I'm 19 and unemployed and I am an unpublished writer. My work is vibrant and mentally stimulating but the market somehow, does not want to see it next to bloody Potter or the new writers winning awards.
Here is an excerpt (I hope I spelt that right! he he) from a short story about a nihilistic youth who cuts his wrists for the hell of it. I'll edit it so that it's not the final cut (so to speak)

Sol stood about fifteen feet away from the shore - stroking one of his forearms - wrapped up in their private silence of the beach. His eyes drank up her flowing form but a feeling of melancholic anguish swept over him and he looked to the right where Alec was thigh deep in the placid water.
He began to notice his friend.
Alec’s hair had grown a bit and covered his eyes as he gazed with a tilted head into the middle distance, beyond the horizon. The sun silhouetted his body and made his youthful features seem more defined. Indeed, Alec resembled something other than an adolescent male as he stood sedately in the water’s midst. He was almost Nietzsche like: almost beyond the ache of humanity. For a split second, Sol thought he made out a large intricate marking on his back. Alec breathed deeply and the moment passed.
Sol felt an urge to join him. He removed his top and shoes and waded towards him. The water was warm. His feet felt soothed but the water that seemed innocuous on land, was strong and restricting to his stride. A vision of coagulating blood flashed before his eyes and he was suddenly by the side of Alec, thigh deep in the sun kissed ocean. He seemed taller, somehow. They both kept silent.
Silent for an age, looking out to the beyond. Clouds caressed the goldening blue and strengthened the reddening and dying light in it’s last moments before twilight.
“Beautiful,” whispered Alec, “isn’t it?”
And then Sol collapsed to his knees and started to cry.