Free short stories about Generation End


Anna - the girl I will end up hating - short story

Anna and I continued to text each other every five minutes or so. I learnt that she was twenty years old and got engaged when she was 19. She worked at a dollar discount store and didn’t know what to do with her life and didn’t seem to have any ambition to find out any time soon. She thought that her fiancé, who got paid a lot of money but was barely home, wasn’t the right one for her and she was supposedly “like, seriously thinking of ending it with him”. This, however, didn’t stop her from posting photos of the various dates they’d have and the expensive presents he’d buy for her on Instagram: a Tiffany’s necklace, shoes that were apparently five hundred dollars, a Prada purse.

There were a lot of red flags with Anna, and reflecting back on my terrible history with women it was clear that I liked to make really shitty choices. Now that I was single again, I finally had the chance to get things right, to move on from the death of Ariel, to get over Mandy, to forget that Parade of Past Pussy and find someone who wasn’t an escort, who wasn’t addicted to money and gangbangs, who wasn’t a drug addict, who didn’t constantly talk about killing herself, who wasn’t a cheat, who wasn’t engaged to a police officer: a sensible woman who wanted a manny for the long run, who liked to wear her hair in a ponytail and hated the word ‘cunt'; or maybe I needed to embrace my loneliness and focus on making more money, on reading new age books, on taking on meditation, on masturbating on an hourly basis. But there was a void, and I was lonely and sad, and Anna, with all of her warning signs, was actually the funniest and strangest girl I’d met. Plus she regularly sent me photos of her legs and cleavage.

I met her for the second time at a house party. While everyone was busy we secretly met in the laundry room.

“This is going to be our new house,” she said. She pointed at the clothes dryer. “That’s where we’ll keep our son.”

I pointed towards the space between the laundry basket and washing machine. “That’s where we’ll hide our son when he tries to call child support.”

“How about our daughter?”

“We will never, ever, ever, have a daughter.”

She giggled, and giggled even more when I wasn’t smiling. We walked into one of the rooms. I closed the door and she smiled. “I dropped something.” She bent over and I placed my hand on her. She was wearing a light green short skirt and she was firm, like she truly worked out to her heart’s content. She stood up and faced me. We looked at each other for a while until someone called her name. I opened the door for her and she smiled at me before walking out to rejoin the party.

Her last smile signified the end of me, of every single thing that made me who I was. I had willingly fallen into her lure.



Story about Anna

Dear Carlos Fuckface,


This started a couple of months ago, and I haven’t really told anyone about it yet, but given what’s going on right now I think now would be the perfect time to let you be the first person to read this story.

You see I was sober, and it was a Friday evening and I was at a friend’s gathering and things weren’t going so well for me internally. This girl had some techno tracks playing on Spotify, and whenever she’d walk off I’d keep changing the playlist to repeat a remastered version of Canon in D. Eventually, she caught me and told me to fuck off. I bunch of people agreed with her. I fucked off and sat down next to a group of girls and a few guys.

Anna, the only one in the group I was attracted to, was wearing a short, cotton grey skirt. I could see her panties from where I was sitting. They were also grey, but lace. Her hair was straight, her heels were high. She looked young but it looked like she was wearing an engagement ring. She wouldn’t stop texting on her phone.

“Stop texting on your phone,” I said to her.

She smiled. “I can’t help it.” She continued texting.

She had great legs. I tried to start a few more conversations with her but they all stopped short. I eventually gave up on trying to impress her and got drunk and embarrassed myself until Vail came to pick me up. As she drove and kept telling me to stop touching her legs and changing the radio station I stared at the blurry road ahead of me. I wished things were better. Something was missing, and I hated myself and wished things were better. I went on Facebook and found Anna and immediately messaged her.

“Hi,” I said.

“It’s you,” she said. “The drunk guy who tried too hard. Are you stalking me?”

“It’s past your bedtime.”

“You must miss me already. To go out of your way to find me like this.”

“You represent everything I hate about this world.”

We didn’t stop talking and flirting until four in the morning. Apparently, she was having a text argument with her fiancé during the party and was embarrassed that she didn’t really talk to anyone, including me. I looked at her Facebook profile, and she was engaged to this guy named Billy. I looked at Billy’s profile and concluded that he was one of the ugliest guys I have ever seen in my entire life. One thing that caught my attention was that he regularly competed in wrestling competitions and had several angry looking friends who also seemed to compete in a mix of wrestling, kickboxing and judo competitions. They all also seemed to frequent the shooting range.

He seemed to love bragging about how much he supposedly loved her, though, and regularly posted about his dates with her and how he wanted to grow old and eventually die with her. He was one of those guys who posted long, ranty posts that had one or two likes. I looked at Anna’s profile: there were pics of her with friends, photos of her in her bathing suit, selfies of her in tiny shorts before supposedly going to the gym. There was one photo of her showing off her engagement ring. I went to the Tumblr account she told me she had: it hosted thousands of shared GIFs and images of people fucking, of women receiving cumshots, of women dribbling cum, of quotes such as, “I want to fuck you in every city I travel to.”

Before I could say anything to her I received a new message: she sent me a photo of herself in tiny shorts, biting her lip in front of the camera.

I sent her a message: “There is something seriously wrong with you.”

She replied: “Do you like that?”

I looked at the photo of her engagement ring once more. “I do.”

Vail sat up from my bed. She smelt like milk. “You’re still texting her?”


“Sleep,” she said. “You’re still drunk.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”


I went to bed and dreamt of awful things.







small chest


flat ass


big thighs


pretty face


infinite smile


arm shaving


your money




meeting on a bridge


encouraging me to do better.






you're a cunt




It was August twenty-something four years ago, and it was hot but it was raining a little bit, and you were upset but I didn’t care. I didn’t know where you’d been and you wouldn’t tell me, and I yelled a bunch of things but you wouldn’t listen to one word. You stood up and ran and I ran after you, and you hugged me and we were out in public and people were looking and you wouldn’t stop crying. When you calmed down we found a place to sit, and we talked about things from the past: the Swarovski thing I bought you once, the four-hour drive, the time, on my birthday, when you bought me a wallet and wrote me a card and I cried. I drove you home, and that was the last time we spoke. It’s been years, and you’ve moved on and I’ve moved on several times over, but it’s as if I’ve left a large piece of me behind with you and it’s impossible for me to get it back. I wonder if you ever notice it lingering around, waiting for you to change your mind. I’m doing everything I’m supposed to do. I’m a functioning robot. But you’re there, in the background of everything in my life, dictating what I’ll think about when I sleep and wake up.



Instagram - short story

The sun wasn’t rising and it wasn’t setting, either – it was about three in the afternoon and time was what it was. Jude was smoking and Vail was typing something on her phone. “We’ve changed, but we really haven’t, if you think about it,” Jude said. “Want to go to Alfred & Constance?” Vail asked without looking up from her phone. I wondered what the both of them would be like thirty years from now. Uglier, obviously, but I wondered what kind of things they’d say. Would they both still be single? We drove, and we drove, and we drove, and we didn’t end up going to Alfred & Constance but instead went to this hipster-looking café in Newstead or New Farm or something, and I ordered something with salmon and Vail ordered something with a lot of prosciutto and Jude ordered something I don’t remember. Vail took a photo of everything we ordered and put it on Instagram and made us like the photo. Vail then took a selfie on Snapchat and sent it to her friends. Afterwards, she took a series of photos and uploaded them all to her Facebook. Jude picked up a piece of prosciutto and pegged it at Vail’s face. She swore at him and began to cry. Jude didn’t apologise, so she ran to the toilet. I walked after her and spent the next half hour listening to her complain about Jude and about her work and about the world in general. We walked back, and Jude looked bored and drunk. We drove, and we drove, and we drove, and we ended up in West End, at this dance hall, dancing slowly to strange music. When the novelty of it all evaporated we drove, and we drove, and we drove, and we ended up at Jude’s apartment. He played a track by Drake (Buried Alive Interlude) on his expensive looking sound system, and he brought out drinks and just like before, Vail Instragrammed, Facebooked and Snapchatted various photos and videos of the drinks. We drank, and at some point I walked out to the balcony. This whole scene, this whole experience, this moment: the drinking and the laughing and the gossip and the voicing of opinions and the photos – they were good things, but they were things that had happened before, and they would probably be things that would happen again, and again, and again. I was lucky, and I wouldn’t trade my life in to be in a war-torn country or anything like that, but I was still bored of it all. I looked out at the view. My eyes were taking it all in but my mind was elsewhere. Vail joined me, and I said something witty to her and she giggled. I missed looking at her naked. She mumbled something before checking her phone, and Jude yelled for us to see something inside, and she yelled, “Okay,” and she walked back inside. I stayed outside for a while longer.




The pain began a couple of weeks after Mandy and I broke up. It was a pain that was completely middle class and it was a pain that I was familiar with and it was a pain that pissed me off. She gave me back everything that I’d given her, and I deleted her number and completely cut her off.

I’m a grown up now, so I didn’t do anything tremendously embarrassing with the pain. I kept going to work, I kept going to boxing. I kept the pain tiny, miniscule, a small, dense marble inside me somewhere.

A bit later I met this girl in the gym. I called her Mouse, and one day she texted me: “Do you ever want to die?”

“Not really.”

“What would be a cool way to kill myself?”

I thought about it. “Make it clean. But don’t make people have to worry about you being missing. Cut yourself in the bathtub perhaps.”

“I don’t like blood. How about if I hang myself in my room?”

“That could work. But do you have anything in your house to hang yourself with?”

She didn’t reply for a bit. “I just checked. No :(”

“Too bad.”

“LOL.” I didn’t reply, so she added: “How would you kill yourself?”

“Yeah, bathtub, maybe jump off a building, but hopefully I won’t just end up being a living paraplegic.”

“I’m touching myself. Tell me more.”

I glanced around my room, as if someone could be watching what I was typing. “Or I’d like turn my car on in my garage, and I’d attach a hose to my exhaust and put the other end in my car. I’d write a letter to the Government as I’d slowly die, all alone in my self pity.”

“Snapchat me a picture of your dick.”

I downloaded Snapchat, signed up for an account, quickly figured out how it worked. I sent her a photo of my dick.

She replied with a photo of her vagina. She wasn’t doing anything with it. It was just a picture of her closed, hairy vagina. I’m not a big fan of vagina photos, but I thought I’d be polite and replied with: “nice.”

“I don’t want to wake up tomorrow. LOL.”

We continued texting like that for the next couple of weeks: we’d talk about different ways we’d kill ourselves, we’d talk dirty, we’d Snapchat each other photos of our genitals, she’d end the night with a sweet, “Good night, Dean, I love chatting to you:)” message or something horribly depressing, like “One day I’m actually going to off myself, just need the courage and not feel so ungrateful LOL.” I’d see her in the gym, and she’d look completely happy and never mention any of our texts. I constantly asked her to come out to see me, but she seemed content with what we were doing. She had a boyfriend, and they seemed pretty happy with each other.

Besides that I had no real interest in meeting anyone else but forced myself to do it anyway. One evening, I looked at Mandy’s Facebook account on my way to a party: she’d posted all these photos of her with someone new. He was an older looking guy; he looked better than I did and they looked happy. I’d never seen her smile like that. She looked beautiful. I flicked through her entire new album of photos before blocking her and turning my phone off. I headed to the party. I drank with the people there and smiled with them as they took photos. I drove home and fell in and out of sleep as I watched a movie a friend leant me some time ago.


If you’re depressed, visit beyondblue.


If you’re below the age of 21, leave this website right now.

Quick love story about Esmeralda Hemingold

It was a song by the Editors that was playing in the background of the house party as Dean Blake, the supposed author of this story, saw Esmeralda Hemingold in the distance, and as deep and wise as he tries to make himself out to be sometimes, all that he was really thinking about at that moment was this: he wanted to get a blowjob from her, he wanted to photograph her doing it and he wanted to send that photograph to his friends. He imagined (rather hoped) that she was the type who swallowed, who never complained or flinched while swallowing. He also wished – and desperately begged the universe – that she would happily swallow even after months of being in a relationship. It was a simple wish, but it was an important wish to Dean, because the act of finding an attractive girl who willingly and consistently swallowed was something that felt like an impossibility in his tragic life. As he kept glancing at Esmeralda he felt rather depressed knowing that he wasn’t charming enough to convince decent looking girls to regularly swallow and wondered if he would ever find true love.

Esmeralda Hemingold knew none of this. To be honest, Esmeralda Hemingold only came to the party to accompany her heartbroken sister and to eat the free food and maybe get a little drunk. Esmeralda Hemingold liked to tell people that she was seventeen years old, but in fact, she was sixteen turning seventeen in February. Esmeralda had a boyfriend who would send her love letters every week. The first love letters made her cry, but the remaining love letters kind of bored her. To her, the letters were all the same and had no tangible benefit to her life, and in fact only served to make her sometimes secretly think how pathetic her boyfriend was. She’d actually stopped reading those letters for months now, but she never told anybody this, not even her Mum, who she believed was her best friend. The last handjob Esmeralda Hemingold had given her boyfriend was four months ago on his birthday. She wasn’t a swallower and in fact despised the taste and overall idea of semen.

Esmeralda’s boyfriend, Tim, had a feeling that Esmeralda didn’t love her anymore and spent countless, desperate evenings on various dating websites and apps like Zoosk, OkCupid and Tinder to find someone who would replace her. He never struck any luck with any of these, and the most success he’d ever gotten out of the thousands of women he’d reached out to were a handful who would say “hi” or “lol” to him but nothing else. After a month of constant rejection online Tim developed a habit – and even a hobby – of changing his innocent “Hi beautiful I like your profile” approach to an angrier approach that he felt both turned on and guilty about at the same time. He’d say things like, “I’m gonna bite your clit off and swallow it” and “You fucking ugly bitch no wonder you’re online dating” and his favourite, “Hi I noticed we have a lot in common can I bat off on your face?” He liked that women always replied to these sorts of comments, even if they’d say things like “Fuck off” and “No thanks” and “I’ve reported you.” Tim masturbated (and sometimes cried) to various porn websites two to three times a day and has had sex with two Russian prostitutes at three hundred dollars a pop. Tim became increasingly angry and bitter over time, and the realisation that all of his happiness depended on a loving text from his own girlfriend (which were becoming less and less frequent) made it all even worse. But he told nobody about this and sometimes, as he would hold Esmeralda’s hand, he would think about how he hated women much more than he hated himself. Tim regularly contemplated either killing himself, killing a group of women or moving to Melbourne without even telling his parents.

Dean had been glancing at Esmeralda for about two hours until he finally summed the courage to speak to the girl who was sitting next to her. When it came to picking up women, Dean was taught that the best strategy would be to win over their friends. If you won over their friends, their friends were more likely to let you go home with her. But this wasn’t the real reason Dean spoke to the friend. The real reason was that he was nervous as hell and her friend was ugly and therefore less intimidating to speak to. Her friend was so ugly, in fact, that Dean was slightly offended by it. How could a woman let herself become this ugly? Why would she do this to herself? Her thighs, which were bulging and doughy, had stubble. She was overweight and awkwardly tall and she had a repulsive, ogre-like hunch. Her teeth were fucked and her eyebrows were fucked and her makeup was so incorrectly placed that she looked like a sad, masculine clown. He imagined her taking selfies at home and then spending hours air brushing them for her Facebook profile – hours she could have spent working out, or brushing her teeth, or having the decency to work on not looking so fucking offensive, because behind all of her layers of horrific fat he believed that there could’ve been a glimmer of hope. He was annoyed and depressed by this reality, and he felt slightly guilty for thinking this way. But she seemed friendly. Dean and the ugly person spoke for a few minutes until what Dean hoped for happened: Esmeralda butted into the conversation.

Esmeralda’s sister, Harriett Hemingold, was sort of relieved that Dean had approached her. It was a significant moment for her: she was beginning to turn her life around and was looking for the right man to hold her hand through her journey of weight loss. It had been over a year since her rather ugly breakup with Sam, and she had foolishly let herself fall into a downwards spiral of pizza, endless tears, laziness and self-pity. She was a model when she was dating Sam, and she was on the verge of reaching the next level of her career by striking a lucrative deal with L’Oreal – that all ended, of course, after her breakup. Back in her glory days, Harriett was quite used to being approached ten to twenty times a day by men of all shapes and sizes. But she loved Sam, and she stuck by Sam, and she did everything she could to maintain her love with Sam. Unlike most of her model friends at the time, she loved sex, and unlike all of the women she’d ever met, she loved the taste of semen. She couldn’t understand why, but she simply loved its texture and unpredictability, and she never grew tired of giving Sam blowjobs and sucking him for all he was worth, even if they’d been dating for over five years – she believed that if it weren’t for her Christian upbringing, she could have had a wonderful career in porn. It was Harriett’s looks and her never-ending yearning for sex that kept her confident that Sam would never leave her, but apparently it wasn’t enough for him. She vowed to get it right the next time. She vowed to give her new man all of what she gave Sam, plus more. She was going to lose weight, she was going to contact her agent, she was going to become that model – no, supermodel – that she’d always dreamt of becoming, and this Dean person, although a little short and not that impressive to look at at first glance, seemed like a great guy who Harriett could take care of, and who could take care of her through her career of success and endless happiness and endless sex.

Esmeralda Hemingold shook the guy’s hand. She was quite happy, and actually quite relieved, that a guy had approached her sister, especially after everything her sister had been through this past year. She was about to leave her sister alone with this person but her inner competitiveness got the best of her. This inner competitiveness of hers had gotten the best of her throughout her entire sixteen-and-a-bit years of life. Although nobody outwardly said it, Esmeralda Hemingold knew that the world saw her as the ‘ugly’ younger sister. Her grades were never as great as Harriett’s, and the quality of men who chased after her were never as great, either. She felt disgusting every morning she woke up, and she knew that she was partly responsible for one of the worst years of her sister’s life: she encouraged her sister to eat her sorrows away, to abandon her contract to “focus on Sam first as love was more important”, to not sign up to a gym just yet, to wear her makeup a specific way. She knew she could be a horrible person sometimes, but the world was cruel to her and she just wanted everything to be even and fair. She decided to stay there and let Dean decide which sister was the more attractive one to speak to.

Dean loved Esmeralda’s hand. It was slender, soft, elegant; she wore a few nice rings and shiny bracelets – she reminded him of a younger, better looking version of an ex-girlfriend of his. She giggled at a few of his jokes and he wondered if they were legitimate giggles. But it didn’t matter to him: all that mattered was that he was having a rather positive conversation with an attractive woman who he had been eyeing for hours. For a while, he included her ugly friend into the conversation until it became very clear that the spotlight was on Dean and his new friend Esmeralda. Esmeralda turned Dean’s next moments into moments of happiness. To Dean, the first butterflies were always the most colourful. Ever since his teens, Dean had only been in a constant stream of disastrous relationships – after a few suicides, deaths and a series of other less severe (yet still damaging) breakups, Dean concluded that the initial heightened feelings of infatuation brought by the exciting first three months of a relationship were the only moments that mattered when it came to “love”. Any relationship that lasted longer than those three months were merely forced and only served to weaken one’s identity. Having just been through another breakup, Dean didn’t want a weak identity anymore.

Esmeralda enjoyed the guy’s company. Although a little eccentric, she found him funny and slightly charming in a blunt, immature sort of way. The next hour felt like five minutes, even if they spoke about everything that mattered: what she wanted to do with her future, her annoying best friend, her parents, a few movies, Facebook. She’d been with Tim for far too long to consider anything serious with this guy she was speaking to, but she enjoyed the attention he was giving her anyway. It had been a while since she’d been out like this, and she put a lot of effort into what she was wearing – she wasn’t going to let her makeup be put to waste. Plus he made her giggle, and he made life more fun than it had been in a long time. He was the perfect escape she needed from Tim. She remembered the first time she met Tim. Things were so much happier back then, so much purer. Tim… she thought about him more and more as they spoke and begun to feel sickeningly guilty and relieved at the same time. She wondered if she was going to kiss another man tonight.

Dean walked with Esmeralda to the backyard, and for some reason they both laughed at nothing, and they both asked each other why they laughed at nothing, and they both said they didn’t know and laughed even more. He briefly imagined her going down on him in the bathroom or at the side of the house or where they were standing and he considered the logistics of it all: would he care what people thought, would she care that he hasn’t showered since the morning, would the owner of the house be offended, would he tell her that he was about to blow or stay silent, did she have herpes? He had begun to even like her a little, and part of him didn’t mind if she settled for an awkward handjob or if they did nothing sexual at all until a few hours later. Images of fireworks crossed his mind, and of holding her hand and of glitters and of stars and of a whole bunch of other lovey dovey bullshit. He couldn’t wait to photograph her naked. Esmeralda was in the middle of telling him a story about her friend when she received a phone call – a guy’s photo appeared on screen. It flashed “Tim” and she stared at it for a while before finally picking up. She left Dean to himself, and he looked around hopelessly. In the distance he spotted Esmerelda’s ugly friend sulking in the dark, scrolling up and down her Facebook Newsfeed like some kind of deformed gargoyle. He considered talking to her briefly, but changed his mind.

Tim was pissed. The plan was for him to pick her and Harriett up at nine, because, as he recalled her words exactly, “It’s going to be boring. Don’t pick us up any later than nine, okay?” He was already on his way to the party when he called to make sure that her and Harriett would meet him at the front. “We might stay until eleven or later or something, can you just come then?” She said on the phone. He yelled at her about her always doing this, and she mocked him and said, “Always?” and he said, “Yes, fucking always!” And they fought for a while until they both agreed that Tim would still pick them up at nine. Tim was furious, and he believed that if he was a stronger person he would’ve told her to find her own way home. But he was afraid that someone as friendly and pretty as Esmeralda actually would easily find her own way home, most likely with some other guy from the party. He wanted to make Esmeralda jealous for making him feel this way but there were no other women who were interested in him, and even if there was another woman in his life, he was confident that Esmeralda wouldn’t care. After dropping Esmeralda and her sister home, Tim planned to angrily masturbate to Esmeralda’s Facebook photos in the bathroom or fuck another prostitute, or both.

Esmeralda loved Tim. She told him she loved him every night. That “love”, however, had evolved over time from something that made her alive to something that was uninspired, routine. She’d considered breaking up with Tim several times, but the fear of never finding someone as caring as he was always prevented her from following through. Her mother had always told her that most men in the world were liars, cheats and violent when provoked. Tim didn’t have any of these traits, and because of this Tim was a rarity in Esmeralda’s eyes. This guy she’d been flirting with tonight seemed like a great guy, and if she wasn’t as screwed up as she was, she might have even given him a shot. But the world wasn’t like that, so she decided to avoid any more temptation by not speaking to the guy anymore: she grabbed her sister; they walked to the front lawn and waited, and when Tim picked them up she let herself become satisfied with the fact that she will probably never see the guy again.



Ending it with Mandy - short story

Mandy and I had a fight right after coming home from one of my book signings. She yelled and I yelled but to be honest, none of the things that came out of our mouths were actually new. We fought about what we always fought about: money.

We (she) decided then and there to end it, and I walked over and gave her some tissues to wipe her eyes with.

She whimpered. “Thanks.” I stared at her for a while, and she stared back, and I stood up and asked her, “Like, are you sure?” And she said, “Yes I’m sure,” and I said, “Like, seriously? There’s no turning back from this, I mean it. Once we end things, it’s over,” and she said, “Yes, Dean,” with a bit of finality.

I leant towards her. “Look, I’m sorry.”

There was a bit of silence. “It’s done, Dean. Don’t make this harder than it is.”

“You took that line from the movies.”

“So what if I did?”

I felt like telling her to go fuck herself, but I didn’t. I took my car keys and drove straight home. I walked around in circles for a while, muttering to myself. I went to the fridge and drank some milk and called Jude.

“Fuck women,” he said.

“I don’t want to anymore.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I gave her my heart but she wanted my soul,” I said.

“You took that line from a song.”

“So what if I did?”

“This is pointless. Go out. Meet people.”

I scratched my arm. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

Jude sighed. “Chicks are just so stupid. But you know what? You just have to accept that they’re stupid. Never take anything they say seriously because there will never be any consistency in what they say. You see we’re wired on logic but they’re wired on emotion.”

“Men are the stupid ones. You’re the stupid one. I’m the stupid one.”

“The world is stupid.”

“You’re bitter.”

“So are you.”

I hung up. I threw my phone against a wall and quickly ran to it to see if the screen was damaged. It wasn’t. I walked to my room and lay on my bed and did nothing until the next morning. I hoped by some miracle that someone, preferably a woman, would call or text me. No one did.

I wasn’t tired, but I wasn’t awake. If I was in a movie, I probably wouldn’t have wasted my evening. I probably would’ve gone to a bar. I would’ve had a drink, something manly, maybe a whiskey or something, and a woman – dark hair, nice smile, large breasts, natural looking fake tan, quirky but only the attractive kind of quirky – would’ve sat next to me and said something witty, and I would’ve said something witty back, and it would all be so damn easy, and the next evening, I’d be able to do the same. Actually, fuck that. If I was in a movie, I’d be Peter Pan. I’d wear green tights and I’d murder Hook and get the hell out of Never Never Land with a bag of dust and I’d fly around the city and piss on people from above.



Christmas letter short story

I know I always say this, but I’m sorry I haven’t written in a long time. I prefer writing more than typing, but it just takes a lot of effort to literally write a letter, you know? I actually tried writing something to you a few weeks ago, but I couldn’t think of anything important to say. All I could think of was surface chit chat shit like “how are you?” and “I’ve been fine, life has been lovely, the sky is blue” and all of that bullshit. But you know me better than that. We weren’t born into this world to waste each other’s time. We were supposed to add value to each other’s lives. Wouldn’t it be great if we were all like that? If we could walk up to anyone and actually say what we want to say? Imagine if we weren’t rejected or hurt in the past, and we had the confidence to simply say what we wanted to, to who we wanted to. There’s this man I watch from the distance every so often. He has dirty brown boots and his hair is a world of worry, and he walks with a limp when nobody’s looking. I don’t care what he thinks of the weather and I don’t care if he watches the news… all I want to do is walk up to him and tell him that I hate him and I love him and make love to him.

It’s Christmas soon, and I’m going to spend it with my thoughts. I cry sometimes, but only sometimes. You have to understand that Christmas in real life isn’t like Christmas in the movies. In real life, when shit happens, things don’t instantly get better like it does in the movies. Your prayers won’t get answered. You won’t get rescued, you won’t get that miraculous phone call from someone who will tell you that life is worth living. You won’t heal. The people who left you won’t come back. That beautiful stranger won’t suddenly appear and magically fill that void in your heart. You won’t get those ghosts who teach you that you’re supposed to be grateful for what you have. You’ll get nothing, and the pain will only get worse.

But sometimes I think it’s a good thing. Sometimes I think it’s good that it’s not exactly like the movies. If things were like the movies, you won’t grow. You won’t toughen the fuck up. You’ll remain the same while everyone else moves forward. Sometimes the sky simply has to rain shit on you, and shit on you, and shit on you, and sometimes you need to quit cowering in that little corner you made for yourself, and you need to stop blaming everyone who hurt you and actually learn to dig yourself out of whatever you’re being buried in. Because when you do, you’ll be more ready when it rains all over again.

I bought a green dress the other day, a summer one that shifts easily with the breeze. I took photos with my old camera (remember the one with the red sticker?) and I went to the shops and printed them, and I spread the photos out on my bed and I spent a day just eating and looking at them. I don’t want you to think that I simply left all thoughts of you guys behind. I think about how I hurt you, and I think about the times when we all hurt each other. I know you think about those painful times too. But what can be done? If I returned, and I looked at you, I don’t know what I’d do. All I know is I’d recognise you from the distance, and I’m sure that besides a few new creases besides your eyes, you’d mainly look the same. We’d smile at each other, and hug, and pretend that I didn’t do what I did, and we’d talk, and then I’d tell you that I’m sorry, and you would tell me that you had someone else to meet, and I’d tell you to take care and I’d quickly whisper that I’m so proud of everything you’d done.

I know my life as a painter is over. So nowadays I just fantasise about what I want to paint: the other day I thought of a bunch of flowers growing out of a wall, and once in a while, these kids, they’d be dressed like Peter Pan, and they’d pick the flowers and put them on everything we didn’t know we could put flowers on: the sky, water, sand, eyes. I’d be one of those flowers, and I’d sprout, and my leaves would wither away, and I’d be born again somewhere else, and I would find you between space and time.



hostesses - short story“Have you ever thought about God?” The pretty hostess asked me.

I was with Jude and this guy named Alfred or something, and we were in a private room with four or five or so hostesses. They were all pretty, and they made love seem so easy and so accessible for men like me. All you need for them to love you back is to talk to them. And to buy them drinks. And to give them all of your money.

“I think you need more drinks,” the tall one said, glancing at the manager, who was watching over the whole thing.

“Sure,” Jude said. I smiled. My plan was for Jude to pay for everything.

The shorter hostess, the one with the tiny skirt who kept asking me questions, took a shot of this blue coloured drink that Jude ordered for everyone before placing her arms over my shoulders and sitting on me again. She grinded and giggled and I could smell her. She had some glitter on her flustered cheeks, and she leant forward, and she asked me: “Is anything possible? Can we fly if we truly wished it? Can we create planets all on our own?” And I looked at something at the other side of the room and mumbled something I no longer remember.

When the madness was all over the manager handed us a bill for eight thousand dollars. We argued with her until she called in four guys. They were big guys, angry looking guys. Jude looked at them before sighing and passing them his credit card.

We walked outside and the shorter one ran after us.

“Take me with you!” she yelled.

“You’re too expensive!” I yelled back.

She frowned and gave me the finger. I wanted her, though, as terrible as it was. She looked incredible. Do women know that? That they can permanently ruin a man by simply existing?

We got the hell out of there and wondered towards the lights, talking about everything that happened. Eventually Alfred left, and Jude and I caught a cab back together to his place.

“Well, that was shit.”

I nodded, realising that the short hostess left a strong, sour smell on my jeans. “I’ll help pay you back.”

“No you won’t.”

“Well I might.”

We walked inside his apartment and crumpled down on his couch. “That was a huge waste of time and money.” He checked his phone, sighed, texted something, placed his phone back into his pocket. He stretched backwards and yawned. “Imagine if we could escape whenever we wanted to.”

“Escape what?”

Jude looked around his apartment. “This. Life. Our choices.”

“If you wanted to, you probably could. You have the money.”

“Money isn’t the solution to everything.”

“Yes it is.”

“But I guess there’s no fun in running away. All you’ll feel is a rush, but that’s it. Because you’ll make the same stupid mistakes all over again if you don’t learn to face the problems you currently have.”

“Well aren’t you an inspirational bastard.”

Jude lit a cigarette. “The girls tonight reminded me of Ariel.”

“Ariel is dead.”

He scratched his arm. “I know, Dean.”

I stood up and turned on his TV.



Vicki sexy cheating

… and we somehow made it to the next morning – we were in West End, eating overpriced breakfast. It’s painfully hot in Brisbane now, and Mandy acknowledged this fact by telling me, “It’s painfully hot in Brisbane now.” I didn’t reply. She then spent about twenty minutes complaining about a colleague before trickling off into a silence that I didn’t mind at all. We said nothing, and I ate my mushrooms, and then my toast, and then whatever the hell else was left.

Jude came by. He was hungover, as usual, and he refused to take off his sunglasses. He had a story to tell, a story was about his friend Vicki. He’d been friends with Vicki for about four months now. Vicki was twenty-one or something years old and had been in a great relationship for about one-and-a-half years. One day, without any real reason, Vicki began to cheat. It started with phone calls: she’d call guy friends and ex-boyfriends and start talking dirty with them while her boyfriend would be in the next room. She’d let them remind her about how they used to come all over her face. She’d whisper to them the things she’d do for them all over again with even more intensity: the things she’d wear, the places she’d take them to, the places she’d touch, the things she’d nibble on. She then proceeded to meet men in clubs; kissing only at first, but then proceeding to do more. She had “hilarious” stories about the men she’d hook up with, about how some of them would scream like cats when they’d orgasm, how some of them had triangular balls.

The second last person Vicki hooked up with (to his knowledge, anyway) was Jude himself. It happened in Roma Street Parklands, and it was near some chairs or something, and she “seemed slutty under the sunlight” so he kissed her, and she kissed him back. After some time, she cried and leant against his shoulder, and went on a rant about how she didn’t think her boyfriend was the right one – he simply didn’t meet her needs, he was simply a ghost: he was the dust you never really see form around all of your things. After her conversation with Jude she drove straight to their flat, had an argument with him, packed her clothes, drove to his friend’s house and “fucked his friend all night”. She instantly regretted what she’d done the next morning: she called her boyfriend, crying, and drove back to their flat. She told him that he needed to change, and he told her that she needed to change, and they kissed, and he apologised for how he’d been treating her. She forgave him, and she held his hands and they just lay there in their kind-of-strange-smelling bed (Jude knew it was kind of strange smelling because he’d been there with her himself), and told each other that they loved each other, and to her, that moment, that perfect moment – it was the most honest, most romantic moment in their relationship, and probably the universe. She had an amazing man. She had an amazing life. He proposed to her the next day.

“That’s the worst story I’ve ever heard,” Mandy said.

“I don’t mind it,” I said.

We went to the markets, bought some things, complained about the heat. Jude left. Mandy and I drove to her apartment in silence: all I could think about was Vicki, and all I could think about was this thing called “cheating”. It’s a fucked up word. It’s like a ball of some sort – no, more like a chubby, slippery creature that sits in the back of your head, a creature you’ve always wanted to touch but rarely do. How far do you go before you’re considered a cheater? Where do cheaters go when they die? Is there an island for them? Mandy and I have done some things I would’ve deemed as questionable when I was younger, but now I think it’s all completely normal. The fuck is life meant to be about, anyway?

I pushed Mandy against a wall and kissed her, but before we could continue with anything else, she said, “Let me shower first.” She showered, and I waited, and I waited so damn much I fell asleep. I woke up, and then I showered and brushed my teeth. We watched a few movies from her laptop (Avatar, The Grudge 2, Fading Gigolo, Fast and Furious 6), and when it all became too tiring we lay down.

“I’m kind of tired,” she said after texting someone on her phone.

“Me too.”

“Shall we just sleep?”

“Sounds good.”

“Good evening, Sir Dean.”

I remembered something. “Mandy.”


I stood up. I checked my phone, replied to a message, smiled. I plugged my phone into a charger. I pulled something out of my jeans and gave it to Mandy: it was a letter I wrote for her. She read it, smiled. “Thanks, Dean. I love you too.” She folded the letter and put it in her dresser.

We both fell asleep, and I dreamt about death and life and death and I don’t know if I woke up in the middle of the night or not. We both woke up the next morning to get ready for work. She made vegetable juice for the both of us.