Free short stories about Generation End

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Anna short story above the earth

“That’s why I like you,” she said over the phone. “You like to dream and talk about things only kids do. My fiancé will think it too immature to talk about building a fort out of pillows, or like, starting a family in Mars.” She rested her head on my chest. “He yells at me a lot and gets jealous a lot and he always seems so… needy.” But I knew she was just complaining to justify doing what we were about to do. Her guy was out of town, and it was about noon and we were on a couch, and despite the filthy messages and photos we regularly sent each other, we kissed and left it at that, and I pulled out some ice cream from the freezer and we ate it as we spoke and laughed about a lot of things. She took a photo of me, and I took a photo of her. She looked through my room: she opened drawers, she ran her hand along photos, she sketched her face on my wall, she squirted lube on my face and said, “At least you’re not pressured to swallow it.” She told me that she liked me more than she should have, and I dropped her off to work.

On the drive home I remembered this other time when I drove home. It was ten weeks before Christmas, and I was sober during that drive but I’d had a lot of milk. I was driving Mandy’s convertible along Coronation Drive, and I looked up at the moon, and the moon, in its quiet but imposing self, looked down on me and it basically told me that I was fucked. I panicked. I did a U-turn and drove as fast as I could away from the moon – I drove so fast that her car set on fire. I jumped out of the car, and it exploded on the highway, and I ran as fast as I could, upwards, towards the sky but away from the moon, and I kept running until I stopped and looked down at the earth beneath me. It was a strange feeling, being that high above the earth, all alone. It was cold.

The thing is, this memory isn’t me trying to be poetic. It’s a memory that was real; it’s an event that happened in my life. It was this memory of floating above the earth, this feeling, that kind of set me off after dropping Anna to work, and I found myself crying in my car at a red light. I wiped my eyes, turned the music up on my stereo and drove to Jude’s apartment where we both drank and watched House of Cards in silence.



party photo - generation endI finally finished my book the other day, and to celebrate I called Ariel and told her to help me experience a really fucked up evening. She refused, so we yelled at each other for a while until I finally hung up and called this guy I met at a writer’s festival once, this guy who takes poetry way too seriously.

“Listen,” I said before realising that I didn’t know what the hell to say next. He just stood at the other end of the line, completely silent, waiting for me to speak. I ended up saying this: “Like, where are you?”

“Why, do you want to meet up?”

I pursed my lips, tapped on my phone. “I guess?”

I met him in the Valley with a bunch of his other friends. They all looked kind of odd, but then I guess I also looked kind of odd. Sooner or later we started drinking and sooner or later the guy was telling me all about his life: he worked in a telephone shop, he had no pets, he liked to listen to poetry with his eyes closed, he liked to gel his hair every five hours. But I didn’t care. All I wanted that evening was something interesting.

I told him that it’d been a long time since I’d been in contact with someone who has direct access to drugs and I told him that he looked and sounded like someone who has direct access to drugs. He laughed, told his friends about it, laughed again, took a few more sips of his drink. He pulled something out of his wallet and, smiling, placed it in my mouth. Within what felt like five minutes this happened: we danced, a girl pissed her pants, I bumped into Vail, we tried speed, I bumped into Jamie, we watched this fat old man pop ecstasy into this guy’s arse, we ate burgers at McDonald’s, I told everyone that I was happy.

I caught a cab to the bar where Ariel was and sprinted upstairs and watched her from a distance. She was with this tall guy and they were laughing; she was playing with her necklace. She spotted me – I jumped up and down and quickly ran outside.


“What?” We were outside now. I hadn’t seen her in a few weeks. She was wearing what she was wearing when I first met her.

“You can’t afford to see me but you can afford to get drunk.”

“You cost more than money,” I said.

She wiped her eye. “I’ve missed you.”

I scratched my arm. “I’ve missed you too.”

She looked me over. “You look stuffed. What’s wrong with you? Look at your hair.” She laughed. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

I shrugged. “I just finished my book.”

“Congratulations, honey.”

“Who was that guy?”

She glanced left and right before taking a few steps towards me. “I can meet you tomorrow and you don’t need to pay.”

“I don’t want to see you,” I said.

“I’m meeting you tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to see you.”

“I’m meeting you tomorrow.”

I gave her the finger and ran to a cab and headed to the Valley. The guy, the guy who takes poetry too seriously, was now in deep conversation with the fat old man from earlier. I don’t know what they were talking about, but something I said really pissed the old man off and he started pushing me against a wall. “You cunt!” he kept yelling. “You cunt!” Some bouncers came and I found myself in a cab with Vail. There was a bit of sweat on her face and I lifted her arm up and asked her about all the stamp marks that were on her wrist. She said something, and I said something, and she laughed and she looked at my lips, and she texted someone, and we both stopped talking. The cab dropped me home first, which was fine with me.


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Surface Children - a book of short stories by Dean Blake


Zombies in Adelaide - Generation End

When I was a kid I knew this guy who’d eat his eyelashes. He loved to show off about it too. He’d pluck them out in front of everyone and suck them straight out of his fingers. He was this skinny guy, lanky with long hair. He was strange and nobody really liked him. I wonder what happened to him. Maybe he became a writer.

Anyway I went to Adelaide for two days with Jude, who was there for work.

“Do you want to go anywhere that’s not in the casino?” I asked him.

Jude ignored me. He was playing poker and he’d won about fifteen thousand dollars. I headed out of the casino and walked around the city: it was quiet, it was cooler than Brisbane and there were pubs all over the place. I found an antiquarian bookstore filled with some pretty interesting books – I was impressed. I walked around some more until I found a park with a river running through it.

This guy in a suit walked up to me and asked, “Do you think turtles go to heaven?”

“No,” I said.

I kept walking along the water, past a university of some sort, past the zoo, past a lot of things until I saw a cat sitting by itself and I became sad and tired.

It was evening by the time I decided to return to the casino, and on my way back I found a bunch of people dressed like zombies. They limped along the footpaths and grunted, politely walking where uniformed police officers directed them to go. There were hundreds of them.

“AHHHH!” one of them screamed at me. “FUCKIN’ BRAINS.”

I watched them for a while before eventually returning to the casino. Jude was drinking by the bar. He looked glum. “I’m down to two thousand dollars profit.”

We sat around for a while, drinking (Jude had whiskey and I had Coke) and talking about life. There was a “Carousel of Dreams” carnival theme going on that night, and in one section of the casino was a palm reader who read people’s palms for free. She was a hearty looking lady with wild hair and lots of big rings. She took my hand and ran a finger along its lines.

“You have no money,” she said. She then ran her fingers along my hand some more. “You have a deep imagination. You keep a lot to yourself, and you seem to enjoy keeping it all bottled up inside. Problem is, your imagination is like this constant internal explosion, and if you don’t find some outlet to get your thoughts out and into the world, you’ll pop like a balloon.

“Maybe you think no one will understand you?” She looked at me, smiled, and kept going. “This imagination of yours has been leading you down a dark path, and it seems as though at some point in your life you’ve decided not to continue down that path. But your decision doesn’t seem wholehearted, and – see this line here? It’s not very deep. My advice is to find an outlet and to not let whatever is inside you steer you into a place that’s not good for anyone.”

Jude and I laughed at that and returned to the bar and continued drinking. We befriended this stranger named Jefferson. He looked like he was in his forties. He told us about this time when he was sixteen, when he got this girl pregnant. He tried to force her to get an abortion, but she refused. So he punched her stomach, repeatedly, hoping that it would do something. The baby still came, and, afraid of both their parents, they drove to Sydney with tattoos of rings on their fingers and began a secret life, a secret world. He grew to love her and he grew to love the baby. They were happy for a while, but they both knew that there was something wrong with him. Eventually, his girlfriend left him. He told us he’d never cried so hard, but he understood, and he let her keep the baby and everything they had. He was lost for years, but he eventually married the love of his life.

“So what’s the moral of the story?” Jude asked.

“There’s no moral,” he said. “It’s just my story. It’s just what happened.”

We kept drinking, we kept talking about life.

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