Free short stories about Generation End

Archive for the ‘Letters’ Category


red square

I’ve had it with you, Mr Sadness, with your damp eyes and your bloody nose and your sad, sad acoustic soundtrack. I’ve had it with the sporadic loneliness, the dread and the anger. I’m over this. Tomorrow I’ll go online and find me a new lover. A lover with sunlight and cool winds and upbeat music. A lover who socialises and goes to the Valley and pops pills with strangers and doesn’t dwell on things, doesn’t go on long rants with their best friends. A lover with a great toothbrush. A lover where everything goes how I want it to, where there are no pricks, no dickheads, where guilt and shame and tiredness are just shit stains under the deep, deep ocean.



My book, Surface Children, is now available from Book Depository (free shipping)


… 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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a letter too late

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

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

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

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



Book I’m reading: Men Without Women


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.



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.



Valentines Day letter in the futureWell, picture this. The year is like, two thousand fifty or three thousand fifty or whatever, and the world is still the same old bullshit that it is. There are still cars that go on the road, and like, your bedroom, the one at the far corner of the house, is still a mess. It still has that strange smell and we’d still go there three to four times a week and have sex on the floor or on your bed or whatever, and afterwards I’d cover my eyes from the sunlight coming into your window and complain about the heat and you’d sort of laugh and you’d sort of not laugh, and you’d tell me to shut up and stop complaining and I’d slap your arm, and then you’d like, run to the bathroom to clean up and I’d be left behind to stare at your wall: the hanging masks, that framed picture of that old guy with a camera, the scribble you made when you were young. Whenever this happens I will only ever think about one of these four things: that I’m bored of you, that I’m crazy about you, that you need to clean your room, that the sun is too bright.

You still picturing this? You still picturing me? In the future, this future of ours (yes, that’s right: not your future, not mine – OURS – stop thinking that it’s all just about you and YOUR problems. It’s selfish to just think about yourself, did you fucking know that? Seriously, I don’t get you sometimes), I’ll be driving home from work every day at about six in the evening, and it’ll be a twenty minute drive, and you’re only finding out about this now, but I like to listen to really depressing music while I drive. I’ll listen to girls crying about love, I’ll listen to boys crying about love, I’ll listen to lyrics like, “I hurt myself today,” and, “I will follow you into the dark,” and, “he raped me in the chalet lines”. In the future, I’ll be bald like Natalie Portman. Actually, no I won’t: my hair will be a little curlier, my lashes a bit longer, my thighs so much thinner. Sometimes I just hate you. I really, really hate you. I often fantasise about strangling you against the bathroom sink, both of us nude, your hands just flailing wildly, bottles and toothbrushes falling onto the floor, my smile, your smile, your blood under my fingernails, your funeral, everyone’s tears, my tears, rain – no, maybe sunshine; me, hugging my pillow, crying, missing you and calling my best friends to tell them that I feel empty inside.

You know I don’t think things will be that different in the future. There’ll still be jealousy, there’ll still be love, there’ll still be some kind of Valentine’s Day. There’ll still be people who give value to the world, there’ll still be people who don’t. I don’t think we give much value to the world. I mean, like, your job, my job, what are they worth in the grand scheme of things? You once asked me if what I was doing was even that important, and you don’t know this, but it really got me thinking, and thinking, and thinking. This sounds corny, and I hate to admit this, but I feel lonely most of the time. Even when I’m with people, and even when I’m with you. I know I should be grateful for everything that I have. I know I should. You know, there will be a day in the future when I’ll find you just sitting there, or maybe lying there, and you’ll have this gentle smile, this gentle, gentle smile, and I’ll kneel next to you and touch your face and you’ll look up at me. For a very, very brief second, you’ll look concerned, but then you’ll smile again, and then I’ll smile, and I’ll tell you that you can keep me forever.

Imagine like, the year six thousand. Will we be ghosts? Will we be angels, or souls, or animals? Will I be able to meet you again, and again, and again? What kind of girl will I be to you if you were rich? What kind of girl will I be to you if I was in a wheelchair? Will I still think about cheating on you, will I lie to you as often as I do now? I wonder if the girls in movies ever wished they were real. I wonder if life didn’t have to continue once we told each other that we loved each other – that we could just die satisfied in knowing that someone loves us. Because sometimes life just feels like a movie with way too many sequels. It could’ve ended happily so many times already, you know? There’s just too much time for too many more mistakes.       

Imagine, like, the year two thousand and seventy. We’ll both be really old, and you’ll have dementia or something and I’ll always pee myself whenever a nurse touches my arm. At night, at the retirement village, I’ll creep into your room and just look at you in disgust and in love and in awe and in fear and in sadness, and I’ll kiss your forehead, and I’ll cry. I’ll always cry, no matter what. I’ll hold your hand. I’ll whisper about the kids you no longer remember, and I’ll whisper good night and ask you why you didn’t just let me kill you when we were young, and I’ll imagine my life spent differently, with another man, with two men, with many men, and I’ll whisper that I love you, and then I’ll slowly walk back to my room with my hands touching my chest.


Dry trees in the distance -

… and I know it’s been a while, but I thought I’d write to you about everything in the world. I want you to know that I’m doing fine and that once in a while I read the work you send me, those poems and stories and things, and I want you to know that I’m proud of you. I mean, I don’t get most of it, but that’s the point, right? I’m sure that one day, you will have that book and one day I will see your book in the bookstores. But in the meantime, just keep it as a hobby, can you promise that? Is everything okay? Do you have a proper job now? What are you doing for money? How’s everyone else, do you still keep in touch with them? How about XXXXX? I know you’ve asked me thousands of questions and I can’t answer them all but I want you to know that I’m doing fine, that sometimes I go to the beach and that yes, I’m doing fine. I remember this time (you probably don’t, especially with the way things are now between us), when we all went to the beach. You were there with the girls and some of your friends and I was so confused, but I liked to see you smile and have fun. Remember that. Remember that I always wanted you to smile and have fun.

Things are interesting here. Sometimes things are shitty and I see two different skies. Sometimes the clouds just won’t stay put. Once I was walking barefoot on the highway and I thought the whole world was going to light me on fire, which was fucking crazy. I walked to the edge of something last night, and I was with a friend of mine, and we just stood by its ledge and looked at what was in front of us. I mean, there won’t be much to look at for most people, but for me, what I was looking at, I can’t describe it. I don’t know. It was a pile of bricks, a pile of dead rubbish, and everything was dark and it smelt like piss and I just screamed at it like an arsehole. Why would I yell like that, you know? It confused the shit out of my friend and it confused the shit out of me. I’ve always wondered why you’ve never written about me. I know I haven’t read everything you’ve done and it’s my fault, but from what I’ve read it’s like you’ve deliberately avoided mentioning me at all. It’s as if all your words have been constructed for the sole purpose of stepping around me. Or maybe I’m just thinking too highly of myself. I suppose it’s my fault.

Why won’t the world always do as we say? Remember how you used to ask me that? I’ve had many years to think about it, and I guess the world has the right to be tough, you know? Maybe something happened to the world before we came around, something that hurt it. And because of its past hurts it’s a bit of a prick to people, to the environment, to everything, shocking them when times are good and shocking them when times are shitty. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I guess I’m trying to say I wish I’d done things differently, I’d done things better, you know? My friend says I can still make things better starting from now on but I don’t know, can I really? Can I really get out of what I’ve gotten myself into? I know you’ll never get where I’m coming from and I know that you hate me, just know that I’m sorry for the way things came about and I hope you’re well.

I wish I had a story to tell you of my own. Maybe an adventure story, or a love story. Or one of those fucking space alien revenge things. But I’ve never been that creative. Well, here’s a story… I had a dream the other night about this girl. Her hair was red and purple and shit, and she was with this other guy, this younger Indian guy, and they were drinking tea next to a mountain and all of a sudden, there was an explosion inside the TV they were watching. Everything was shaking but they continued drinking the tea. The scary part about the dream was that I wasn’t there, that those two people in the dream were people I’d never met or ever seen. I wish I could’ve taken a photo of them and shown them to people I know or maybe people you know and asked who they were. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that dream. Actually, maybe I will. Who gives a shit who they were? This isn’t a very good story, is it?

It’s hot where I am now, and I’m always sweating. It’s not easy where I am, and a lot of the time I find it hard to deal with people. But I’ve been taking a lot of photos of the places I’ve been to and the new friends I’ve met. I hope I can show them to you some day, but I don’t even know when that will be. I don’t even know if you’ll receive this. I wish I was there, and I wish, when all is over, when heaven is here, I’ll be able to laugh with you and your friends at the beach again.



Letter from the receptionist to say goodbye

I know I’ve never written to you before. You know I’m not a writer. I could be a lot of things (and you would’ve realised that firsthand, hehe) but I’m definitely not a writer.

How are you? How have you been? I know I asked you this the last time I saw you but no one ever says how they truly are. Actually, if you think about it, does anyone really know how they are? They may say certain things and they may feel certain things, but I think our minds and our hearts are in denial all the time, and whatever words come out of our mouths are merely strange afterthoughts of the truth. But anyway, I guess if someone were to ask me, “How are you?” my response would always be different depending on the day. Sometimes I’ll say I’m miserable, sometimes I’ll say I’m happy. Or maybe I’ll say I’m stupid. Or I’ll be lazy and just say I’m fine, thanks!

Remember when I used to always want a baby? I made sure that every time we’d be together and every time we’d talk on the phone, I’d talk about how much I wanted a kid and how beautiful they are in hope that eventually you’d tell me, “Fuck it, let’s get married and screw and screw and have ten billion kids.” Hahaha. I think it was partly to do with my friend’s daughter. She was the cutest thing in the world and I was jealous. I pictured us in a family together. You’d be doing something crazy to make money and I’d just be nodding and taking care of the ten billion babies.

I’ve changed a lot since our breakup. I no longer talk about kids. Maybe, one day, in the deep future, I’d consider it. But right now I have other things to think about, things that I desperately wish I could tell you, but I know with our situation we both simply have to let go. I can’t keep relying on you to tell me to be strong.

I have to tell you something, Dean. I’m not just in a relationship. I’m engaged now. I know it’s been fast. But it’s something that had to happen. And I know after we met that day I told you I missed you and that I wanted to see you again, and after telling you all of that I ignored all your calls and messages. I can’t do it. I’m sorry I’ve treated you this way but I can’t see you anymore, and my fiancé wouldn’t want us to call or speak to each other anymore either. I’d appreciate it if you respect this decision. Thanks, Dean.

It know it’s cruel and I’m sorry. I still remember the first time I met you at work: Kim and I looked at your ass as you walked away. For some reason I thought you were married. Remember when you cried to me over the phone? Or how about our first conversation, remember that? Remember how I told u I believe in spirits and ghosts? I still do and I always will. When I’m at my desk at work I’d sometimes feel a breath behind me, and since I do night shift now sometimes I’d hear strange things, like papers being shoved around and someone knocking on the toilet door. When I look at a mirror, I know something is behind me, looking over my shoulder and looking straight into my eyes. And I smile. Spirits can’t just not exist. We deny them, but I know they’re around and they’re either watching us or ignoring us. I believe spirits had something to do with our love. They moulded us together but realised it was bullshit, or they became bored, or they had a quarrel about our fate or they fell into some trouble and hid in the deep dark parts of the world. Part of you is still inside my heart, but it’s a love that no longer has anything to do with romance. The spirits took that part away and left something less significant… but much more important. Do you know what I mean? You don’t, do you?

I don’t know if I’ll bump into you again, Dean, but I know you’ll make things work out for the better.

PS. I sent you a drawing.