Free short stories about Generation End


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.



alive forever

I wonder what it would be like if I was a crack dealer. It’d be a pretty fuckin’ stressful job. Or I wonder what it would be like to be one of those heroes that people always write about. Like a Nobel Prize winner or an Emma Watson or a Michael Jordan or something. I wonder if there are heroes out there who don’t wash their hands after pissing in the toilet.

I wonder if there’s a scale out there, like in the heavens or something, that rates everyone in the world from best to absolute worst. I’d like to know who that absolute worst person is. A lot of people would probably say pedophiles or rapists are the worst. But I have a feeling the worst person would be much worse than that. He’d do things with not only with kids; he’d be into animals too. Not like puppies or horses, but like the most fucked up creatures out there, like those moths that are the size of people, or those weird spiky frog things that look like dark vaginas. Would politically correct people get angry if I assume the worst person in the world is a man?

I wonder what it would be like if I was never jealous of other people. I still don’t know who I am. It’s a corny thing to say, I know, but there you have it. This is because I was born in 1832, and I’ve pretty much been told that I will continue to live forever no matter what. I have seventeen fingers. I have seen things: the sun up close, the insides of a skull, the rapid dreams of ants. I have never become a millionaire yet I’ve never become poor. I can’t touch reality, because reality is just a word. I swam to an island once, and there have been eighteen mornings where I have folded the sky five times over. I wonder what it would be like to be you. To be in you. To be outside you. To see you for who you really are, if that will ever be possible.



You powerful woman you“You know I tried to cheat on you,” I told her.

“And then what happened?”

“She wasn’t interested.”

“You poor man.”

“Women have it easier,” I said.

“When it comes to what?”

“Finding men.”

“Quantity over quality, honey.”

I turned my phone on silent and placed it next to my plate. “That’s the whole problem with this world. Men want quantity, but never get it. Women want quality, but never get it.”

She laughed at this, but it was a sad kind of laugh. We were out somewhere, in the Valley, I think, trying out a new restaurant. As usual, she was wearing something expensive, and she was probably going to pay for our meal. This has become a trend lately: women who have more money than their men. Women who have more options than their men. Women who do the dumping and men who do the chasing. Women with their books on girl power and their music about sexual independence and men with their, with their… hip hop?

“Tell me more about yourself,” she asked me after taking a photo of her vegetarian meal and posting it on Instagram. “We’ve been together for some time now, but I feel like I barely know you.”

“Does anyone truly know anyone?”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’m twenty-six years old. I’m a Leo and I like having coffee with friends and long walks along the beach.”

“Very funny.” She took a bite out of whatever the hell she was eating. “I have an idea for your next book.”

“What ideas do you have now?”

“I know you want to do a simple love story, but I think you should do something about magicians.”


“Yeah, something with a fantasy element, you know? They’re selling a lot lately. Look at Game of Thrones.”

“If I wanted to be a sellout,” I said, “I’d do a vampire novel.”

“No, vampires are out of fashion now. But fantasy, or something about a young guy who finds out he has powers: that’s what’s going to sell. I can tell. And you know,” she added. “who’s to say it won’t also have a romantic element to it?”

“You’re the worst.”

“How am I the worst?”

“You’re just a horrible person.”

She sighed. “Whatever. I was just giving you ideas.”

“Keep ‘em coming, because they’re brilliant.”

“I read this article about some self-published authors who are millionaires now. How much are you making again?”

“Well I’m not those authors,” I said. “My work isn’t for everyone.”

“Do what you want with your life.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means this.” She raised her middle finger.

“Oh, don’t you mean this?” I raised both my middle fingers at her.

We ate in silence for a while. We’d been fighting a lot lately, and she’d cry in front of me at least once a week. No matter whose fault it was, it was always me who ended up apologising. I was a fool to her tears.

We walked to a strip club and watched this girl dance for half an hour. Mandy called her over after her performance and whispered something in her ear – the stripper smiled and looked at me, and then giggled. Mandy had problems, horrible problems, and I knew after she had her way with the stripper she wouldn’t be giggling the next day. The stripper gave her number to Mandy and she smiled at the both of us and walked away.

We drove to Mandy’s apartment. As she showered I looked at some of her books on her bookshelf: Robert Kiyosaki’s Cashflow Quadrant, #girlboss, Robert Kiyosaki’s The Real Book of Real Estate, How to Win Friends and Influence People, Profiting from the World’s Economic Crisis, The Secret of My Success. I opened The Secret of My Success and a piece of paper fell out. I picked it up and opened it: Mandy had handwritten a whole list of her 10-year goals: Have a minimum of 20 properties around Australia and 10 in strategic locations in USA and Asia and Greece, have three kids, fuck 100 men, buy a Mercedes-Benz S-Class in cash, travel to over 50 countries, have a passive income of at least $500,000 a year.




NEWSYou can now also purchase paperback copies of Surface Children in Melbourne, at Polyester Books.




skydiving and falling - short stories

The next weekend, we went skydiving. We got to the place too early, so we walked to the beach, and she did star jumps and I threw rocks at birds. We went to McDonald’s and ordered some juice and we spoke about things that I no longer remember. I looked at her and took a photo: we’d gotten to that point in our relationship where we were completely comfortable with each other, yet still somehow completely attracted to each other. We still laughed at each other’s farts and left notes next to each other’s pillows.

Finally, when it was time, we went inside the skydiving place. They passed us some outfits to wear and briefed our group about safety and all that other shit before taking us all to a tiny, old airplane. I smelt my skydiving suit – it smelt like sweat. We walked to where all the planes were and filed inside the smallest and oldest looking plane out of all of them. The plane chugged a bit before finally lifting off and as I looked around its rundown and cramped interior I pictured the plane exploding and our body parts flying into the sky.

Because of the weather conditions we were only able to fly about ten thousand feet. My guide, who was attached to me, told me to sit on the edge of the plane, and before I could ask him why I was doing this he pushed us both off. Everything became a loud rumble of wind: I looked down at another skydiver beneath me, facing me, waving at me, hoping that I would wave back at him. He was yelling something I couldn’t understand, so I gave him the finger. He gave it back. I looked to the right and Mandy was there, screaming and laughing.

It was frantic at first, but when everything settled I wanted to keep falling. I wanted to be trapped in that fall somehow, and I wanted my skydiving instructor to detach himself from me and I wanted to keep falling, and falling, and falling. I was over the overwhelming burden of pretty much everything: the rich people and the poor people and the people on the internet and the people not on the internet and how subjective everything is, all the questions we have, all the answers we have, how unnecessarily necessary things are supposed to be. And I thought about heartbreak: I felt it before, and it was real, but with Mandy there, the word itself seemed like something alien. As the ocean and the city grew bigger I pulled the parachute thing and we bounced up and glided, and the guy behind me told me I could steer us wherever the hell I wanted.

We paid about a billion dollars for video footage of the fall. I drove Mandy home, and then I drove to my own place and called her and she said something and I laughed, and then she asked me what I would think if I filmed her kissing a girl and a guy, because she’d think it would be hot if I did the same, and I kept quiet for a while, and then we spoke about other things and I said goodnight, and she whispered that she loved me.



Knife fight with a girlfriendMandy was kicked out of home when she was twenty-two years old by both of her parents because they hated the fact that she was dating someone from China. Although her relationship with her then boyfriend never panned out, her relationship with her parents was never the same again, and I knew this because we’d spend hours of our evenings, nude, staring at the ceiling or the stars or whatever just talking about it, and the more I got to know her, the more I could see the subtle hints of pain in her face when she’d smile in photographs. For someone who isn’t too fond of making friends, her parents were the only people in her life she thought she could rely on.

Mandy and I had been fighting again, and after a few minutes of yelling I called her a bunch of names that didn’t make her very happy. She chased me around her apartment with a kitchen knife. At first I found it funny until she began lunging straight at me. She was pissed.

We’d been fighting about money. About the money she had and the money she felt I didn’t have enough of. “How are you going to support someone like me? I know you work hard but I make at least three times you do. And your book. Do you really think you can get a reasonable income being a writer?”

I couldn’t believe what she said. “Why do relationships always have to be about money? You’re the thousandth person to tell me that. Why can’t they be about other things?” And then it escalated from there.

We strafed around each other in a mad circle, and I kept yelling at her to calm the hell down but she wouldn’t budge. A whole shitload of things were knocked all over the floor. She lunged her knife towards me again.

“If you were a guy I’d punch the shit out of you right now!” I yelled.

“Like shit you would, you pussy!” she screamed back.

She was probably right. I was getting tired. I sprinted for the door and ran out, screaming “TRUCE! TRUCE! STOP IT!” but she kept going after me. I was in my underwear and so was she. If it wasn’t for the little dignity I had left I would’ve been pissing my pants. I truly feared for my life. We ran for about half an hour and it ended when I could hear her crying. I walked over to her, yelled at her for a bit, and then stopped. I picked her up and we walked to her apartment and I knew there was much more behind her anger and her worry than my financial failings. We lay on her couch for a while until she muttered “well, time to work out” and she put on a porno and played it on her flat screen TV – a gangbang video about two college girls surrounded by a bunch of angry looking janitors – as she ran on the treadmill, muttering affirmations and her goals for the month.



Balloon over Gold Coast“If you have the weight of the world on your shoulders, then why are you standing so upright?”

Mandy told me a few stories and I told her a few of my own. We were in some place around the Gold Coast, and we were in a hot air balloon and I hadn’t seen anyone but her for the past few days.

“What do you think?”

“What do I think of what?”

“Of the view.”

The sun was just rising and there was orange, a warm orange, and the tourists around us smiled and took photos of the trees and fields near the horizon.

The balloon landed and we all had to roll it up. The organiser then drove us to this winery. I drank and ate as much free wine and food as possible while Mandy smiled, drank water, watched the green hills and the sun’s calm but confident rise.

“You have to drive us back!” I said to her eventually. I hadn’t had alcohol like that in months and I didn’t know how to feel about it.

“But I haven’t driven in years.”

“You’ll be fine,” I said, giving her the keys. She started the car and began driving forward before I had the chance to stumble in. She ran over my foot and I screamed in pain. “YOU BITCH!” was all I managed to say.

She stopped the car. I jumped in.

She crossed her arms. “I can’t believe you called me a bitch.”

“I can’t believe you ran over my fucking foot!”

“You yelled so loudly.” She began crying.

“I don’t get you. Stop crying.”

She wiped her eyes, looking my leg over. “Well, should we go to a hospital or something?”

My foot. I didn’t want to look at it, didn’t want anything to do with it. “I’m fine.”

We drove back to Brisbane in silence; we parked in her guest car park and didn’t say anything for a while.

“I’m sorry I’m like this,” she eventually said. “You know what? I don’t really have friends anymore. I mean, like, I’ve been in a bunch of relationships, but I don’t really have friends, friends. And I don’t even know if it’s a good thing, or a bad thing.”

“It’s both.”

“I just don’t enjoy socialising as I do working and improving myself. Have you ever been to a swinger’s party?”

“I don’t remember.”

She looked at my foot. “Are you sure you don’t want to get that checked? You don’t look happy.”

“I’m fine.” I wasn’t.

“Anyway, there’s a swinger’s place in New Farm. And I remember so badly wanting to go with a girlfriend once, because I heard they’re not that strict about you needing to be a couple or anything, but when I looked through my phone I seriously didn’t know who to invite. I’ve just been working so much that I don’t know what a normal social life is any more.”

“How old are you?” I asked her.

“You should know that already.”

I thought about Jude and Vail and that was about it. “One day, you’re going to lose all your friends. But then you’re going to make new ones.”

“Like you’re so wise. You don’t even have kids.”

We went to her room, changed, and as much as I just wanted to sleep, she persuaded me to go to the gym with her. I pretended to do weights while she did Zumba.




Nude And Childish Gambino

“It’s July,” she eventually said. “Like, well, it’s like Saturday, and we’re near the end of July.”

“Let me ask you something. Have you been hurt before?”

“That’s such a typical thing to ask. Are you a typical person?”

“I like to think that I am.”

She stood up and put some underwear on and tapped on her phone. “Here. I’m going to play Childish Gambino.”

We listened for a while before getting out of bed. I watched her take some medication before following her to the blender: she put spinach, tomato, beetroot, kale, banana slices, apple slices, protein powder, almond milk, orange juice; she blended it and we drank it together. She had scars on her thighs and I found them pretentious.

“You know,” she started, but never finished. She pulled out a pad, wrote down her daily goals. She then meditated for twenty minutes as I lay down and attempted to read her signed copy of The Alchemist before throwing it away.

She took me to a business and wealth seminar that I would “totally love,” and afterwards, in the late evening, we drove around for a while; we headed to a peep show in the Valley and she sat with me in a booth, and when we grew bored of it all we walked upstairs and she bought a porno about interracial anal, and then we went for a drive, east, I think, because I vaguely recognised Redbank or Red Hill or whatever it’s called; she took some medication and we parked and she told me to take her in the cold and the dark of the public toilets of some park. We changed into our running clothes and went for a two-hour run in the dark, and at the end, when she was well ahead of me and I was pretty sure I was having a heart attack, she took her clothes off and asked me to watch her in the distance and she was blurry, and I squinted and asked her what she was doing as she swayed and smiled and bit her lip in the silence of the cold.




NEWS: The Things We Do For Those Who Don’t Love Us, a short story from Surface Children, is now available as a standalone short story on Amazon.