Free short stories about Generation End

HANK JUST SPAT IN YOUR SPAGHETTI

hank just spat in your spaghetti

A LETTER TOO LATE

a letter too late

… I saw you there in between the music, and the people, and the nonsense. Remember what was playing? I don’t. I don’t even know whose house party it was, or what universe we were in, or what purse I had dangling pathetically from my index finger – all I could think of was this: I think about you more than you’ll ever know.

Isn’t it ridiculous? That a portion of my mind has been occupied by you? It wasn’t by choice, either – it was as if you’d decided to step inside and claim it as yours. And for what purpose? When life ends, you and I – our brains or whatever, they’ll cease to exist. Is love merely meant to be wasted, or is it meant to be spent like there’s no tomorrow?

I haven’t written to you in a long time now. I wonder what you do with your letters. How do you open your envelopes? Do you tear them from the sides, or tear them from their tops? Do you even open them? I still have your letters. I keep them in various places, and sometimes I see people trying to read them. But I don’t care what they do, really.

I’ve learnt a lot these past four months. I’ve learnt that life isn’t tragic. I’ve learnt that things are temporary. I’ve learnt that hummingbirds fly backwards. I watched my friend cry the other day. She cried while she was eating. She was holding an apple and she was crying. But then she laughed. And then she cried again. And then she laughed. She wiped her eyes, and she stood up and walked to the bathroom.

 

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Book I’m reading: Men Without Women

ROBBY HAS A WIFE AND TWO KIDS…

robby has a wife and two kids

THE PROBABILITY OF YOU DYING ALONE

the probability of you dying alone

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Find more of these on my Instagram: @deanblakeauthor

THE PERFUMED GARDEN

the perfumed garden

“Dude, you’re wrong. You need to read The Perfumed Garden.” This is what a friend said when I ignorantly asked him if Muslims were always so conservative about sexuality.

Instead of actually reading the The Perfumed Garden and coming up with my own opinions about it, I Googled it and found this summary: “Written between 1410 and 1434 for a minister of the Sultan of Tunis, the treatise is a sex guide for married Muslim men.”

And then there’s this passage from it:

Women desire what in men cannot last,

Youth, wealth and health, and not coming too fast,

Long-lasting and slow is what women expect,

And for seconds he’s equally quick to erect.

I wonder what it is about sex that makes it the way it is. It can make us happy yet it can also crush us to pieces. Why does it have to go around so confidently ruining and creating so many lives?

On the drive home I remembered an ex girlfriend of mine: no matter what, I always had to make her come, and I always had to make her come first before she even laid a hand on me. She always had something negative to say to me after each time, such as “I wonder why you took so long this time,” or “you have a repulsive taste in music,” or “don’t I turn you on enough? Why aren’t you trying?” and one night, when I couldn’t do it, when I couldn’t make her come, I blamed it on her for being so uptight, and she cried and I went to bed. After some time, no matter what she wore or what photos she sent me, she no longer turned me on. I began to look for any way I could to cheat on her: I went online, I invited any girl I could out for drinks, I flirted mercilessly. But none of it worked – they could smell my desperation and shame. Eventually, she left me for another man.

I entered my apartment to find Christie inside with a big grin on her face. “Surprise!” she said, and on my table was a jar of chocolate Kisses.

 

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Read The Perfumed Garden

BUSINESSMAN BOB AND HOMELESS HENRY

businessman bob and homeless henry

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YOU NEED MORE MONEY

you need money

Sometimes I see the earth as this tiny marble occupied by these even tinier dots called people, and all these people are looking up at a giant sun made of money, and they’re all bowing to it, talking about it night and day, thinking about it night and day, and when they’re not talking or thinking about money night and day, they’re talking or thinking about sex night and day: these vast fields of moist, succulent cocks and pussies and bumholes and mouths all fucking each other endlessly – then all these people, these tiny, tiny people on this tiny marble, their minds are so filled with money and fucking, money and fucking, money and fucking, that their brains actually explode from the immensity of it all, and because of this the marble they live on shatters to pieces, but then you know what? The sun made of money keeps on living, imposing its brightness on anything else that stumbles beneath its path.

“I’m tired of being poor, Christie.” This is what I said to Christie.

“Then stop being poor, Dean.” This is what she said back.

“It’s not that easy.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

“Why can’t it be easy?”

“Nothing good comes easily.”

“But is money good?”

“Hmmm.” She put her finger on her chin.

“What would we do if we didn’t have to make money?”

“Travel, I guess.”

“Everyone says they want to ‘travel’ but in the end we’ll get sick of travelling. Plus I think people are secretly afraid of travelling or of change or of anything they can’t complain about.”

“Then what do you think we would do, Dean?”

“We’d kill ourselves from boredom,” I said, trying to sound philosophical and wise.

“Compared to everyone else, are you even that poor? It will never be enough, no matter how much you make.”

“I’ll be fine with thirty-eight billion dollars.”

“Just trust in God.”

“I don’t think God rewards lazy, trusting people that much.”

“You say the prayers but you also have do the work.”

I thought about this guy in the city who asked me for money. He said he needed it for the bus home. I gave him money and watched him walk into a McDonald’s. “I just want to sleep.”

“You spend more than you earn, Dean.”

“I just don’t like being limited by life and all its limitations.”

“You don’t want to be someone who takes but never gives.” Christie looked up from her iPad. She’d just finished ordering a new dress online. “Want to go out for dinner or something?” she asked.

“Where you thinking?”

“That Indonesian place in New Farm?”

Sure. I looked at my bank statement from my phone and frowned.

 

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SAM CAN’T WAIT TO YELL HIS WAY THROUGH TRAFFIC THIS MORNING

sam cant wait to yell his way through traffic

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You’ve probably noticed that I’ve been posting some crappy drawings like these lately. You can see more of them on Instagram: @deanblakeauthor.

MIRACLES IN WEST END

miracles in west end

I had become a mess so Christie told me to visit a lady in West End who performs miracles. Apparently, she helped cure a lady of her cancer, she helped cure a friend of his chronic back pains, she returned joy to a broken person’s life.

I went to the hall and sat down among a small group of others. The lights were dim and music was playing, and although I was thinking of nothing I wept. It was a ridiculous catastrophe: tears keep stumbling away from me and I had no idea why.

“I don’t have powers,” she said to the small crowd, “I am merely an instrument of God.”

After a while a queue had formed for people to come up to her to be healed. As each person would approach her, she’d say something to them, and no matter their size, they would fall to the ground.

I was invited to come up to her. She closed her eyes and clasped her hands and smiled, and she placed her hands in mine and she whispered in my ear: “You never have to feel lonely again. God is with you.” She blew onto my chest and I fell to the ground, and I lay there, thinking that nothing inside me had changed.

I stood up and returned to my seat, wondering what the hell just happened.

This guy who was around my age came from nowhere and sat next to me. “You don’t have to feel alone anymore,” he said without invitation, “I’m certainly not.” He spoke of other things – his addictions, his ego, the homes he’d lived in, and how his coming closer to God had cleaned his soul. He told me that everyone will go to heaven. “I think I’m supposed to talk to you and I don’t know why.” He hugged me, stood up and walked out of the hall.

I sat there on my own until ten in the evening. I was exhausted. When it was over I drove home and fell into a deep sleep.

 

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Book I’m reading: Walt Disney: The Triumph of the American Imagination 

Show I’m watching: Billions

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SELMA HAD LONG LEGS

selma had long legs

Selma had legs that could kill a football team and all the guys loved her, and they all flirted with her, and one day, when we were all walking towards the Pancake Manor I lifted up her skirt, and she had this lacy thong on, and poking out of the thong were both sides of her pad, and everyone roared with laughter but she didn’t – she ran, she ran fast, and it was then that I realised that 1) I’m not a good person 2) there was purity in her heart.

I found her later, sulking in the shadows somewhere. She was crying to someone on the phone, and I didn’t know what to say, so I just stood there, watching her cry to that person on the phone. I finally said: “I didn’t realise you had your period.” This made her cry even more, so I said, “Look I’m sorry,” and then, “it’s cold aren’t you cold?” and I put my jacket on her lap, and she continued to sob.

One year later, we were drinking and laughing again.

 

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