Free short stories about Generation End

Archive for the ‘Nights Out’ Category

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.

 

_

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.

 

_

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.”

 

_

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.

_

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.

 

_

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.

 

_

Read my book

MIRACLES IN WEST END

miracles in west end

I had become a mess so Christie told me to visit a lady in West End who performs miracles. Apparently, she helped cure a lady of her cancer, she helped cure a friend of his chronic back pains, she returned joy to a broken person’s life.

I went to the hall and sat down among a small group of others. The lights were dim and music was playing, and although I was thinking of nothing I wept. It was a ridiculous catastrophe: tears keep stumbling away from me and I had no idea why.

“I don’t have powers,” she said to the small crowd, “I am merely an instrument of God.”

After a while a queue had formed for people to come up to her to be healed. As each person would approach her, she’d say something to them, and no matter their size, they would fall to the ground.

I was invited to come up to her. She closed her eyes and clasped her hands and smiled, and she placed her hands in mine and she whispered in my ear: “You never have to feel lonely again. God is with you.” She blew onto my chest and I fell to the ground, and I lay there, thinking that nothing inside me had changed.

I stood up and returned to my seat, wondering what the hell just happened.

This guy who was around my age came from nowhere and sat next to me. “You don’t have to feel alone anymore,” he said without invitation, “I’m certainly not.” He spoke of other things – his addictions, his ego, the homes he’d lived in, and how his coming closer to God had cleaned his soul. He told me that everyone will go to heaven. “I think I’m supposed to talk to you and I don’t know why.” He hugged me, stood up and walked out of the hall.

I sat there on my own until ten in the evening. I was exhausted. When it was over I drove home and fell into a deep sleep.

 

__

Book I’m reading: Walt Disney: The Triumph of the American Imagination 

Show I’m watching: Billions

Buy my book

SELMA HAD LONG LEGS

selma had long legs

Selma had legs that could kill a football team and all the guys loved her, and they all flirted with her, and one day, when we were all walking towards the Pancake Manor I lifted up her skirt, and she had this lacy thong on, and poking out of the thong were both sides of her pad, and everyone roared with laughter but she didn’t – she ran, she ran fast, and it was then that I realised that 1) I’m not a good person 2) there was purity in her heart.

I found her later, sulking in the shadows somewhere. She was crying to someone on the phone, and I didn’t know what to say, so I just stood there, watching her cry to that person on the phone. I finally said: “I didn’t realise you had your period.” This made her cry even more, so I said, “Look I’m sorry,” and then, “it’s cold aren’t you cold?” and I put my jacket on her lap, and she continued to sob.

One year later, we were drinking and laughing again.

 

__

Buy my book

 

SOMETHING IN YOUR STOMACH

Someone from work once gave me a moleskin, and for some time I just let it sit at the back of my car.

“If you don’t want to write in it, why don’t you draw something in it?” Christie asked me from her hospital bed.

“Yeah okay,” I complained. “Like drawing is so fucking easy.”

She got mad, so I drew something:

kanye west standing on 3 heads“How much drugs are you on?” she asked me.

“Nothing!” I lied, so I drew something else:
an evil spirit about to give you a handjob

She laughed at this one. Well it was a tiny laugh, but I still considered it a laugh.

Christie was in hospital for something they’d found in her uterus that was causing her to bleed.

“Apparently, there’s a chance I can’t have kids,” she said, her eyes turning a little red. There was a tube in her arm and she looked small in her hospital bed – she hadn’t been properly eating in days. “Will you still be with me if I can’t have kids?”

I looked at her and her family members standing behind her. They were pretending not to be listening to our conversation. “Of course.”

I remember once thinking that if I were to ever be a dad, I had to be a young dad, like a nineteen-year-old dad, or a twenty-one-year-old dad. I didn’t want to be some old dad who couldn’t relate to my kid. But then I grew older and older and I became almost thirty, and then I thought that if I were to have a kid, maybe I should adopt a twenty-one-year-old or something, someone who’s already grown past that shitty rebellious adolescent stage of life and is graduating and has an entry level job at some large and stable company, and is in a stable relationship, and any disturbing vices they may secretly carry would have nothing to do how I treated them when they were five years old, because I wasn’t there when they were five years old. Can I handle a child? Can I hold one, and feed one, and understand one, and love one no matter what? No matter what? I mean, why make one when you can adopt one, right? Can you even adopt a twenty-one year old?

And then I realised that I was actually rambling the above monologue out loud to Christie, and her whole family was watching.

“The hell are you on about, Dean?” her brother asked me.

I continued holding Christie’s hand, and we continued talking about other things, and her family left, and I stayed until the nurse said I had to go. I leant my head against Christie’s chest, and I told her that I wanted to listen to her heart, and I listened to her heart, and then I stood up and said goodnight and I walked all the way home.

 

__

Buy my book

GUYS IN AN ALLEYWAY

guys in an alleyway

Christie and I were walking along the city and this guy snatched her purse.

“Let’s chase him!” she said and we ran and found him in an alleyway, where about five or six of his friends were waiting.

“Let’s get out of here,” Christie said and we ran off.

It was a quiet drive home.

 

_

Book I’m reading: Infinite Jest