Free short stories about Generation End

Archive for the ‘Love’ Category

A LETTER TOO LATE

a letter too late

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

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

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

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

 

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Book I’m reading: Men Without Women

VALENTINE’S DAY LOVE

Christie told me that she fell in love with Barry Edgar about four years ago. He didn’t know that she’d fallen in love with him, and understandably so: she didn’t tell him and she didn’t change anything about the way she treated him.

Barry Edgar was a waiter who once travelled to Europe. He also once travelled to India. He also once travelled to Beijing, to Philippines, to Peru. Barry was shorter than the average guy and he had hairy shoulders, and his deodorant had a strong, musky smell. There was nothing really special about Barry, but then there was really nothing that special about Christie, so she thought it fitting that they were destined to be together.

To Christie, falling in love was more than just a childish feeling of falling in love. She tried her best not to think of “falling in love” as something that was merely a product of evolution, of the movies, of pop songs, of seeing her parents, of hearing her friends. Christie wanted to fall in love in a completely unique way, in a way that was individual to her. But how could she do this when so much of her was a product of her environment? How much of her “falling in love” truly came from her heart?

Picturing herself as a bouquet of flowers, Christie spun in dramatic circles with the hope of shaking off any unruly untruths in her life. She meditated, she shed her skin, she consumed, she prayed, she sold, she gave up, she quit, she ran, she ignored – she dedicated an entire year to only telling the truth, of being completely honest with herself and shedding all insecurities, all bonds and all connections, even her physical connection with Barry. Feeling like a Buddhist, she detached herself from everything, and in her pursuit of complete honesty she found nothing but love. Not only love for Barry, but love for herself, and of the world, and of God.

About four years ago I told this girl I loved her because of the way she said the word “cunt”. This girl had a great smile and a great body and she rarely shaved her pubic hairs and she was taken by someone else. “I’m addicted, Dean,” she texted me, and I texted back, “To what???” and she replied with, “to everything there ever was.” And at one in the morning, the morning after Valentine’s, I picked her up, and we drove to McDonald’s and bought nuggets and we didn’t say much and I tried to kiss her in the parking lot, and she said, “Not until we take some,” and I said, “Some what???” and she replied with, “take some of everything that ever was.” And around noon we drove to some crowded beach at the Gold Coast and we ran into the sea.

LOVE IN EVERY LINE

love in every line

“He loved her,” she insisted.

“No, he’s in love with her.”

“No, no, no.” She still wasn’t listening to me. “This is what he said: ‘I loved her.’ It was love in the past tense.”

“People don’t say things like that unless they still love them. Once you stop loving someone, you never mention them again. They’re not even a memory.”

She scoffed at this. “You out of all people know this isn’t true. People talk about people they don’t love anymore all the time, but it doesn’t mean they’re still in love them. What part of past tense don’t you understand? He. Loved –”

“I understand everything about the past tense” – I lowered the stereo volume just to make sure the entire world heard my point – “but I understand nothing about what you’re saying. Don’t you know love? Haven’t you ever held it in your hand?”

“I held love in my hand whenever I held his.”

“That’s so corny. Can you see my ears bleed from the corniness? It’s corniness like that that gives love a bad name.” Her speaking about him, or even the thought that she was thinking about him, or even the fact that we were dedicating an entire moment of our temporary lives talking about him, that we were associating “love” and his terrible name in the same sentence – it all made me delirious with envy, but the envy was a secret even I didn’t want to admit. Why couldn’t I throw my envy away and burn it and then piss on the ashes? He didn’t love her. There was no way he loved her. I didn’t want to know her anymore.

“I don’t see your ears bleeding,” she said as she moved closer to me and inspected my ears. Her breath smelt like raspberry Vodka. “And what’s a non-corny love anyway? Has love ever not been corny?”

“A non-corny love is a love that’s mixed with practicality and romanticism.”

“So love has elements of corniness.”

“You know what? Whatever. He loved her, he still loves her – does it really matter?”

“Yes. His love matters.”

“Why does what he do with his love matter? Why should –”

“Because I love him.”

Everything became silent. “So you love a guy who left you behind.” I looked at her. Her eyes were slightly teary; she was sniffling. This guy had picked her out of an ocean, broken her, then placed her back into the ocean without waving goodbye. And I was completely sober when I said what I said next: “Fuck his love. Fuck you. You hear me, you dirty shit? Fuck. You.”

She was crying now. “I still think about him. I still smell him. I still see him in people who have any characteristics that resemble anything about him. I still love him.”

I took her to bed, and in bed we laughed about things, and when she was asleep I did sit ups, push ups, checked Facebook. When she woke up, we spoke a little bit more and I drove her to a café where she was supposed to meet him for “closure”, and, before exiting my car, she turned to me and smiled and said, “he loved her,” and she said thanks to me, and I said thanks to her, and she tapped her finger on my hand before shutting the door and heading to the café.

YOUNG AND OLD LOVE

young and old love

Romance always changes. It’s different when you want the girl, and when you have the girl, and when you’ve had the girl. It’s different when you’re three months in, and when you’re a year in. It’s different when you’re twelve and when you’re eighteen and when you’re thirty. I wonder what love will be like when I’m forty. Will I have a wife, will I love her, will she love me?

It was about three in the afternoon and the sun was out and it was hot and I put on this mix CD Eva once gave me. She had The Beatles in there and Frou Frou in there and other tracks, some RnB ones, some romantic ones. But I didn’t tell you this. You were just there, in my car, and I had no idea what the hell you were thinking but you were smiling slightly. Are you happy? Sad? Horny? Who are you? We parked at my place in silence. Holding hands, we went up the elevator in silence, and we walked to my apartment door in silence and I opened it and I walked in and you went to the toilet and I headed for the balcony. Although I was looking outside at all of the beautiful trees and all of the interesting people walking by the street, I wasn’t really there; I was in bullshit land, and bullshit land was populated by a bullshit number of people who believed in a bullshit list of ideals.

You yelled something out from the toilet and I said, “What?” and you sighed and said, “Never mind,” and you hummed something, and I checked my phone for messages. You emerged from the toilet a new person, and we sat on my couch and we talked about things until you fell asleep on my lap.

 

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Book I’m currently reading: The People Look Like Flowers At Last

LAST DINNER WITH CAROL

last dinner with carol - trees in distance

I’ve been writing about Carol for thousands of years now, and tonight will be the last time you hear about her. I’d only promised to write about eight dinners, you see, and you’re probably sick of her by now, and you’re probably wondering what the hell I’ve been up to. What the hell have I been up to?

The last dinner I had with Carol was at her place. She was in a soft blue robe and her hair was tied in a ponytail and I didn’t realise how big her ears were. They weren’t abnormally big, but they were large enough to notice.

“I didn’t realise how big your ears were,” I told her.

“I didn’t realise how small your hands were,” she said back.

The dinner wasn’t really a dinner: it was a few pieces of sweet bread she bought from Sunnybank and some tea. She leant on her elbows, looking at me and smiling.

“What?” I asked her.

“What?” she asked back.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Why not?”

“Why not anything?”

“Let’s go somewhere tonight,” she said.

“I’m tired. It’s eleven.”

“You told me you used to start your evenings at eleven.”

“That was back in the day, when I wasn’t running out of time yet.”

“I’m picturing us,” she said, “driving in the snow.”

“There’s no snow in Brisbane.”

“We’re driving in the snow, and we park at some shopping mall, and we walk inside and we watch a movie and afterwards, we drive back to my place, and you make me wet, and then we argue and you make me wetter.”

“That’s a horrible story,” I said.

“Why is that a horrible story?”

“What’s the point of the snow in your fantasy? All we did was go to the movies. We could’ve built snowmen.”

“The snow just makes the background better.”

“Have you even seen snow?” I asked her.

“No. But I know you have.”

“How do you know? You don’t know.”

“You’ve seen snow once, in Japan.” She sighed impatiently. “We’ve had a conversation like this before. I always remember what we talk about but you always forget. You’re always in your own head.”

“Give me some of that bread.” I took some of the bread and ate it nervously.

We argued about going somewhere for a while until I gave in and we went for a drive. I don’t remember where we went, but I remember a lot of red lights and pancakes and a parking lot and a highway that stretched on, and on, and on, and every so often one of our mobile phones would vibrate, and every so often we’d share stories, or laugh, or argue, or simply let our thoughts drip feed themselves into our minds only to be forgotten forever. In my CD player we played a few things: The Cranberries, Drake, James Blake, Beethoven; we then let the radio take over.

We return to her room. We watch her favourite movie: this horror movie about a ventriloquist’s doll that gets possessed by an evil spirit. I fall asleep halfway through and wake up around the end. I kiss her, and she holds my hands and she asks me why I don’t love her, and I tell her, “We’ve only had eight dinners,” and in a melodic tone she says that no matter how many dinners we have, she can tell I won’t love her and I ask her why she thinks this and she says she just knows; she says she can read under the skin and she knows I’ll never love her and she cries but she tells me that she can be fine with that, as long as I stay, as long as I always come home to her at the end of the day, as long as I embrace her in the cold, in the heat, when it snows, when it doesn’t, and in return she’ll buy me things to help me: a glass lunch box, a pair of glasses when I’m old, a typewriter, a wallet whenever my old ones need replacing; she’ll tell the world about my books, she’ll swallow even when she’s not in the mood, she’ll be more consistent with her leg shaving, she’ll bleach her arsehole, she’ll learn the piano just to write me a song and she’ll find the tears in my heart and wipe them away like she’ll wipe any dirty table. I drift in and out of dreams as she says this, and I say things I’ll never remember to her while wiping her hair behind her ears. I take off her clothes and this time there’s no violence – we’re completely boring and sentimental about it, but then lately I’ve been feeling lately that sex and fucking and making love and everything in between has been mistakenly placed on a pedestal by people like me, and is it something that beautiful, is it something to go to lengths for, is it something that great compared to the great things great people have accomplished in life? Why can’t artists romanticise celibacy? Why couldn’t I stick with Carol? Had I let myself become too damaged, was I just deliberately finding fault? This will continue if I don’t stop talking to her.

In the morning I wake up Carol and tell her I have to go. She smiles and says, “Okay,” and she walks me out, and I drive home.

_

Book I’m reading: Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

WATCHING CAROL SPIN

watching-carol-spin

This is my second last story about Carol. It starts off quite simply, and it ends quite simply. It starts at South Bank, during an evening, a Wednesday, with the both of us in a large Ferris wheel. I’d been with Carol since the night before, and during that time I’d made her breakfast and she’d helped me buy some shoes and we’d explored the art gallery and taken photos around the place and all that other bullshit.

“You know there’s a story in my book about this Ferris wheel.” We were right at the top when I told her this. “It was about me and an ex girlfriend, who’s kind of now a friend.”

“I don’t care about your ex girlfriends who are kind of now your friends.”

“Look out at the city,” I quickly changed the subject, peering out the window. “A hundred years from now it’ll be a completely different scene.”

“Every second is a completely different scene.”

“Have you ever considered the importance of it all? I mean, how significant are we really in this universe? We put ourselves on these pedestals, but who gave us the right to do so?”

“I think it’s all so magnificent,” Carol said, leaning against my shoulder. “I have a body and a mind that lets me be completely detached to the complexities of this universe and dedicate an entire second, an entire hour and even an entire day to simply being with you – even if I know I’ll never get this time back again. Isn’t it all so magnificent, Dean?”

The both of us were drunk on each other.

We left the Ferris wheel and entered a restaurant. For a while, she bothered me because she’d be tapping away at her phone without telling me what she was doing. In the end, I found out she was making sure there was enough money in her bank account so she could secretly pay for both of our meals.

We returned to my place and drank, and drank, and drank. She picked up my phone, deleted some photos and put on Spotify. She put on Regina Spektor, Samson, and she spun around before tripping over. I watched her, laughing, drinking, and she stood up and slurred something I’ll never, ever remember, and if I could transport myself back to that moment just to watch her again, I’d probably do it, but then I guess there’s something awfully taboo about longing for something clearly owned by the past. Carol brushed her teeth, and so did I, and she showered, and so did I, and she smiled, and so did I.

 

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Book I’m thinking of reading: Infinite Jest

 

FIRST DINNER WITH CAROL

1-i-dont-know-how-i-talked-you-into-having-dinner-with-me 2-your-hair-was-still-brown 3-what-do-you-think-of-me 4-what-do-you-think-of-anything 5-we-walked-into-a-bar 6-afterwards-in-my-car 7-wheres-your-mobile-phone 8-and-when-you-sat-up

And then I ruined it all by saying, “I don’t want a relationship”. You shrugged and said, “That’s exactly what the previous guy said,” and you told me about this guy you met on Tinder who was in a long distance relationship. You told me that he was a decent guy with a pretty good body and pretty big dick, but he always kept insisting that he didn’t want anything serious because he was moving on from his girlfriend and that he was confused and bla bla bla, and then I thought, What do I say to get out of this? How do I emerge from this to make sure neither of us are undamaged? and then I blamed you and said, “Well when we first fuckin’ spoke you said you didn’t want to get married,” and you said, “I said married, but I still want to be in a relationship,” and, tapping on the glove compartment, you said, “I shouldn’t have given so much of myself away right away. It’s what I always do wrong,” and I comforted you by saying, “Nah,” and this little debate of ours would continue for the entirety of what we had.

DINNER AT CAROL’S PLACE

dinner at carols - lights

Carol lived with a few people, so I would always enter her place through a back door. She had one of the biggest rooms in the house, and I liked it because unlike my cramped room, she had a large bed with plenty of floor space. In the dark, from her bed, a few things would lay huddled in the corner next to her desk: a large hat, some shiny shoes, empty shopping bags. In a large plastic container to her right would be some old documents, as well as a strip of Ansell condoms she kept as backup. Underneath her bed was dust, and a toilet paper roll, and a packet of pads, and a bra, and abandoned lipstick, and a box of letters and movie tickets from old boyfriends.

I arrived at Carol’s place around midnight. I’d just come from another book reading and I was hungry. Grinning, she served me a bowl of soup.

“Is the soup shit? It’s shit, isn’t it?”

I put my spoon down. “It’s good.”

“No, it’s shit.”

“It’s good.”

She watched me as I had some more.

“You’re making this whole thing awkward,” I told her. “Stop watching me.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Yes you can.”

“No I can’t.”

“How long have we known each other?” I asked her.

“Too long.”

I looked at her. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“I believe in everything.”

“You didn’t say that yesterday.”

“I was a different person yesterday.”

“Who were you yesterday?”

“Yesterday I was the sun.”

“And today you’re the moon?”

“No.”

“Then who are you?”

“I’m Carol.”

“That’s just fucked up.”

She laughed. Her eyes creased deeply when she laughed and she looked about three years older than she was supposed to. I remember visiting her one morning and seeing her without makeup. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked me, and two days later, when I hadn’t contacted her, she asked, “Did something happen when you came over? What did I do wrong? Were you disgusted by how I looked like?”

I finished eating and we walked inside Carol’s room and I closed the door and turned off the light and took off her clothes. I ran my finger along one of her tattoos.

“Can I take a video of this?” I asked her. “Of when I choke you?”

“No.”

Afterwards, she turned on her laptop and we watched the Korean version of The Lake House. She fell asleep and began snoring, so I covered her mouth until she woke up. She looked irritated, but then smiled and fell asleep again. I soon followed her, and when I woke up it was six in the morning on a Sunday. She walked me out, and as we approached her gate I looked at her, and she asked me, “What?” and I said, “Nothing,” and we said bye and I stepped inside my car and drove off.

At some point while I slept Carol had gotten into my car and placed a CD in my stereo. There was only one song in the CD, and it was A Case of You, by James Blake.

This was the fifth time I had dinner with Carol. In some ways I had fallen in love with Carol, and in other ways I hadn’t. There was no doubt that she loved me, or at least wanted to pursue something beyond what we were doing. Who the hell was I not to accept someone’s love? She cooked for me and asked me how my day was. Some people seek the fiction in my writing, but Carol was a real person. I write about these people to either forget them or to hold onto them for one last time. At some point Carol was once in my hands and at some point Carol did press against my lips, and there are noons and evenings and midnights where I have thought about her and her room and the dust on her floor.

_

Book I’m reading: Tender Is the Night

THE TRUTH

the truth

There’s a particular spot I like to drive to near the Valley. I won’t tell you exactly where it is, but if you turn right at a certain traffic light and keep driving straight you’ll end up in a private area full of expensive apartments overlooking the river. I like it because of the view, and I like it because of the silence, and I like it because the magnificently designed apartments remind me that one day I will have the ability to buy my way into a better life.

After dinner I took Carol to this spot of mine, and as we walked by the apartments and the view she took my hand and asked me, “What do you want to do this weekend?”

I shrugged.

“I was thinking about something,” she said.

“About what?”

“About honesty.”

“I hate honesty.”

Carol tucked some hair behind her ear. “I’ve been thinking like, you know what? I think we already know everything.”

“What the hell are you on about?”

“We know everything. We know how to live. But everyone else’s thoughts, the books we read, our own laziness – it buries what we know and how we truly feel deep inside. When can you honestly say you’ve spent time just trying to find the truth not from the outside world, but from inside yourself? It’s all there. We go and spend all this time and money on finding out the truth but really,” she touched her chest, “it’s all in here, I think.”

“And what truth have you found in yourself?”

She kept quiet for a while, tapping her lip with her index finger. “I don’t know what to ask myself yet.”

We reached a railing. She smiled at me and I smiled back and she put her arms around my waist. She leant her head into my shoulder and whispered, “Everything is perfect. Why don’t you want to be with me?”

“I do…”

“You don’t.”

And I thought about her vagina, and I thought about the way she kissed me, and I thought about our arguments, and I thought about her face without makeup, and I thought about the things she’d say. I stared at an apartment in the distance.

 

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Graphic novel I’m reading: The Descender

A LOVE STORY: DONALD TRUMP AND ALEJANDRO ALEJANDRO

Donald Trump love story - painting by Illma Gore

Painting by Illma Gore

A FANFICTION LOVE STORY ABOUT DONALD TRUMP AND ALEJANDRO ALEJANDRO

I’d like to quickly interrupt my own love story with a much more important one. It’s a love story that isn’t often told, and when it is told, it’s never told properly.

They met a few years ago, when Alejandro ran a taco restaurant chain and Donald was busy with The Apprentice. It was raining that day, and left with no other options, Donald, covering his hair with a newspaper, rushed inside one of Alejandro’s restaurants.

“Someone get me a fuckin’ towel!” he demanded of the restaurant. “… And a taco too, please.”

Luckily for Donald, Alejandro was in store that day. Alejandro remembered Donald clearly and often teased him about it during the many afternoons they spent in bed: “your wet grumpy face was red like a tomato,” Alejandro would giggle as he playfully ran his fingers over the billionaire’s face. “And your worried little wrinkles? They were deeper than the depth of your eyes.”

What drew Donald to Alejandro was his obvious obliviousness to his own perfection. Tall, tanned and talented, Donald believed that Alejandro could’ve had anyone in the world, but he chose someone as flawed as Donald was. Donald spent countless evenings awake in bed, just looking at the sleeping man next to him and thinking, “Is this the tragedy of love? This hurt and joy I’m feeling right now? How can he sleep so peacefully, knowing that I’m not good enough for someone as perfect as he is?”

It took a lot of work for Alejandro to break down Donald’s insecurities, but when he did, it was as if he’d found a nation full of rich, unguarded oil. Donald told him everything: his dreams of being a singer slash dancer, his love for When Harry Met Sally, his cherished dinners with his daughter, his fascination with the Quran, his fear of cockroaches. “Sometimes I just want to get away from it all,” Donald once confided to Alejandro over the phone after a long day at work. He took a deep breath, letting a temporary, mutual silence envelope them both. “Sometimes I just want to like, run away and not look back.”

“How about this?” Alejandro said in his usual calm voice. “You close your eyes, and you take a deep breath, and you imagine me holding your hand. Are you closing your eyes?”

“Yes…” Donald grumbled.

“Now relax. Just clear your head. Soon, I’m going to hang up the phone, but you’re going to keep your eyes closed a while longer. You’re just going to imagine us holding hands, staring at the quiet, beautiful blue sea. When you open them again, you’re going to call Susan right away and book a massage. Not just a shoulder massage, but a full body massage. You deserve it.”

“Alejandro?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

Alejandro clearly remembers the first time they made love. “What are we doing?” he asked Donald. “We’re doing what’s right,” Donald grunted into his ear. Even though it was a little unorthodox, Donald wanted to do it missionary so he could stare straight into Alejandro’s eyes as he penetrated his anus like he’d never penetrated an anus before. As he came, Donald quickly realised that people like Alejandro were the reason love songs existed.

“You know what?” Donald told Alejandro one day. They were in bed, holding hands, staring at the ceiling. “Let’s do it. Let’s run away.”

“What?” Alejandro checked his watch. “Now?”

“Why not?”

“But you have work.”

“Work will mean nothing when I’m at my death bed.”

“I know,” Alejandro said, stroking Donald’s thick, rich hair. “I agree. But you need to be our president. What a president does will mean many things to many people.”

For a while, Donald remained silent. He looked up at the ceiling. His forehead creased, forming a rare expression on his face that only usually appeared when he would deliberate over items in a lackluster restaurant menu, only to give up and tell Alejandro to decide on what to order. He sighed, squinted, rubbed his eye and turned his back towards his lover.

Is this man crying? Alejandro thought. “Are you crying?” He asked Donald. But he might as well have been speaking to a wall. “Donnie?”

“Once I run for president, you… we’ll…” Donald didn’t continue, but he didn’t need to. The two lovers knew the inevitable, but neither wanted the truth to be a character in their fairytale.

That night, Donald dreamt of the sun. It was large and its light painted the sky with pure, crystal white. He dreamt of a magnificent old Mexican town under that sun, and of a man who lived in that Mexican town. This man was a handsome, energetic man, and ever since birth his mother would tell him, “Create the world with your own hands.” This man’s fondest memories would be with his mother, sister and younger brother: the midnight dances, the Drama Club, the running in the rain, the endless laughter. It was a beautiful life, and it was a beautiful dream – so beautiful, in fact, that Donald woke up with a smile on his face. Donald turned to tell Alejandro all about it but quickly realised that he was all alone in his bed.

“Alejandro?” he whispered into the world.

Nobody really knows this story, and nobody really knows why, on certain campaign evenings, Donald would suddenly become quiet. Silence was an unusual trait for the great leader, and its impact would be so jolting that it could confuse an entire town. Eyes fireless, Donald would gaze outside the window, remembering something that never was.

 

Book I’m reading: What I Know For Sure.