Free short stories about Generation End

Archive for the ‘Relationships’ Category

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.

 

ANNA: THE GIRL WITH A MEATY P****

Story about Anna

Dear Carlos Fuckface,

 

This started a couple of months ago, and I haven’t really told anyone about it yet, but given what’s going on right now I think now would be the perfect time to let you be the first person to read this story.

You see I was sober, and it was a Friday evening and I was at a friend’s gathering and things weren’t going so well for me internally. This girl had some techno tracks playing on Spotify, and whenever she’d walk off I’d keep changing the playlist to repeat a remastered version of Canon in D. Eventually, she caught me and told me to fuck off. I bunch of people agreed with her. I fucked off and sat down next to a group of girls and a few guys.

Anna, the only one in the group I was attracted to, was wearing a short, cotton grey skirt. I could see her panties from where I was sitting. They were also grey, but lace. Her hair was straight, her heels were high. She looked young but it looked like she was wearing an engagement ring. She wouldn’t stop texting on her phone.

“Stop texting on your phone,” I said to her.

She smiled. “I can’t help it.” She continued texting.

She had great legs. I tried to start a few more conversations with her but they all stopped short. I eventually gave up on trying to impress her and got drunk and embarrassed myself until Vail came to pick me up. As she drove and kept telling me to stop touching her legs and changing the radio station I stared at the blurry road ahead of me. I wished things were better. Something was missing, and I hated myself and wished things were better. I went on Facebook and found Anna and immediately messaged her.

“Hi,” I said.

“It’s you,” she said. “The drunk guy who tried too hard. Are you stalking me?”

“It’s past your bedtime.”

“You must miss me already. To go out of your way to find me like this.”

“You represent everything I hate about this world.”

We didn’t stop talking and flirting until four in the morning. Apparently, she was having a text argument with her fiancé during the party and was embarrassed that she didn’t really talk to anyone, including me. I looked at her Facebook profile, and she was engaged to this guy named Billy. I looked at Billy’s profile and concluded that he was one of the ugliest guys I have ever seen in my entire life. One thing that caught my attention was that he regularly competed in wrestling competitions and had several angry looking friends who also seemed to compete in a mix of wrestling, kickboxing and judo competitions. They all also seemed to frequent the shooting range.

He seemed to love bragging about how much he supposedly loved her, though, and regularly posted about his dates with her and how he wanted to grow old and eventually die with her. He was one of those guys who posted long, ranty posts that had one or two likes. I looked at Anna’s profile: there were pics of her with friends, photos of her in her bathing suit, selfies of her in tiny shorts before supposedly going to the gym. There was one photo of her showing off her engagement ring. I went to the Tumblr account she told me she had: it hosted thousands of shared GIFs and images of people fucking, of women receiving cumshots, of women dribbling cum, of quotes such as, “I want to fuck you in every city I travel to.”

Before I could say anything to her I received a new message: she sent me a photo of herself in tiny shorts, biting her lip in front of the camera.

I sent her a message: “There is something seriously wrong with you.”

She replied: “Do you like that?”

I looked at the photo of her engagement ring once more. “I do.”

Vail sat up from my bed. She smelt like milk. “You’re still texting her?”

“Yeah.”

“Sleep,” she said. “You’re still drunk.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Whatever.”

I went to bed and dreamt of awful things.

 

HERE ARE 10 THINGS I MISS ABOUT YOU

.

.

.

1. YOUR SMALL TITS

small chest

2. YOUR FLAT ARSE

flat ass

3. YOUR BIG THIGHS

big thighs

4. YOUR PRETTY FACE

pretty face

5. YOUR INFINITE SMILE

infinite smile

6. HOW YOU SHAVE YOUR ARMS

arm shaving

7. YOUR MONEY

your money

8. HOW YOU ALWAYS GAVE WHAT YOU HAD

floating sneakers(WE THOUGHT YOU WERE A DAMN SAINT)

9. THE FOURTH TIME I MET YOU

meeting on a bridge

10. YOU MADE ME BELIEVE I COULD DO BETTER

encouraging me to do better.

.

.

HERE IS ONE THING I DON’T MISS ABOUT YOU.

 

1. YOU’RE A CUNT

you're a cunt

.

.

.

It was August twenty-something four years ago, and it was hot but it was raining a little bit, and you were upset but I didn’t care. I didn’t know where you’d been and you wouldn’t tell me, and I yelled a bunch of things but you wouldn’t listen to one word. You stood up and ran and I ran after you, and you hugged me and we were out in public and people were looking and you wouldn’t stop crying. When you calmed down we found a place to sit, and we talked about things from the past: the Swarovski thing I bought you once, the four-hour drive, the time, on my birthday, when you bought me a wallet and wrote me a card and I cried. I drove you home, and that was the last time we spoke. It’s been years, and you’ve moved on and I’ve moved on several times over, but it’s as if I’ve left a large piece of me behind with you and it’s impossible for me to get it back. I wonder if you ever notice it lingering around, waiting for you to change your mind. I’m doing everything I’m supposed to do. I’m a functioning robot. But you’re there, in the background of everything in my life, dictating what I’ll think about when I sleep and wake up.

 

ENDING IT WITH MANDY

Ending it with Mandy - short story

Mandy and I had a fight right after coming home from one of my book signings. She yelled and I yelled but to be honest, none of the things that came out of our mouths were actually new. We fought about what we always fought about: money.

We (she) decided then and there to end it, and I walked over and gave her some tissues to wipe her eyes with.

She whimpered. “Thanks.” I stared at her for a while, and she stared back, and I stood up and asked her, “Like, are you sure?” And she said, “Yes I’m sure,” and I said, “Like, seriously? There’s no turning back from this, I mean it. Once we end things, it’s over,” and she said, “Yes, Dean,” with a bit of finality.

I leant towards her. “Look, I’m sorry.”

There was a bit of silence. “It’s done, Dean. Don’t make this harder than it is.”

“You took that line from the movies.”

“So what if I did?”

I felt like telling her to go fuck herself, but I didn’t. I took my car keys and drove straight home. I walked around in circles for a while, muttering to myself. I went to the fridge and drank some milk and called Jude.

“Fuck women,” he said.

“I don’t want to anymore.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I gave her my heart but she wanted my soul,” I said.

“You took that line from a song.”

“So what if I did?”

“This is pointless. Go out. Meet people.”

I scratched my arm. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

Jude sighed. “Chicks are just so stupid. But you know what? You just have to accept that they’re stupid. Never take anything they say seriously because there will never be any consistency in what they say. You see we’re wired on logic but they’re wired on emotion.”

“Men are the stupid ones. You’re the stupid one. I’m the stupid one.”

“The world is stupid.”

“You’re bitter.”

“So are you.”

I hung up. I threw my phone against a wall and quickly ran to it to see if the screen was damaged. It wasn’t. I walked to my room and lay on my bed and did nothing until the next morning. I hoped by some miracle that someone, preferably a woman, would call or text me. No one did.

I wasn’t tired, but I wasn’t awake. If I was in a movie, I probably wouldn’t have wasted my evening. I probably would’ve gone to a bar. I would’ve had a drink, something manly, maybe a whiskey or something, and a woman – dark hair, nice smile, large breasts, natural looking fake tan, quirky but only the attractive kind of quirky – would’ve sat next to me and said something witty, and I would’ve said something witty back, and it would all be so damn easy, and the next evening, I’d be able to do the same. Actually, fuck that. If I was in a movie, I’d be Peter Pan. I’d wear green tights and I’d murder Hook and get the hell out of Never Never Land with a bag of dust and I’d fly around the city and piss on people from above.

 

WHERE DO CHEATERS GO WHEN THEY DIE?

Vicki sexy cheating

… and we somehow made it to the next morning – we were in West End, eating overpriced breakfast. It’s painfully hot in Brisbane now, and Mandy acknowledged this fact by telling me, “It’s painfully hot in Brisbane now.” I didn’t reply. She then spent about twenty minutes complaining about a colleague before trickling off into a silence that I didn’t mind at all. We said nothing, and I ate my mushrooms, and then my toast, and then whatever the hell else was left.

Jude came by. He was hungover, as usual, and he refused to take off his sunglasses. He had a story to tell, a story was about his friend Vicki. He’d been friends with Vicki for about four months now. Vicki was twenty-one or something years old and had been in a great relationship for about one-and-a-half years. One day, without any real reason, Vicki began to cheat. It started with phone calls: she’d call guy friends and ex-boyfriends and start talking dirty with them while her boyfriend would be in the next room. She’d let them remind her about how they used to come all over her face. She’d whisper to them the things she’d do for them all over again with even more intensity: the things she’d wear, the places she’d take them to, the places she’d touch, the things she’d nibble on. She then proceeded to meet men in clubs; kissing only at first, but then proceeding to do more. She had “hilarious” stories about the men she’d hook up with, about how some of them would scream like cats when they’d orgasm, how some of them had triangular balls.

The second last person Vicki hooked up with (to his knowledge, anyway) was Jude himself. It happened in Roma Street Parklands, and it was near some chairs or something, and she “seemed slutty under the sunlight” so he kissed her, and she kissed him back. After some time, she cried and leant against his shoulder, and went on a rant about how she didn’t think her boyfriend was the right one – he simply didn’t meet her needs, he was simply a ghost: he was the dust you never really see form around all of your things. After her conversation with Jude she drove straight to their flat, had an argument with him, packed her clothes, drove to his friend’s house and “fucked his friend all night”. She instantly regretted what she’d done the next morning: she called her boyfriend, crying, and drove back to their flat. She told him that he needed to change, and he told her that she needed to change, and they kissed, and he apologised for how he’d been treating her. She forgave him, and she held his hands and they just lay there in their kind-of-strange-smelling bed (Jude knew it was kind of strange smelling because he’d been there with her himself), and told each other that they loved each other, and to her, that moment, that perfect moment – it was the most honest, most romantic moment in their relationship, and probably the universe. She had an amazing man. She had an amazing life. He proposed to her the next day.

“That’s the worst story I’ve ever heard,” Mandy said.

“I don’t mind it,” I said.

We went to the markets, bought some things, complained about the heat. Jude left. Mandy and I drove to her apartment in silence: all I could think about was Vicki, and all I could think about was this thing called “cheating”. It’s a fucked up word. It’s like a ball of some sort – no, more like a chubby, slippery creature that sits in the back of your head, a creature you’ve always wanted to touch but rarely do. How far do you go before you’re considered a cheater? Where do cheaters go when they die? Is there an island for them? Mandy and I have done some things I would’ve deemed as questionable when I was younger, but now I think it’s all completely normal. The fuck is life meant to be about, anyway?

I pushed Mandy against a wall and kissed her, but before we could continue with anything else, she said, “Let me shower first.” She showered, and I waited, and I waited so damn much I fell asleep. I woke up, and then I showered and brushed my teeth. We watched a few movies from her laptop (Avatar, The Grudge 2, Fading Gigolo, Fast and Furious 6), and when it all became too tiring we lay down.

“I’m kind of tired,” she said after texting someone on her phone.

“Me too.”

“Shall we just sleep?”

“Sounds good.”

“Good evening, Sir Dean.”

I remembered something. “Mandy.”

“Yeah?”

I stood up. I checked my phone, replied to a message, smiled. I plugged my phone into a charger. I pulled something out of my jeans and gave it to Mandy: it was a letter I wrote for her. She read it, smiled. “Thanks, Dean. I love you too.” She folded the letter and put it in her dresser.

We both fell asleep, and I dreamt about death and life and death and I don’t know if I woke up in the middle of the night or not. We both woke up the next morning to get ready for work. She made vegetable juice for the both of us.

 

OUTSIDE THE BALCONY

Outside the balcony
Break up a bit after Easter. Lost for a while. Happy for a while. Nothing much for a while longer. April comes. Excel at work. Make a few thousand dollars. Make a few friends. Meet a few people. Learn a few new songs. Nearly complete a book. Look at photos. Buy food alone. Buy clothes alone. Buy alcohol alone. Watch a homeless woman cry one night. Smile. Pay rent. Slight sound of fireworks one evening. Stare outside the balcony. Projector screen and horror movies. Go out drinking with friend. Go out drinking with friends. Work on a novel. Work until midnight. Work until eight in the evening. Work until six in the evening. Skip work. Meet a girl who can’t speak English; grin and stare at her lips as she fakes it. Start drinking more. Make a few thousand dollars. Walk around store. Buy a few things. Go out drinking. Go to work. Fall in love with an engaged girl. Become happy for the first time in months. Become delirious. Warned by friends not to pursue it. Warned by family not to pursue it. Girl gets married. Never hear from her again. Stare outside the balcony. Go to work. Make a few thousand dollars. Watch a man cry during the train ride home. Buy some clothes. Work until midnight. Laugh at people’s clever jokes. Stare outside the balcony. Work on a Saturday. Drink with friend. Get high with a guy wearing a top hat in a cubicle. Take Viagra with a girl with nice legs. Get home twelve in the afternoon. Get home two in the afternoon. Get home six in the morning. Kiss two girls at the same time. Not exactly the same time – a few seconds after the other. Another girl, an uglier one, joins in. Shower for a long time. Look at photos. Listen to music. Buy clothes. Buy shoes. Buy clothes. Buy CDs. Buy food. Pay rent. Drink more. Start smoking. Go to work. Work on a Saturday. Work on a Sunday. Work on a Monday. Work until midnight. Listen to a woman cry over the phone in the toilets, cry about some guy. Go to church. Pray hard. Make a few thousand dollars. Have green tea with a girl who tells me her vagina smells “raw” when wet. Excel at work. Make new friends. Meet a few people. Learn a few new songs. Look at photos. Swear at someone. Nobody’s fault. Buy a motorbike. Crash the motorbike. Buy a car. Sell the car. Move out. Move in. Be inspired by something. Tell people about inspiration. Send message to ex-girlfriend. Send another message to another ex-girlfriend. Send another message to another ex-girlfriend. Tell depressed people about the power of positive thinking. Listen to music. Look at photos. Write a short story. Refuse to get drunk. Go to church. Refuse to fall asleep. Refuse to eat. Refuse to get drunk with friends. Refuse to watch a movie with a friend. Refuse to exercise. Refuse to write. Refuse to meet people. Stare outside the balcony. Go to work. Raise fist at someone at work but don’t get fired. Make a few thousand dollars. Meet girl in library. Meet girl in shopping centre while buying shoes. Meet girl in a party. Lots of tears and lots of yelling and nobody wins. Stare at drunk person on sidewalk cry before falling asleep in pile of vomit. Find a free magazine and read through it and tell everyone about it and cut out some pages and use them as inspiration. Continue writing. Refuse to drink. Become afraid of being murdered by someone or a group of people. Go to church. Pray. Pray at night. Pray after waking up. Pray before meals, but never after. Stare outside the balcony. It’s nobody’s fault. Ride a rollercoaster. Stare outside the balcony. Charity work. Stare at some guy cry while watching a movie, 12 Years a Slave. Look at photos. Friend has breakdown in front of everybody. Watch someone drive a BMW. Watch someone buy a BMW. Watch another someone buy another BMW. Refuse to sleep. Have drinks with friend; pretend to order something alcoholic. Go to work. Fireworks in the distance somewhere. Smile. Smile. Smile. Show everyone a smile. Buy clothes. Stare outside the balcony.