Free short stories about Generation End

Archive for the ‘Relationships’ 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

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.

I DON’T BELIEVE IN MAGIC

I don't believe in magic

“I don’t believe in magic,” Carol said. “I just don’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

Carol looked at me like it was something that didn’t need explaining. When I didn’t say anything: “Where have you seen magic? Tell me, where have you seen magic, Dean?”

“I saw it the other day.”

“Really? What happened?”

“This guy.”

She scratched her arm irritably and let out a long, angry sigh. “What guy?”

“On YouTube.”

“Well then it must be real magic if it’s on YouTube.”

“He swallowed a sword.”

“That’s not magic.”

“It was magic.”

“It wasn’t magic.”

I knew it wasn’t magic, but I wanted to see her angry. “It was magic. It was pure magic. Can you swallow a sword?”

“It wasn’t magic.”

“Then how about love?” I shrugged. “That’s magic.”

“Don’t be so corny.”

“Women may not swallow swords, but they swallow cocks out of love. It’s a miracle that they want to do it, if you think about it.”

“That’s got nothing to do with magic.”

“That’s got everything to do with magic.”

We were in a Korean restaurant in the city (the sixth place we had dinner in), and she found a plug to charge her phone with. We ate and spoke and ate. She paid for dinner, and we walked towards my car.

 

Book I’m slowly reading: Wind/Pinball: Two novels

HOPES AND FEARS FOR 2016

spaceship ufo - short story

Carol took a sip of her drink. “My only wish is that I find good music this year. I mean the music in two thousand fifteen was great, and like, I really got into Spotify and Pandora and that, but like, I mean, The Weeknd’s album was pretty good, but really, I wanted more, you know? Do you ever get that? Like, you listen to a new album by like, Adele, for example, and you absolutely love it, and you tell all your friends about it, and for a straight month you can’t stop listening to it: at first, there are certain songs you can’t stop listening to, like Adele’s Hello, for example, and then after you’ve listened to it enough times you start getting hooked on other songs in the album, songs you didn’t like initially, like that one on track ten, I think it’s called Love in the Dark, and then you really love it, right? So you listen to that a hundred times in a row like you listened to Hello a hundred times in a row, but then once you’ve ploughed through all of the songs over and over again, one day, you’re listening to Love in the Dark, and all of a sudden you think, ‘Why am I listening to this bullshit?’ and you change to track eleven, then track four, then track eight or whatever and it’s all the same – you can’t stand her voice anymore, you can’t stand anything to do with her and you start to panic a little, because you loved her album and told of your friends to listen to it, right? And now you don’t anymore. So you rush on over to the shops or go online or whatever and look for other albums to satisfy your need for music and none are as good, so what do you do? Why do we even need this much music? Why can’t we just cling to one song and be done with it? And don’t even try and sell me Coldplay’s latest album.”

Carol told me this as we were having whatever at some overly priced café that no one will ever remember in the long run.

“How about you, Dean? How was your two thousand and fifteen? Was it any good?”

“I loved it.”

“I read some of your stuff, it’s really depressing. Have you tried positivity journals before? That’s something I want to do this year. I want to exercise more and be more positive, like have more smiling selfies, you know?” She giggled a little at that, but I wasn’t sure if she was joking. She’s the kind of person who’s dumb and smart at the same time. She leant forward. “Look, I know I’m talking a lot and I know you’re dying to tell me some stories, but I want to tell you a quick story, can I tell you a story?”

“No.”

“Once upon a time there was a space fighter. He had orange hair. He was seventy years old. He wasn’t the best space fighter in the world; in fact he was pretty forgettable. But he was handsome when he was young, and he did enjoy a lot of his life and spent a lot of it eating or whatever with the ones he loved. One day he woke up with a sickening feeling: he couldn’t prove it, but something in the pit of his stomach was telling him that the moon was going to explode. He had to get to the moon, like, ASAP. So he packed up his things, sat in his spaceship and turned on the engine. Just as he was about to leave, however, his best friend the Green Man stopped him for a second. ‘Where are you going?’ the Green Man asked him, and the space fighter said, ‘Ya wouldn’t believe it but, uh, I think the moon is going to explode.’

‘Is that so?’ the Green Man asked curiously. The Green Man had known the space fighter for like, decades or something, and he knew one thing for sure: the space fighter had, like, unbelievable instincts. But then the Green Man was also now incredibly senile. ‘Okay but before you go I want to tell you a story.’

‘What, like right now?’ the space fighter said irritably.

‘My daughter, you know my daughter?’

‘Yeah I know your daughter!’ the space fighter grunted.

‘Even though she’s never met an actual dinosaur, she like, loves them. She loves everything about them. Their shapes, their bones, their history. One day, when you were out on one of your space missions, I didn’t tell you this, but she and her husband conducted a dinosaur symphony, attended by thousands of their fans. The first track was called… Dinosaur One. The second track was called… Dinosaur Two. The third track was called… Dinosaur Three. The fourth track was called… Dinosaur four. As you can see, it kept going like this. One day I asked her and her husband, “Why didn’t you name your pieces? Dinosaur Four sounds like a T-Rex, why didn’t you just call Dinosaur Four T-Rex?” And you know what they did? They shrugged! That’s all they did! They just shrugged at me!’

The space fighter ignored everything about that story and waved his best friend goodbye. He flew to the moon, and he like, stopped it from exploding and stuff, and then he flew back home to hang out with his best friend again.”

Carol and I spent the next hour talking about her friend with herpes before she paid the bill and drove off to a New Year party. She texted me the next morning, HAHAHAing about how her sister lost her wallet and virginity on the same day.

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.

 

ANAL

slut neck thing - short stories

Things I liked out about Anna: she loved The Weeknd, she loved mixing music and had a following online, she brought Surface Children with her wherever she went, she regularly bought her parents dinner. Things that annoyed me: she secretly loved chaos, she loved destruction, she enjoyed the drama in walking away from the flames.

I walked out of work to find Anna’s fiancé and a friend axing my car. I had only heard stories about people axing other people’s cars before, and it’s pretty much exactly how you’d picture it to be: it involves people with axes, severely damaging your car with those axes. They spotted me and I ran for my life, and after a lot of running and hiding I managed to get into my poor car (all the windows were shattered, there were holes everywhere and there was piss on my seat) and drive off.

I parked at Jude’s place and used the spare key he gave me to walk inside. Jude was out with a girlfriend. I showered, put his clothes on, looked at the mirror. I tried calling Anna but after a few rings it would always hang up. I messaged her a few times – her phone said she read my messages but she didn’t reply. I looked at her social media accounts: her fiancés photos were back, her loving status updates about him were back. There were plenty more logical things I could have done that evening, but in the end I decided to drink Jude’s wine while messaging some girls and asking them if they wanted to visit me. After about an hour or so of drinking, Anna finally picked up her phone:

“Hey.”

“Hey,” I said.

“What’s up?”

“You back with him?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

There was silence.

“You know, you know what he did to my car?”

“I know I’m sorry, baby,” she said, “I just sent him the photos of us together to make him jealous and he took it the wrong way.”

“Why did you do that?”

She giggled a bit. “Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as the other guys he went after.”

“What other guys?”

“Are you drunk?”

“What other guys?”

“I miss you. Please don’t –”

I hung up the phone and wondered if I should catch a bus to work the next day. I hadn’t caught a bus in years. My phone vibrated: one of my friends, who was funnily enough named Annabelle, replied to my message.

Are you drunk? she texted me.

Why is everyone asking that?

Well, are you?

Of course.

I’ll be there soon.

Cool.

Okay if I don’t wear makeup?

I pictured her without makeup. Sure.

Have you eaten?

No. Have you?

Yeah.

That’s fine, I’ll eat something from the fridge.

She came over, and we sat by the balcony and she told me about everything that was happening in her life and I told her about everything that was happening in my life. I walked over to her and kissed her.

“You know I have my period, right?” she asked.

“That’s okay… Anal?”

We drank and we kissed some more and I took her to Jude’s couch. I drunkenly took her shorts off.

“I’ve never done this before,” she said.

“I have, and I don’t know how to feel about it each time.”

She laughed. Afterwards, I tried to put it in her mouth and she screamed at me.

“Fine, I’ll shower first.” I stumbled away, took a shower, and stumbled back out. I looked at her all drunk and sprawled on Jude’s couch: she was watching 12 Years a Slave on Blu-ray, and to her right, next to the remote, was a patch of blood mixed with small pebbles of shit.

 

ANNA’S PHOTO AND JUDE’S FIRST GIRL

Annas photo short story

Anna jumped in my car and we went for a drive and we parked somewhere and she went wild on me and everything seemed okay. Her mobile phone background, which used to have an image of her fiancé, had been replaced by a giant photo of a polar bear. Photos of him had vanished from her social media pages. But I was suspicious of these things, and I was sure there was a truth that neither of us had time to mention. As she sat on me in the driver’s seat she took a photo of the both of us, and as she sank lower I took her phone from her hand and recorded a video.

I drove her to work, and she kissed my cheek and said goodbye.

“Are either of us happy?” I asked her.

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

As I watched her walk off I suddenly wished for something pure.

In the meantime, I spent my other hours boxing, working, writing a novel or visiting Jude or Vail. We went to a wedding one evening, and Jude, drunk, told us both about his first girl. He was twelve years old, and the girl was a twenty-year-old “neighbour or something” of his, and she’d always come over with McDonald’s for him. They’d watch movies together, and she’d always find a way to turn their conversations into something sexual. One day, as she stroked on the straw of her cup of Coke, she asked him if she could look at him completely. Everything after that went quickly, and after a week or so of rather dark experimentation with her he told his father everything and he never saw her again. “I kept her panties, but,” he said as Vail gave me a strange look.

 

 

THAT PLACE BY THE BEACH

do-you-remember

we-sent-a-few-evenings
lets-go-skydiving
what-do-you-want

one-night-you-were-angry

 

I-mumbled-something

i-wonder-where-you-are-now

do-ghosts-dream

empty-space

has-love-ever-been-fair

remember-that-place-by-the-beach

 

ANNA: THE GIRL I WILL END UP HATING

Anna - the girl I will end up hating - short story

Anna and I continued to text each other every five minutes or so. I learnt that she was twenty years old and got engaged when she was 19. She worked at a dollar discount store and didn’t know what to do with her life and didn’t seem to have any ambition to find out any time soon. She thought that her fiancé, who got paid a lot of money but was barely home, wasn’t the right one for her and she was supposedly “like, seriously thinking of ending it with him”. This, however, didn’t stop her from posting photos of the various dates they’d have and the expensive presents he’d buy for her on Instagram: a Tiffany’s necklace, shoes that were apparently five hundred dollars, a Prada purse.

There were a lot of red flags with Anna, and reflecting back on my terrible history with women it was clear that I liked to make really shitty choices. Now that I was single again, I finally had the chance to get things right, to move on from the death of Ariel, to get over Mandy, to forget that Parade of Past Pussy and find someone who wasn’t an escort, who wasn’t addicted to money and gangbangs, who wasn’t a drug addict, who didn’t constantly talk about killing herself, who wasn’t a cheat, who wasn’t engaged to a police officer: a sensible woman who wanted a manny for the long run, who liked to wear her hair in a ponytail and hated the word ‘cunt’; or maybe I needed to embrace my loneliness and focus on making more money, on reading new age books, on taking on meditation, on masturbating on an hourly basis. But there was a void, and I was lonely and sad, and Anna, with all of her warning signs, was actually the funniest and strangest girl I’d met. Plus she regularly sent me photos of her legs and cleavage.

I met her for the second time at a house party. While everyone was busy we secretly met in the laundry room.

“This is going to be our new house,” she said. She pointed at the clothes dryer. “That’s where we’ll keep our son.”

I pointed towards the space between the laundry basket and washing machine. “That’s where we’ll hide our son when he tries to call child support.”

“How about our daughter?”

“We will never, ever, ever, have a daughter.”

She giggled, and giggled even more when I wasn’t smiling. We walked into one of the rooms. I closed the door and she smiled. “I dropped something.” She bent over and I placed my hand on her. She was wearing a light green short skirt and she was firm, like she truly worked out to her heart’s content. She stood up and faced me. We looked at each other for a while until someone called her name. I opened the door for her and she smiled at me before walking out to rejoin the party.

Her last smile signified the end of me, of every single thing that made me who I was. I had willingly fallen into her lure.