I finally became the person I was meant to be but then realized with terrific horror how much I still hated her.

I just want to know—are you rooting for me? Are you hoping I pull this off?"Cath's eyes settled on his, tentatively, like they'd fly away if he moved.She nodded her head.The right side of his mouth pulled up."I'm rooting for you," she whispered. She wasn't even sure he could hear her from the bed.Levi's smile broke free and devoured his whole face.

In no mood for one of her silly games, I snatched it off her and scanned the page. It turned out to be a list of names, all of them boys, and some of whom I recognised. And then I noticed the title: ‘Operation: Popping the Cherry’. I leaped to my feet and fired a glare at each of them in turn, trying not to shout. ‘Are you shitting me?

Quick, somebody call the caretaker!’ Gemma’s stage voice rang out loud and clear. ‘There’s some trash here that needs to be taken out.’ She earned a chorus of laughs as she walked towards us, then came to a standstill right beside me. ‘Christ, it reeks, too,’ she said, pinching her nose. ‘What did you do, Malice? Douse yourself in the whole bottle? Oh, never mind. I don’t expect you to have heard of the adage “less is more”.

It feels like the city is telling secrets down here, privy only to those who think to listen.

Dear Diary: I have a confession to make: I’ve become a total idiot over French pastries. They’re my new favorite food. My new-found edible souvenir. My new favorite sin. Dunkin Donuts is so yesterday.

His jaw was clenched. His breathing became labored, like he was carrying something heavy. She watched the muscles in his throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, hard.Victory.At that moment, she knew he wouldn’t try to stop her. She stepped forward, raised herself up on her tiptoes, and kissed him. Softly. Then she pulled back, challenge unspoken.Come on, Sam. Fight for me.

I’m really enjoying my solitude after feeling trapped by my family, friends and boyfriend. Just then I feel like making a resolution. A new year began six months ago but I feel like the time for change is now. No more whining about my pathetic life. I am going to change my life this very minute. Feeling as empowered as I felt when I read The Secret, I turn to reenter the hall. I know what I’ll do! Instead of listing all the things I’m going to do from this moment on, I’m going to list all the th

Talk to me. Say something, anything," he pleaded quietly as if he was trying to tame a wild animal."There's nothing to say."He looked up and lowered his eyebrows on his eyes. "Why did you kiss me?

sametimes people don't understand the promises they're making when they make them

Could I be jealous of the way he was touching my horse? Yep ... I was.

You're very different from the man I pictured you to be."I smirk at her, amused. What, so she didn't think I'd be a fucker with a drinking problem who is obviously very much into casual sex and reckless driving on a classic bike? I arch an eyebrow at her and run a hand along my square jaw. "I hope you find me sexier.

He watches the shadows cast by her hands as she sorts through their clothes scattered across the floor. The shape of her arms as she reaches up, slipping his black T-shirt over her head -- like victory. He considers the triumph of this moment, the slick of sweat on his chest. A small clatter, then the sound of a striking match. Her face glows. he reaches for her. She blows the match out, darts across the room, lights another one, glows, blows it out.

All writers are manipulative liars." Jack O. Savage, The Poet

So, first, I want you to know that everybody experiences some level of anxiety. It's a normal human response to stress. It's like your body's smoke alarm. If there's a fire, you want to know so you can put it out or call 9-1-1, right?”I shrug. “I guess. But it feels like my alarm is going off all the time.”Doctor Ann nods. “Some people's systems are more sensitive than others'. For you, maybe all it takes is burning a piece of toast, and your alarm thinks the house is on fire.

I waited for her to nod before pacing while I bit my lip. That hurt, so I switched to biting my finger nail.

My mother clutches at the collar of my shirt. I rub her back and feel her tears on my neck. It's been decades since our bodies have been this close. It's an odd sensation, like a torn ligament knitting itself back, lumpy and imperfect, usable as long as we know not to push it too hard.

It feels like someone is gripping my heart and twisting it. It feels like I can't breathe. I shut my eyes tightly against the memory that is threatening to surface. I can't br

...We were pulling into the next station, when the woman suddenly got to her feet and made a move to squeeze past me. As her knees made contact with mine, she turned towards me. Her eyes locked straight onto mine, her eyelids pinned back, with a look I could only describe as sheer dread. In the next second, deep tram-lines formed between her eyebrows and her expression shifted. It was as if she was silently imploring me, entreating me. To do what? I had no idea. I was immobile, her gaze pressing

She had been lying there, facedown in the water long before the tide had turned at 3.04 that morning. Her eyes were staring into the river, her blonde hair first fanning out, then drawing back under her head with the wash of the water, like a pulsating jellyfish. The belt of her raincoat was caught on the branches of an overhanging tree and she’d been hooked, destined to forever flap against the corner of the broken pier with outstretched arms. She wasn’t going anywhere now; she was simply bobbi

The past is always with us. It echoes through every living moment, giving it depth and meaning beyond itself. Sometimes the past is so powerful, those echoes threaten to overwhelm the present.

The damage and destruction from the soft brush of pen on paper, a minuscule twitch of muscles at the end of manicured fingers, and people's lives forever altered.

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.

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’s no bloody map or nautical chart that can deliver you there, but you know the instant you’ve arrived because you never ever want to depart.

Not because of you. You were perfect. Are perfect. You’re considerate, moral, brave. But you reminded me…”He couldn’t finish.I swallowed through a dry throat. “Of her.”“No.” He blinked. “Of 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. “Somebody who screwed up a lot.

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

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

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.

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

Congratulations," she said. "You win.

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.

You know-portraits are odd things." "How do you figure?" I asked. "Well at the time, that portrait told the whole story. It told the truth. We were a family-a happy family. Now that same portrait just looks like a lie.

The price of coming from a small town is that everyone knows your story. Your book has been read, shelved, dusted, and re-read by everybody.

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.

Society gets by from the help of its citizens.

I guess what's most important is that we chose to live with our hearts open and to let our experiences show us the way towards our brightest days.

Eventually, that feeling fades, but there is always the memory of those days. When you’re young, everything is butterflies. What I mean is—it’s all new. I guess he was telling you to still believe, to hold on to your butterflies.

Couples swayed and embraced to the beat as the singer's vocals soared above a group of confused teenagers and twenty-something's.

What were we, but kids with apartments and jobs anyway?

Christopher was wearing a suit and adorned make-up. As long as I had known him, he never wore a suit or make-up. The look of him defenseless to his appearance saddened me.

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.

Dream-start with dream. Start tonight-become who you want-dream big!" He became animated at this point, "No money needed for dreams. Dreams are free.

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

It’s funny how books can change you. You open up a book and one minute you are who you’ve always been, then you read some random passage and you become someone else.

His heart cracked open and flooded all the space around it.

I was just trying to demonstrate to the students of Rowland University that Rowland University was not infinite. It had taken me a long time to figure out what the problem was, but one day I realized that the students at Rowland University thought that Rowland University was infinite. Infinite bookstore. Infinite fraternities and sororities. Infinite sports teams. Infinite snack shop. Infinite Homecoming. Infinite graduation. Infinite prospects.

To the jaded eye, all vampires seem alike, but they are wonderful in their versatility. Some come to life in moonlight, others are killed by the sun, some pierce with their eyes, others with fangs, some are reactionary, others are rebels, but all are disturbingly close to the mortals they prey on. I can think of no other monsters who are so receptive. Vampires are neither inhuman nor nonhuman nor all-too-human, they are simply more alive than they should be.

Shortly before school started, I moved into a studio apartment on a quiet street near the bustle of the downtown in one of the most self-conscious bends of the world. The “Gold Coast” was a neighborhood that stretched five blocks along the lake in a sliver of land just south of Lincoln Park and north of River North. The streets were like fine necklaces and strung together were the brownstone houses and tall condominiums and tiny mansions like pearls, and when the day broke and the sun faded away

Vomit began to spill out of me like pea soup, splattering the road with champagne and caviar, long island iced teas, of bacon appetizers and croissants, and a perfectly grilled filet mignonette. It had gone down easy, among the kiss ups of the lawyer world, but spewed out nastily and hard, in the company of a cheater.

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’s worr

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

The road to heaven isn’t much of a road,” he was saying. “It’s more like a dusty trail, roughly cut out through the underbrush. Most people don’t even notice it. It doesn’t look like a path at all, so they walk right by. Others see it, but don’t go down it because it’s ugly. Dirty. Difficult. Overgrown. If they took the road to heaven, their progress would be slow, maybe immeasurable. They’d have to give up a lot because the path is narrow.

There have been times I have thought some dreams should never be dreamt, but I would hate a world where that was true.

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?

Staring over him in the dim light of a side lamp, my tired eyes traced along the path of faint, yet emerging, lines etched around his equally-tired eyes. They'd become a permanent reminder of his ever-smiling face, and I wished–even after all of these years together-that I could absorb some of his contentment.

A future as lonely as the surface of the moon and still just the sight of him feels like a homecoming, like a song I used to know but forgot.

Perhaps forgiveness wasn’t a singular event, but a progression, or better, a dance that took some figuring before you could perform the steps.

My definition of an intellectual is someone who can listen to the William Tell Overture without thinking of the Lone Ranger" - Billy Connolly

If the world explore all my dark fantasy, will change for the better”.

[novan]: bassists are very good with their fingers[novan]: and some of us sing backup vocals, so that means we're good with our mouths too...(~ IM chat with Novan Chang, 18, bassist)

I love you. I trust you and... I want to be your human canvas!

It is not often that I have two options to choose from. It is nice to be compelled towards something, otherwise one drifts through life unimpeded.Bhanggi

Memory is an artist, an impressionist. She adds colour, sound, smell and emotion to events at her whim. She adds, subtracts and embellishes until the event she started documenting is quite unrecognisable to the others who also experienced it, but at the same time, is more truthful to the owner of the memory. There is no reality. There are only impres- sions of past events, made by a million selves, all interacting with each other, vying for superiority. Reality doesn’t exist, perhaps in the end,

Maybe we choose to stay in a constant state of ignorance as a protective instinct — maybe I was just in denial. I just don’t get how you can be completely in love with someone one day, and then all of a sudden you just aren’t. I will never forget that day...the day where I became numb.

I need to make myself strong on the inside instead of what is on the outside. I know all of this, but why can’t I put any of it into action? I guess that’s why I am in this place.

If a woman chooses to support her husband and become First Lady, I believe she must do so with the understanding that the public expects the full-meal deal.

People vote for whom they believe will be the best president and representative for our country. The First Lady is not on the ballot.

A writer looks at an issue and asks, 'What if this were to occur? Or what if that was thrown into the mix? What would that look like?

An elegantly crafted novel, "The Reluctant First Lady" clearly documents author Venita Ellick as an exceptionally accomplished writer able to skillfully weave memorable characters into a riveting story line from beginning to end. As engaging as it is entertaining, "The Reluctant First Lady" is highly recommended for both personal reading lists and community library contemporary fiction collections.

Look at you Infidelity”, shaking his head in frustration. “I’m not sure if your choice of drug is passion, the thrill of the affair or the man himself, but there is a void you are trying to have us fulfill in your life and you are hooked! The secrets, the lies, the lame attempts to quit sleeping around…the isolation; don’t you get it? YOU LOVE INFIDELITY!"- Loving Infidelity

After all, she knows how painful it can be not to follow your heart and she knows about the obstacles and about loyalty and duty and about the countless kinds of love. If only Eve and Myles were freer to make the right choices, she thinks.

Books are keys that open many doors.

She felt the cold blast from the sterile air conditioning on her bare arms and thighs, as she ambled down the center of the shopping complex's ground floor.The scene was a swirl of candy bright lights--the Victoria's Secret fuchsia signboard, signboards which lured one to purchase "confidence," or "sexual appeal," or whatever it was that was being advertised--the fluorescent lights in each store, contrasting with the shiny, black-tiled walls and eye-catching speckled marble tiles on the ground.O