Contemporary Literature

Contemporary Authors: 1945 to the Present (The Britannica by Adam Augustyn

By Adam Augustyn

Modern literature encompasses such a lot of genres, literary kinds, and issues that it is going to appear nearly very unlikely to spot a unifying thread among them. but within the culture confirmed by way of literary heavyweights who got here earlier than, glossy writers of all stripes and backgrounds have endured to entertain and to confront the social, cultural, and mental realities of the times-including every thing from racial id to conflict to technology-with their very own aptitude and perception. the variety of authors profiled herein-from Toni Morrison to Sylvia Plath to Stephen King to David Foster Wallace-attests to the scope and complexity of recent society.

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It was already hot and I had missed half the day. My balcony was now bare and I had no cover from the people walking back and forth. Sweeping, 56 / How to Get Into tHe twIn Palms walking, dogs shitting. I stared out toward The Calcutta. There were red and blue cups littering the front yard. There were Christmas lights blinking on and off on the top railing. I shook my head and sat down. I stared down to my cigarette-hiding place and saw that they were gone too. ” My neighbor with the homemade haircut was leaning into my balcony from his mother’s balcony.

That was the kind of girl he wanted me to be. Karolina WaclaWiaK / 55 I WOKE UP LATE. I DIDN’T HAVE ANYWHERE TO go anyway. My head hurt and I had forgotten to wash my face. My eyes hurt from the caked on makeup and my skin felt slick. I went to the bathroom and took a look at myself. I thanked God that I hadn’t let Lev in. I wiped the soot caked around my eye and looked at my nails. Cracked polish, chipped like skylines and worn down to nubs. They hurt and were inflamed. I poured hydrogen peroxide over each finger.

A kabanos. I didn’t care who saw me. The sausage was dry because I had left it unwrapped in the refrigerator and it tasted like jerky. I had a jar of horseradish next to me and I would dip the sausage into the jar and pull out a clump at the tip and eat it. That mixed with the cigarette I was furiously inhaling made my breath hot and sour. I leaned back in my chair and heard a creak and snap. The crack at the bottom of the chair was getting worse and I didn’t care. I snuffed out the Misty and started another one.

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