Free short stories about Generation End

Archive for the ‘Love’ Category

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.

 

_

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.

LOVE

what is love

“I don’t believe in love,” was what Carol told me when we were at Carol’s home, having late dinner that she cooked, listening or not listening to music that may or may not have been playing from a small speaker in another room.

“You believe in love,” I told her.

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

She sighed. “You can’t just dictate what I do and don’t believe in.”

“Yes I can.”

“How long have I known you for?”

“A few days.”

“You can’t dictate then. You don’t have permission.”

“Why not?” I teased.

“What is love anyway? It’s a word. It’s nothing. Actions are more important than words.”

“Such as saying ‘I love you’.”

“If love were real, you only need to say ‘I love you’ once, but we can’t live with just hearing ‘I love you’ once. It’s conditional. Love has always been conditional, which in turn defies the definition of what love is.”

“But then can’t you say the same about friendship? Why do we need to see friends more than once in order for them to remain our friends?”

“Who says we need to?”

I took a sip of water, thought about her nonsense for a second, then put my glass back down. “Have you ever been in love? Have you ever told a guy, ‘I love you’?”

“Of course I have. But I was stupid. I don’t love them now. I don’t speak to them, and if I see them, I will not have any feelings for them. Even if they begged me, I will never take them back because there’s nothing there. I’ve changed. My body, my perceptions, it’s all changed. Love is meant to be eternal and constant, but us people, we’re always changing. Something that’s constant cannot get along well with something that’s changing. Just like success. I don’t think you should call someone successful until you’re able to see their entire life. For you to see love in its entirety, you need to watch this person’s love in its entirety. Which is impossible.”

“You’ve just been hurt,” I said.

“Who hasn’t?”

“There’s no one definition of love. Who says it has to be eternal?”

“Who says it doesn’t have to?”

And then we debated Eva Cassidy songs, and then we debated John Lennon and Yoko Ono, and then we debated Love Actually, and then we debated Romeo and Juliet, and then we debated Obama and Michelle, and then we debated Kim and Kanye. By this time I’d already told Carol that I wasn’t looking for a relationship, and I knew this hurt her. We went to bed, and I told her how perfect her body was, which was true. She had an amazing vagina. I’d never experienced a vagina quite like it, and because of that I used it to my heart’s content. I left at about three in the morning, and she told me to text her when I’d gotten home.

 

Book I’m re-reading: Strange Animals.

Book Recommendations / Book Suggestions

These books have shaped me in one way or another. In a way, these books may shape you, too. So read them at your own risk.

Norwegian Wood

book recommendation - Norwegian Wood Haruki Murakami

By Haruki Murakami. I read this when I was freshly dumped and overseas, on my own. Murakami writes a lot of weird shit, but Norwegian Wood seems to be one of his most grounded books. My favourite part of the book is near the end, with the woman and the guitar.

Read Norwegian Wood.

Ham on Rye

book recommendation - Ham on Rye Charles Bukowski

By Charles Bukowski. I was a bit of a stranger to Bukowski until I stumbled into another book of his, Women. The first chapter of this book was what seduced me, and the hilarious chapter about the woman in the swimming pool kept me going.

Read Ham on Rye.

1984

book recommendation -1985 by george orwell

Soviet Russia for Dummies.

Read 1984.

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close (not the movie)

book recommendation - Extremely Loud and Incredibly CloseJonathan Safran Foer

By Jonathan Safran Foer. I read this book when I was a little younger and couldn’t let go of it. The story of the grandparents and the way the words spill to form something else completely made me fall in love with the art of love itself. I wonder if he’ll ever write another book.

Glamorama

book recommendation - Glamorama Bret Easton Ellis

The first book I’ve read by Bret Easton Ellis. What an age to read it, too – I read it when I was twelve.

Read Glamorama.

Watchmen

book recommendation - The Watchmen Alan Moore Dave Gibbons

By Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons. I’ve read plenty of graphic novels, but this is the only one I can clearly remember. My favourite part? Dr. Manhattan’s part.

Read Watchmen.

The Little Prince

book recommendation - The Little Prince

I know, it’s such a typical book to like. The rose, as irritating as she was, is my favourite character. An ex-girlfriend of mine wrote her own version of the Little Prince once and gave it to me as a present. I still have it, but don’t tell her that.

Read The Little Prince, and then watch the book get butchered into a cartoon.

The Rules of Attraction

book recommendation - Rules of Attraction Bret Easton Ellis

Also by Bret Easton Ellis. I watched the movie first (and, after reading it, prefer it slightly over the book). I was eighteen or something, and I was drunk, and some friends invited me to the movies to watch it. The first scene with the vomiting sobered me up, and the snow teardrop near the end got me drunk all over again. After the movie we drove to along the highway and the car broke down so we sat in the darkness of the car, talking about things I’ll no longer remember. We probably spoke about books. I really don’t know. The memory might not even be real.

Have a read of The Rules of Attraction, or watch the movie.

If you want to talk more about books or recommend any of your own, you can also add me on Goodreads.

ABEL’S HAIR

abel-xo-the-weeknd-red

“I just spent fourteen hours looking for the right shoes to go with my new chinos,” Jude said.

“No you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Fourteen hours,” I said.

“Fourteen hours,” he repeated.

“Fourteen hours straight.”

“Yes, fourteen hours straight.”

I faced him, thinking about how stupid he sounded. “It’s impossible to spend fourteen hours straight looking for shoes in the shops.”

Jude impatiently tapped his fingers on his steering wheel. “I went to Myer. Then I went to David Jones. Then I went to fuckin’, like, Hype and all those other random fuckin’ shops. Then I had coffee with Tess, and all we did was talk about which shoes to get, then we had a fight, then we made up and we looked at more shoes together until the shops closed.”

“How long was that?”

Jude thought about it. “About six, eight hours.”

“That’s not fourteen hours.”

“Then I dropped her home.”

“How long did that take?”

“About an hour.”

“Are you including that in the fourteen-hour count?”

“Yeah I am.”

“Why?”

“All we did was talk about the shoes while I drove her home, and while we talked about them I got her to look at shoe samples online. Then when I headed home I kept fuckin’ thinking, ‘Was she right? Should I get black shoes instead of brown? Should they really be the leather pointed ones?’ Then I got home, went online and did research, for,” Jude thought about it, “five hours straight. So how many hours is that? Eight hours at the shops, about an hour driving her home, and another five hours doing research online. That’s fourteen hours straight.”

I was sure Jude was lying about everything. “What shoes did you end up buying?”

“Nothing.”

Jude dropped me home. I’d been staying at his place for the past few weeks and it was time for me to settle back to reality again. As soon as he left I hopped into my damaged car and drove to see Anna. I’d been secretly texting her for the past few weeks. It was different this time, though.

I entered her work, at the end of her shift, and she smiled. We walked towards the car park and she winced when she saw my car. We drove, and I deliberately kept going the wrong way. She giggled and I wanted to kiss her. I parked in front of her place.

“Did you hear about the new Weeknd album coming out?” she asked me.

“I have.”

“Come inside,” she said.

We walked inside her place, and she showed me this painting she did of Abel. He was facing the sky, his afro or whatever it’s called glimmering beyond his eyes.

I held her hand, but only for a second. “I can’t feel my face when I’m with you.”

“You said keep our business on the low.”

“I’m just trying to get you out the friend zone.”

“Bring your love baby. I could bring my shame.”

“I got my heart right here.”

I glanced at a photograph of her and her fiancé on her wall.

We spoke for a bit more. We leant towards each other, but stopped. I walked outside, sat in my car. I looked at her front door. It was closed and the lights were off. I drove home and rubbed one out.

 

 

SILENT PERIOD

Goodbye Anna - short story

It was a few minutes past midnight, and this guy, Bill, whose boyfriend was supposedly a “scam artist slash DJ slash art dealer from like, London who had like, fifty thousand followers on Instagram,” had some kind of cover of Earned It by the Weeknd playing loudly from a gigantic iMac placed on a pile of magazines, and I was somewhere behind some curtains or some blankets, irritated, watching this silver-haired girl staring at the streams of light that would come shuddering into the room every so often for no good reason whatsoever – there was one particular moment, I think the moment was 12:42AM, when this man in a fishnet top, maybe someone’s father or uncle or friend, burst into the room and frightened us all by screaming I KNOW YOU, I KNOW YOU, before walking back out.

I’d barely spoken to Anna and for a while it ruined me. Reality can be a piece of shit sometimes, and I found myself plagued by immature thoughts. There had been moments where I wished I could’ve let go of all dignity and independence and driven to her work with the sole purpose of merely melting around her; I imagined telling her all the corny things I’d always secretly longed to tell someone: that I loved her and always will, that I’d give up everything simply to feel her hand in mine again. But the truth was it was never meant to be. As time went by and as I heard from her less and less my vivid memories of her turned into more of an idea of her, and eventually these posts about her: I’d think of her standing on a pedestal of poisoned crystal, or I’d think of the times we’d both fall asleep during video calls, or I’d think of the time she was with me in that tiny tea store and she smiled at me like I was the rarest person in the universe.

 

ANNA AND THE DEFINITION OF LOVE

anna and the definition of love - short story

I remember once knowing exactly what love meant. I was about nine years old, I think, and to me, love was what my parents had: it was being happy with each other once in a while, it was being upset at each other once in a while, it was posing happily in photographs, it was a guarantee that they’d be with each other until the end of time.

Things kind of changed when I was about sixteen, and I told this girl named Madison that I loved her and that I will love her until the end of time. She also told me that she loved me and that she wanted to marry me. I frequently wrote stories about her and made her things, which always seemed to make her cry and hug me and tell me that she couldn’t wait to grow old with me. One day, she told me that she cheated on me with a twenty-eight-year-old, and after a bout of anger I told her that I was willing to forgive her, but she said that was pathetic and we ended it. A couple of months later, I had her in her little walk-in-robe, and I had sunglasses and a beanie on and we both had our bottoms off and I made fun of her big thighs, and she giggled and told me to shut the hell up. We’d been broken up for some time, but she wanted to ‘finalise’ things before she fully committed to her new boyfriend. At the end of it, as I tried to cover her eyes and her nostrils as much as I could, she kept asking me, “You love me, right? You love me, right? Because I love you, right? I love you, right?” and I said, “I love you, open your mouth, I love you, open your mouth, I love you,” and I was pretty sure we were both lying to each other. About the love. I think.

My texts with Anna didn’t end. In fact, they became more and more frequent. Besides sending each other dirty messages and photos, we also talked in depth about each other’s lives and even began telling each other that we missed each other – gigantic red flags that anyone less lonely or desperate or lacking in moral integrity would’ve taken more seriously. I was a fool.

“What does love mean to you?” She asked me once.

I shrugged, even though I was on the phone with her and she couldn’t see me shrug. “It changes all the time. One day it means one thing to me, the next it means something else.”

“Well to me,” she said, “I don’t know. I know love comes in many forms, or whatever, but the relationship kind of love, like, to me, it’s…”

“It’s what? Stop stalling.”

She giggled. “It’s hard to explain. It’s something completely unjustified and doesn’t make any sense, but we long for it, you know?”

I found out that her favourite colour was ‘shades’, that she secretly liked the Twilight soundtrack, that she missed her moments with her father before he remarried. Because her fiancé was back in town, we didn’t have any opportunities to meet. I did, however, find one moment to see her: ten minutes before her shift began.

She spotted me sitting in front of her work, smiled, and sat down next to me. “Have you been stalking me?”

“I sort of made you a salad.” I gave her my salad.

She grinned and took it from me, looking it over. “You sort of made me a salad?”

“I tried to make one at first. I fucked up, so I bought you one.”

“You’re easily the sweetest guy I’ve met.”

“There’s plenty more where that came from.”

“So are you going to take me out tonight? Wine and dine me? Seduce me into stripping?”

“Only ask questions you mean,” I said.

She smiled, checked the time. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

“Same.”

“It must’ve been a long drive to get here.”

“Wasn’t too long.” It was forty minutes.

We talked a little more until she had to go. I watched her walk into her work, and I watched her look back at me and smile. I drove to a friend’s place, and as we spoke about life and everything else I repeatedly checked my phone until I finally received a message from her. She was having her break. I smiled, replied, and she immediately replied back.

Sometimes I still think about that girl, Madison. With her straightened hair and her ridiculous laugh and her ugly braces. I told her that I hated her once, and when she ended things I couldn’t sleep for weeks. Once in a while I’ll remember a song we shared, and once in a while I’ll remember the way she’d speak, or laugh, or sneer, and how, simply by existing in my life, she could either make me feel like the most important man in the universe or mercilessly turn my entire life inside out. I hope she turned out fat.