Free short stories about Generation End

Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

DRINKING WINE ON A BALCONY BEFORE CHRISTMAS

balcony lookout

“Have you ever spoken to God on Christmas?”

This is what Christie asked me as we sat on my couch on my balcony. It was some time in the evening, and beyond us, beyond the railing, were buildings and trees and lights, and beyond that was the city, and beyond that was the universe, and beyond that was time, and the future and the present and the past, and beyond that was God. God who has to exist, otherwise how else will anything exist? But who made God?

“How do you speak to God?”

“How do you think?”

“I asked you first.”

“Did you?”

Christie took a sip of her wine. “Do you think you and I grew up making the wrong choices?”

“What do you mean?” I was looking at her legs.

“I mean, do you think it’s too late for us? I have this colleague, he’s this handsome guy, this built guy, and he’s married and he’s so faithful to his wife. I was speaking to him, and he’s like, this leader of his church group and he has these talks about how guys should stop watching pornography and treating woman like objects.”

I looked at her lips, thinking about the photos she used to send me. “I mean I think there’s always a chance for people to redeem themselves. No matter how terrible the things they’ve done and even continue to do. No one wants to admit this, but all it takes is one day or even one minute for someone to completely turn their lives around.”

 

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Book I’m reading: Here I am

FIRST DINNER WITH CAROL

1-i-dont-know-how-i-talked-you-into-having-dinner-with-me 2-your-hair-was-still-brown 3-what-do-you-think-of-me 4-what-do-you-think-of-anything 5-we-walked-into-a-bar 6-afterwards-in-my-car 7-wheres-your-mobile-phone 8-and-when-you-sat-up

And then I ruined it all by saying, “I don’t want a relationship”. You shrugged and said, “That’s exactly what the previous guy said,” and you told me about this guy you met on Tinder who was in a long distance relationship. You told me that he was a decent guy with a pretty good body and pretty big dick, but he always kept insisting that he didn’t want anything serious because he was moving on from his girlfriend and that he was confused and bla bla bla, and then I thought, What do I say to get out of this? How do I emerge from this to make sure neither of us are undamaged? and then I blamed you and said, “Well when we first fuckin’ spoke you said you didn’t want to get married,” and you said, “I said married, but I still want to be in a relationship,” and, tapping on the glove compartment, you said, “I shouldn’t have given so much of myself away right away. It’s what I always do wrong,” and I comforted you by saying, “Nah,” and this little debate of ours would continue for the entirety of what we had.

DINNER AT MY PLACE

dinner at my place - legs

For some reason I was thinking of high school during the first time Carol had dinner at my place. I was thinking of how my classmates and I would always look out of the windows, at the cars passing us, hoping that someone would be doing something sexual. We spent hours in silence, our eyes scanning for a girl giving some guy a blowjob, or a handjob, or at least a guy jerking himself off. There was this one guy in the bus, Todd, who would always yell, “Look at those white pants! I bet she’s wearing a g-banger.” I had no idea what the hell a g-banger was but I’d always nod and say, “Yeah, I bet she is.”

I made Carol pasta and garlic bread and served us both wine.

“I think the world needs to be more positive,” I told her.

“Why? Positivity will get you nowhere.”

“When did you become so jaded?”

“When I realised that things were exactly like the movies and exactly not like the movies.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You don’t know what?”

“I don’t know how to reply to that. I mean, we’re pretty lucky.”

She shrugged. She looked at her wine like it was an old friend about to leave for a long, long time. “Some things just don’t turn out the way we want them to.”

I knew what she was hinting at but I pretended not to know. At some point in our phone conversations she suggested that she wanted to be in a relationship and at some point I suggested that I didn’t want to be in one. We debated for a long time about it but nothing about what we said chipped away at our own selfishness.

We drank wine and I said a few things and she said a few things and I knelt her down and did what I had to do with her. In bed, our voices were hushed, as if we were keeping secrets from the world.

 

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Book I’m re-reading: Wild Sheep Chase

Book Recommendations / Book Suggestions

These books have shaped me in one way or another. In a way, these books may shape you, too. So read them at your own risk.

Norwegian Wood

book recommendation - Norwegian Wood Haruki Murakami

By Haruki Murakami. I read this when I was freshly dumped and overseas, on my own. Murakami writes a lot of weird shit, but Norwegian Wood seems to be one of his most grounded books. My favourite part of the book is near the end, with the woman and the guitar.

Read Norwegian Wood.

Ham on Rye

book recommendation - Ham on Rye Charles Bukowski

By Charles Bukowski. I was a bit of a stranger to Bukowski until I stumbled into another book of his, Women. The first chapter of this book was what seduced me, and the hilarious chapter about the woman in the swimming pool kept me going.

Read Ham on Rye.

1984

book recommendation -1985 by george orwell

Soviet Russia for Dummies.

Read 1984.

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close (not the movie)

book recommendation - Extremely Loud and Incredibly CloseJonathan Safran Foer

By Jonathan Safran Foer. I read this book when I was a little younger and couldn’t let go of it. The story of the grandparents and the way the words spill to form something else completely made me fall in love with the art of love itself. I wonder if he’ll ever write another book.

Glamorama

book recommendation - Glamorama Bret Easton Ellis

The first book I’ve read by Bret Easton Ellis. What an age to read it, too – I read it when I was twelve.

Read Glamorama.

Watchmen

book recommendation - The Watchmen Alan Moore Dave Gibbons

By Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons. I’ve read plenty of graphic novels, but this is the only one I can clearly remember. My favourite part? Dr. Manhattan’s part.

Read Watchmen.

The Little Prince

book recommendation - The Little Prince

I know, it’s such a typical book to like. The rose, as irritating as she was, is my favourite character. An ex-girlfriend of mine wrote her own version of the Little Prince once and gave it to me as a present. I still have it, but don’t tell her that.

Read The Little Prince, and then watch the book get butchered into a cartoon.

The Rules of Attraction

book recommendation - Rules of Attraction Bret Easton Ellis

Also by Bret Easton Ellis. I watched the movie first (and, after reading it, prefer it slightly over the book). I was eighteen or something, and I was drunk, and some friends invited me to the movies to watch it. The first scene with the vomiting sobered me up, and the snow teardrop near the end got me drunk all over again. After the movie we drove to along the highway and the car broke down so we sat in the darkness of the car, talking about things I’ll no longer remember. We probably spoke about books. I really don’t know. The memory might not even be real.

Have a read of The Rules of Attraction, or watch the movie.

If you want to talk more about books or recommend any of your own, you can also add me on Goodreads.

CHRISTMAS IS COMING

Christmas is coming

Christmas is about family. Christmas is about being alone. Christmas is about gifts, and food, and handjobs and blowjobs and an uncle who is too drunk, and a friend who is too drunk, and the heat in one country and the blistering cold in another country and a shared moon that kind of hangs over everything: it hides in some cities, it’s gone in some cities, it watches you over the rest. Christmas is about hopeful films, of Mariah Carey’s song and not Mariah Carey’s story; it’s about that girl I fingered, it’s about that girl I didn’t finger, it’s about Santa and cookies and letters to Santa and photos of Santa and of midnight mass, it’s about a lonely woman, a lonely man, a jealous boyfriend, immigration, suffering refugees, ISIS, Muslims, Jews, transgenders, lesbians, queers, fags, homophobes, feminists, emos, hipsters, dickheads, bankers, cunts, bums; Christmas is about advertising and late night shopping and that huge rush to buy presents for mum and dad and stepmum and stepdad and cousins and friends and bosses and that chick you’re cheating with, its about Christmas ham, it’s about last minute shopping, it’s about the birth of Jesus Christ our saviour, it’s about snorting a dab of cocaine off the tip of some Indian guy’s cock and it’s about falling asleep too early; it’s about thinking about Africa, or that fucked up thing you did two years ago, or just the other week, or about that homeless guy you saw under the bridge. Christmas is about my suffering, not yours. It’s about that selfie she took that made sure to reveal her tits. It’s about the fortunate and the less fortunate and the sad and the happy and the people so far removed from the world that they don’t even know who they are. Do you know who you are? Christmas is about tears and laughter and all of that bullshit, it’s about that time I met a Princess and it’s about the time I kissed her in my car and it’s about the sweat and my red shirt and it’s about that time I opened your present and you took a photo of me opening your present, and it’s about that Snapchat I sent you, and it’s about that look you gave me, and it’s about that first time I asked you if you were wet and you said no, and it’s about that first time I yelled at you, and it’s about that time you made that promise that only I remember, and it’s about that time I was completely sober and I opened the door and I thought about nothing, and I grew up, and I evolved, and the world, time – it was universal, and as some sombre song by Adele played in the background things and people… everything changed but everything, deep down, was still kind of the same, and Frosty the snowman got fucked up and a dead John Lennon hums “so this is Christmas” in the dark while Martha, a woman who I have never met, has a long debate with her partner about whether or not they should attend midnight mass.

Surface Children is now out on iBookstore and Barnes & Noble

surface-children-short-stories-now-on-iBooks

Here’s some news, people. My book of short stories, Surface Children, is now out on the iBookstore for people with Apple devices, as well as other bookstores such as Barnes&Noble.

Download it here for iBooks and here for Barnes&Noble.

PART 1: DRIVING ONE MILLION HOURS TO REACH HOME

going-home-street-light

“Life will kick you in the balls, and when it realises you don’t have balls it’ll kick you in the pussy,” Jason laughed, even if what he said wasn’t funny. Jason is my childhood friend. He’s stocky and angry looking and something about his face makes him look racist.

We were in his kitchen, talking, and he was drinking beer and I was drinking water. Jason and I used to do everything together until I decided to grow the hell up. I moved to Brisbane but he stayed behind. I mean, we kept in touch once in a while, but eventually the friendship faded into nothing. I hadn’t seen him in about fifteen years. He looked the same, but bigger and with more wrinkles.

“I’m tired, man,” I told him.

“You drove for ages.”

“You sure you’re good with me staying?”

“You sure you’re good with staying on my couch?” He laughed, even if what he said wasn’t funny.

The morning after I met Anna I packed my bags and drove a million hours north of Brisbane, to the town I used to live in. I didn’t tell Jason I was coming. I merely turned up to his home. When his mum told me he didn’t live there anymore, I drove to this old flat he now lived with his girlfriend and son in.

We stayed up talking for a while longer. I asked most of the questions: I asked him what he did after I left, I asked him about his mum, I asked him what he was doing now, I asked him about his child’s real mother. I also asked him about my other childhood friend, Hayley, who apparently wanted to catch up with me the next day.

“So what about you, mate?” Jason asked me.

“What about me?”

“Why are you here?”

I lost my job a few days ago and hadn’t told anyone yet. “I just thought it was time to visit you guys again.”

going-home---table

Jason got the hint that I was tired and left me alone. I showered, brushed my teeth, changed my clothes. I walked around Jason’s lounge room, looking at the photos he had on his entertainment unit. Most of the photos he had were of his son. His son was about two years old. I wondered what my life would’ve been like if I never moved to Brisbane. If I never wanted to be a writer. If I got some girl pregnant and also had a son. I wonder what I’d name that son and if I’d be a good father. What the hell does it mean to be a good father, anyway?

I spotted another photo on his entertainment unit, hidden in the corner. It was a photo him and Hayley when they were kids. He was looking at something in the distance while Hayley grinned at the camera, ice cream in her hand. I wondered what she was like now. I checked my phone: there was one message from Anna. Nyt, was all it said. NIGHT, I replied back.

 

 

ANNA AND THE BREAKUP

Anna and the Breakup - short story

One day I might stop writing about this bullshit. One day I might settle down with one woman. One day, when that woman decides to eventually stop showing me her vagina and I realise that I’m stuck with the same job and the same person for the rest of my life I’ll write a children’s fantasy novel. Or a crime novel. Or maybe I’ll do nothing and simply fade away.

Whatever happens, I’m going to my finish my story about Anna. It’s a story that simply has to be finished, and it’s a story that I recently found out she reads, even after everything that happened. “Are you going to write about this conversation?” She asked me when we ended up speaking again. “Hey, why don’t you let everyone know about my Instagram?” She kept bringing up the fact that I posted this somewhere:

 

dear Anna

 

And then I called her a manipulative liar and we yelled at each other before hanging up.

Before all of that, for a while, Anna and I kept messaging each other every ten minutes or so. One evening, it stopped. It was a strange feeling, no longer receiving her steady flow of messages. I waited for a few hours and even went out to a bar with Jude to have a few drinks. I finally sent her another message: “Where the hell are you?”

She replied back with a photo of herself in tears. “I broke up with him.” I read the message a few times and thought about what this could mean for me. No one ever just breaks up.

“Are you okay?” was all I ended up asking.

“Just stressed.”

“Do you want me to stop talking to you?”

“You can’t just disappear on me like that.”

I didn’t know what she meant by “You can’t just disappear on me like that,” but one day I would. One day I would realise plenty of things about her.

She stopped speaking to me for the rest of that night. In the meantime, after several rejections, Jude and I met this girl in the bar. She was from Thailand, and apparently she lived in Saint Lucia, and apparently she wasn’t interested in doing anything too outrageous with two guys because she had a boyfriend, and apparently she was studying medicine. She giggled a lot, and she drank a lot. When I returned home early the next morning I checked my phone for messages a few more times before falling asleep.

 

HERE ARE 10 THINGS I MISS ABOUT YOU

.

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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.

 

PAIN

Pain

The pain began a couple of weeks after Mandy and I broke up. It was a pain that was completely middle class and it was a pain that I was familiar with and it was a pain that pissed me off. She gave me back everything that I’d given her, and I deleted her number and completely cut her off.

I’m a grown up now, so I didn’t do anything tremendously embarrassing with the pain. I kept going to work, I kept going to boxing. I kept the pain tiny, miniscule, a small, dense marble inside me somewhere.

A bit later I met this girl in the gym. I called her Mouse, and one day she texted me: “Do you ever want to die?”

“Not really.”

“What would be a cool way to kill myself?”

I thought about it. “Make it clean. But don’t make people have to worry about you being missing. Cut yourself in the bathtub perhaps.”

“I don’t like blood. How about if I hang myself in my room?”

“That could work. But do you have anything in your house to hang yourself with?”

She didn’t reply for a bit. “I just checked. No :(”

“Too bad.”

“LOL.” I didn’t reply, so she added: “How would you kill yourself?”

“Yeah, bathtub, maybe jump off a building, but hopefully I won’t just end up being a living paraplegic.”

“I’m touching myself. Tell me more.”

I glanced around my room, as if someone could be watching what I was typing. “Or I’d like turn my car on in my garage, and I’d attach a hose to my exhaust and put the other end in my car. I’d write a letter to the Government as I’d slowly die, all alone in my self pity.”

“Snapchat me a picture of your dick.”

I downloaded Snapchat, signed up for an account, quickly figured out how it worked. I sent her a photo of my dick.

She replied with a photo of her vagina. She wasn’t doing anything with it. It was just a picture of her closed, hairy vagina. I’m not a big fan of vagina photos, but I thought I’d be polite and replied with: “nice.”

“I don’t want to wake up tomorrow. LOL.”

We continued texting like that for the next couple of weeks: we’d talk about different ways we’d kill ourselves, we’d talk dirty, we’d Snapchat each other photos of our genitals, she’d end the night with a sweet, “Good night, Dean, I love chatting to you:)” message or something horribly depressing, like “One day I’m actually going to off myself, just need the courage and not feel so ungrateful LOL.” I’d see her in the gym, and she’d look completely happy and never mention any of our texts. I constantly asked her to come out to see me, but she seemed content with what we were doing. She had a boyfriend, and they seemed pretty happy with each other.

Besides that I had no real interest in meeting anyone else but forced myself to do it anyway. One evening, I looked at Mandy’s Facebook account on my way to a party: she’d posted all these photos of her with someone new. He was an older looking guy; he looked better than I did and they looked happy. I’d never seen her smile like that. She looked beautiful. I flicked through her entire new album of photos before blocking her and turning my phone off. I headed to the party. I drank with the people there and smiled with them as they took photos. I drove home and fell in and out of sleep as I watched a movie a friend leant me some time ago.

 

If you’re depressed, visit beyondblue.