Boy meets magic. Boy meets death.

"You're just a girl, not even a pretty one. You were just something to fill my spare time, nothing more. And these? Well they're just notes."

Lana doesn't like the way people fit in, she has never found someone with whom she connects with enough to bear her soul to them. She reaches out to a celebrity, someone whom she's watched on the big screen countless times, in a hopeless attempt to find meaning in her, otherwise dreary, life. Everything was fine, but fine wasn't good enough, Lana wanted extraordinary.

This is a set of short stories following four boys on their quests to find happiness, to make something of themselves. It includes tales of heartbreak and tragedy, for they have all loved and lost. Adolescence is bloodshed, not just for us, but for every generation that has been, and every generation that will be. We're all just a little lost.

There in those city lights, there was no her and there was no him. There was just everything and nothing and the spaces in between, like flickering lights against a never-ending, black sky. There in those city lights, there was no love and there was no hate. There was just listening and talking and understanding every single thing, like the 'ready, stop, go' of car-chasers and dream-makers. There in those city lights, there was no sadness and there was no happiness. There was just candid smiles and wasted tears and bottom lips chewed off, like the overflowing boulevard of things unseen. There in those city lights, there was no lady and there was no man. There was just a boy and a girl, who promised to fall in love, not with each other, but in those city lights. [a blind collaboration by @hepburnettes & @cityscape]

A collection of notes, a public library, two teenagers, and zero spoken communication.

junkyard dreaming: where the broken thoughts go to die and leave something vaguely like stories in their wake. OR - a collection of one shots and various items of the like.

❝If there ever comes a day when we can't be together, keep me in your heart and I'll stay there forever.❞ John loved her. He still does. In hopes that she is here, somehow, he lists all of the things that makes no sense to him about her. All of the things that he loves. [COPYRIGHTED]

"Sometimes happiness feels like a chore." A short story chronicling the relationships (and lack thereof) of Drew; in which nights and days are spent curled up in the tear-and-food-stained sheets, with and without the warmth of another living soul, because he has lived like this and he'll probably die like this -- whether he likes it or not. (As if life ever bothered to ask). Otherwise known as: Sleep is for the weak, and love is for those asleep. So Andrew shouldn't wonder why he's virtually a self-induced insomniac who might just very well die of loneliness one day.

D.C. in 1931 is lopsided. As the rich get richer, the poor barely manage to survive. Living on the streets with no family and barely enough change to buy her next meal, Alice Winters has taken to picking the pockets of the wealthy in order to restore some balance. When she picks the pocket of Charles Cartwright, the affluent son of a well known senator and his socialite wife, she believes she found the perfect target for a bigger score. Charlie is an artist, confined to work in the privacy of his bedroom. Art, as his parents have said, is no way to make a living. But after a chance encounter with a beautiful thief on a street corner, he’s even more drawn to his canvas. The artist claims the thief as his muse and the lines that separate the two smudge. Perhaps, there is something more valuable than wealth. Canvas - noun. A piece of cloth prepared for use as the surface for an oil painting; “The only color on the whole canvas was a small red circle.” - verb. To consider a subject in great detail in order to discover essential features or meaning; “She circled the block, canvassing the building to find the perfect opportunity to slip between the cracks of the crowd.”