Free short stories about Generation End

Archive for the ‘Relationships’ Category

GOODBYE TIME

goodbye time

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

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

 

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FINDING THE PERFECT PEOPLE

finding the perfect people

“There aren’t many perfect people in this world.” This is what she said as she had some wine.

“What do you consider as perfect?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Tall.”

“Tall?” I inspected the bottle of wine that stood between us. I ran my finger around the label. “How tall?”

“Seven foot.”

“Seven feet tall?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” I said, putting the bottle back down. “What else makes a person perfect?”

“Wings.”

“Fluffy wings?”

She looked up for a moment and considered this question. “They can be fluffy after showering. But generally, they’re long and elegant and they droop like teardrops. They can come in different colours, too. Like green or orange. Sometimes white.”

“This is bullshit,” I said. “I’ve never seen seven foot tall people with wings.”

“They exist, and they’re perfect.”

“Where the hell have you seen these people?”

“Ipswich.”

“Ipswich? Fuck that.”

She smiled, letting the silence consume us both.

 

 

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Book I’m reading: I Can’t Make This Up

THE LONELINESS

grey square - the loneliness

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

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

“Aren’t I enough?”

“Sometimes I can’t hear your voice.”

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

 

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Book I’m still reading: Men Without Women

I MET HANNAH AT A SOCIAL GATHERING

I met Hannah at a social gathering

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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Show I’m still watching: The Young Pope

HAPPINESS, JOY, SMILES, LAUGHTER, WHATEVER

happiness and a glowing light and whatever

“What is happiness?”

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

“Happiness is being in bed.”

“Happiness is having her back.”

“Happiness is being with God.”

“Happiness is being rich.”

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

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What I’m reading: Men Without Women

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

THE PERFUMED GARDEN

the perfumed garden

“Dude, you’re wrong. You need to read The Perfumed Garden.” This is what a friend said when I ignorantly asked him if Muslims were always so conservative about sexuality.

Instead of actually reading the The Perfumed Garden and coming up with my own opinions about it, I Googled it and found this summary: “Written between 1410 and 1434 for a minister of the Sultan of Tunis, the treatise is a sex guide for married Muslim men.”

And then there’s this passage from it:

Women desire what in men cannot last,

Youth, wealth and health, and not coming too fast,

Long-lasting and slow is what women expect,

And for seconds he’s equally quick to erect.

I wonder what it is about sex that makes it the way it is. It can make us happy yet it can also crush us to pieces. Why does it have to go around so confidently ruining and creating so many lives?

On the drive home I remembered an ex girlfriend of mine: no matter what, I always had to make her come, and I always had to make her come first before she even laid a hand on me. She always had something negative to say to me after each time, such as “I wonder why you took so long this time,” or “you have a repulsive taste in music,” or “don’t I turn you on enough? Why aren’t you trying?” and one night, when I couldn’t do it, when I couldn’t make her come, I blamed it on her for being so uptight, and she cried and I went to bed. After some time, no matter what she wore or what photos she sent me, she no longer turned me on. I began to look for any way I could to cheat on her: I went online, I invited any girl I could out for drinks, I flirted mercilessly. But none of it worked – they could smell my desperation and shame. Eventually, she left me for another man.

I entered my apartment to find Christie inside with a big grin on her face. “Surprise!” she said, and on my table was a jar of chocolate Kisses.

 

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Read The Perfumed Garden

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.

 

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

Show I’m watching: Billions

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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.

 

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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.

 

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