Free short stories about Generation End

Archive for the ‘Christie’ Category

CRUMBLING APARTMENT WALLS

crumbling apartment walls

I wanted to tell her about a lot of things: how I wanted to kiss her in front of a zoo, how I hated the loneliness, how I wanted to face my fears yet flee for them – but I’d been told, repeatedly, that happiness could never be found by obsessing over oneself but that instead you had to give your heart to people who need one, so I asked her, “And you? How are you?”

“I’m good.”

“Good? You can’t be good.”

Christie laughed. “Why can’t I be good?”

“If everything was fine in your life it means you’re at the end, you’re at the last chapter.”

“Believe it or not, Dean, you can live life being content with everything.”

“Didn’t I tell you? That Thor guy said I was destined to live a life of suffering.”

“Everyone suffers. They just deal with it differently.”

Something was playing on Spotify from my iPad and it bothered me that Christie never had a say about what kind of music was playing in the background. But I didn’t tell her this. I picked her up, and she asked me, “have I gotten heavier?”

“I’ve just gotten weaker.”

And I spun her, and as my mind rested elsewhere my apartment walls crumbled, and out came the stars and the roses and the popcorn and the lights, and there were so many things I wanted to say, so many drinks I wanted to drink, so many tears I wanted to cry, but I did none of that and I just watched Christie’s shirt as I spun her around and did not let go.

 

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Book I’m reading: Perennial Seller

GOODBYE TIME

goodbye time

There are times when there’s nothing I want to write about. When there’s nothing much I really want to say. Time is so limited. It arrives, then it goes, and it arrives, and it goes – does it ever leave you feeling at peace? I suppose it does. There are times when time itself leaves me alone: it says to me, “Fine, Dean, do what you want,” and I’m at a beach or with some friends or I’m watching Netflix or something, and the little worries of life are chipped away and I’m left with something pure, like contentment, or love, or truth, or something only my heart will understand. How about you? When’s the last time you’ve forgotten to worry? When’s the last time you’ve let time leave you alone?

It was evening and Christie and I were sitting in front of penguins. She had her phone out and she was taking photos of them. The penguins were small, and they had their mouths open and were waddling about. She smiled at them, and I looked at the water and the horizon and I said something, and she said something back.

 

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CHRISTIE’S LETTER

… Have you ever been completely loved before? Not the romantic kind of love, not the parental kind of love. I’m talking about the kind of love that’s complete. I know you don’t understand what I mean, and I don’t expect you to. Actually I do expect you to know what I mean, because I want you to experience it one day. Or maybe I don’t, because it’s the kind of love that will make you fragile. It comes by as infrequently as a red moon, and once its gone, once the feeling it leaves you with erodes away, you’ll feel like a useless, dry lake, desperate to see that red moon again.

Complete love is love with no missing pieces. It’s a love that’s interested in everything you’re interested in. It’s a love that cries more for you than you’ve ever cried for yourself. It doesn’t care about that thing you did. It doesn’t care who you are. It laughs with your laughs, and it puts its hands on your hands and even though you know it has other plans it speaks only to you for hours, and hours, and hours, and after it all it smiles and sings to you, and you realise you’re the only person in the universe that matters to it. And you say, “How is this possible? I’m repulsive, I’m ordinary, I’m flawed – how can I be the only person in the universe that matters to you?” And then the love envelopes you and you weep, and it weeps with you too, and it kisses you, and although it’s a complete love, its completeness is limited by time, and it says goodbye, it says it will text you tomorrow, and then you’re left wondering what to do next.

 

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SUPER POWER MEDITATION

 

People try all sorts of things to get rid of their woes. Sometimes they try alcohol, sometimes they try meditation.

“The worst form of meditation is masturbation meditation,” Jude told me. “You think that when you masturbate, you’ll be in a constant state of bliss, but you won’t be. Firstly you’ll always want to change the video you’re watching, so you’ll always be dissatisfied and wanting to find something better. Secondly you have this fear of getting caught by someone you respect or are related to. Thirdly when you come three hours later you’ll just feel like a fucking loser creep who has to clean up the mess he made and may get in trouble for the fucked up website he just visited. Lastly you’ll want to do this miserable act over and over again.”

“My meditation comes from the rosary,” Christie told me. “I reflect on life with it. Have you heard of adoration? There’s a place on the valley I go to on some Friday evenings and I sit there, and I absorb the peace of everything around me. You have to join me.”

The first time I tried meditation was during high school. They took us to this Buddhist temple and the monk told us to cross our legs and think of the colours of the rainbow. I sat there, thinking of a wall of red, then orange, then yellow, wondering why monks had to shave their heads.

I was much older when I tried meditation again. I had a broken heart, and I watched a YouTube video by some guy who talked about mindfulness. I then went to this free talk about Transcendental Meditation and they asked for fifteen hundred dollars and I tried to negotiate it down to thirty dollars but it didn’t work. I settled with Streamline Meditation.

I’ve heard that billionaires meditate, that athletes meditate, that supernatural things happen during meditation. People have generated electricity through meditation. People have pulled cars with their dicks through meditation. People have levitated through meditation. People have been cured of diseases through meditation. People who have seen the face of Jesus through meditation.

I have big dreams when it comes to my meditation. Before I meditate I tell myself that when I open my eyes, I’ll be able to fly. That I’d be able to pick up a mountain with one hand and spin it around with the other, that my testicles will be able to sing songs backwards, that my bank account will legally have thirty-eight million dollars in it, that I will calm down, that I will be able to produce unbelievably powerful erections, that I’d be able to say goodbye, that I’d be able to say no without feeling guilty, that I’d be able to be generous, selfless; that I’d be able to perform miracles, that I’d be the bringer of world peace, that I’d invent teleportation, that I’d shed my skin to reveal the most amazing person in the universe.

 

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Book I’m reading: The Pleasures of the Damned

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THE LONELINESS

grey square - the loneliness

My loneliness can be an unforgiving piece of shit sometimes. I don’t want it to be there, but it lures me out when I don’t want to come out. It kisses me with its sour breath and proceeds straight to my heart, and it lingers there, and it gets comfortable there, and it calls it home and refuses to leave.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I sobbed to Christie over the phone.

“Aren’t I enough?”

“Sometimes I can’t hear your voice.”

Eventually, to my great relief, the loneliness leaves, and I drive my car and I play my guitar and I dance around like a monkey. But then it arrives again. It knocks on my door, and I stupidly open it, and I say, “Can’t you see that I have guests?” but then it kisses me anyway, and it makes itself at home anyway.

 

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Book I’m still reading: Men Without Women

I MET HANNAH AT A SOCIAL GATHERING

I met Hannah at a social gathering

Hannah momentarily entered my life while Christie and I were not in good terms. I met her at a social gathering.

“You know I researched scientology for an assignment once,” I told her. “I wanted to be like one of those clever types who make fun of odd belief systems. So I went to one of their presentations so that I could report all about all the weird ways they would try to brainwash or recruit me. But you know what? Nothing happened afterwards. I was really disappointed. They read a few passages from a book and that’s it.”

“What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?” Hannah asked me, picking up her phone.

I shrugged. “They didn’t give me a personality quiz, they didn’t give me a follow up call. Not even an email to at least hint that I should join them. So I started thinking, ‘Am I ugly? Could they tell I was poor? Why wasn’t I good enough?’”

Hannah didn’t reply – she was too busy texting.

So I continued: “How about you? Did they recruit you?”

She scowled and laughed at me. “I’m a scientist. Not a scientologist.” Still laughing, she looked back at her phone. “Oh my gosh I have to tell my boyfriend this.”

“Fuck you,” I said with a smile before looking for some free food.

 

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Show I’m still watching: The Young Pope

FORGIVING THE BAD PEOPLE

forgiving the bad people

“Have you ever read the Book of Jonah?” Christie asked me.

“The guy who got swallowed by a whale?”

“The prophet who was swallowed by a fish.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well,” Christie said with a slight smile on her face, “Jonah was a prophet who kept running away from God. God asked Jonah to do something, but then Jonah ran away. He wanted nothing to do with God because God wanted a lot from him. He ran so far away that he ended up in sea.”

“Then he got swallowed by a whale.”

“No, a giant fish.”

“Right…”

We were both on our backs and she was looking at her hands as she was telling me this story. “So while in the fish’s stomach and feeling bad and embarrassed that he neglected God,” Christie continued, “he began praying. He told God something like, ‘Listen, I know I’ve kind of neglected you for a long time now, but if you do me a solid and get me out of this really crappy situation, I’ll do whatever you say.’”

“So I’m guessing God let him out.” I poked Christie’s ear and she giggled and slapped my hand away. Christie was wearing something white, and although it was dark in my bedroom, I could see the small, bright patterns on her top. I could also see a hint of her black bra strap.

“Yup, God let him out. But of course, Jonah owed God a solid. So God asked Jonah to go to this place called Nineveh to tell them to change their ways. The Ninevites, to Jonah, were vile people who did a lot of crappy things to other people. Think Nazis and terrorists.”

“Sure. I’ll think of Nazis and terrorists. That reminds me of this time–”

“And so Jonah goes and tells these Ninevites to repent, and you know what? They do. They completely change their ways for the better, and God forgives them. Imagine a bunch of Nazis and terrorists changing their ways for the better.”

“So it’s a happily ever after?”

“Not really. Jonah is pissed off. He cuts off God mid-conversation and asks him how he can be so forgiving towards such people. He’s so angry that he tells God to kill him.”

“What? Why?”

Christie sat up. “Yeah, he goes up a hill, he watches Ninevah in secret hope that it will roast in God’s wrath but it doesn’t. Miserably, he mutters to God, ‘I am so angry I wish I was dead.’ And then God asks him, ‘Shouldn’t I be concerned for all of these people?’”

I waited for a while for Christie to tell me the twist in the story, for her to tell me how Jonah replies, for her to tell me how it all ends happily for Jonah and God and the Ninevites and the fish and whoever else was in the damn story. But she said nothing. “What, that’s how it ends? With Jonah angry and confused and wanting to die and God asking him a question?”

“That’s how it ends.”

 

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Show I’m watching: The Young Pope

HAPPINESS, JOY, SMILES, LAUGHTER, WHATEVER

happiness and a glowing light and whatever

“What is happiness?”

“Happiness is a BJ that never ends. Just constant swallowing.”

“Happiness is being in bed.”

“Happiness is having her back.”

“Happiness is being with God.”

“Happiness is being rich.”

I was with about four people who were all discussing happiness. I remained quiet. Nothing I said or what anyone said mattered, really. To me, the definition of happiness, like the feeling of happiness, is something that can never really sit still. It shifts and switches and sways with the times. I was happy at that moment because there was money in my bank account, and I wasn’t sick, and I had friends, and no one was pissed off at me, and because Christie was there, smiling at me. But what if my bank account shit itself, or my health shit itself, or if Christie shit all over my face and forced me to eat it? This skinny guy with a ponytail and loud voice once told me that happiness is wherever you take it. It shouldn’t really matter where you travel and it shouldn’t really matter what you have. Happiness should be clipped onto you no matter what. If you could start and end the day pinpointing the beauty in anything in your path, then life should be relatively easier than if you didn’t. So if Christie ever decides to shit on my face, I’ll tell her, “Happiness is wherever you take it,” and I’ll give her a big, shit-filled smile.

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What I’m reading: Men Without Women

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

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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