Free short stories about Generation End

Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

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.

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

 

1. YOU’RE A CUNT

you're a cunt

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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.

ALIVE FOREVER

alive forever

I wonder what it would be like if I was a crack dealer. It’d be a pretty fuckin’ stressful job. Or I wonder what it would be like to be one of those heroes that people always write about. Like a Nobel Prize winner or an Emma Watson or a Michael Jordan or something. I wonder if there are heroes out there who don’t wash their hands after pissing in the toilet.

I wonder if there’s a scale out there, like in the heavens or something, that rates everyone in the world from best to absolute worst. I’d like to know who that absolute worst person is. A lot of people would probably say pedophiles or rapists are the worst. But I have a feeling the worst person would be much worse than that. He’d do things with not only with kids; he’d be into animals too. Not like puppies or horses, but like the most fucked up creatures out there, like those moths that are the size of people, or those weird spiky frog things that look like dark vaginas. Would politically correct people get angry if I assume the worst person in the world is a man?

I wonder what it would be like if I was never jealous of other people. I still don’t know who I am. It’s a corny thing to say, I know, but there you have it. This is because I was born in 1832, and I’ve pretty much been told that I will continue to live forever no matter what. I have seventeen fingers. I have seen things: the sun up close, the insides of a skull, the rapid dreams of ants. I have never become a millionaire yet I’ve never become poor. I can’t touch reality, because reality is just a word. I swam to an island once, and there have been eighteen mornings where I have folded the sky five times over. I wonder what it would be like to be you. To be in you. To be outside you. To see you for who you really are, if that will ever be possible.

 

THE GIRL WHO WANTS ME TO MAKE A LOT OF MONEY

Sara - the girl who wants me to make a lot of moneyIt’s been a while, hasn’t it? I suppose I haven’t posted in some time because I’ve fallen into the trap of working, and of boxing, and of reading a fuckload of books, and of promoting Surface Children, and of writing for a magazine. I also started doing things that writers shouldn’t do: I lessened the drinking, I began reading books on investment, I wore polo shirts. If I was in a movie, you could say that I was in the montage period of the movie where I finally decide to get my shit together. But what I can promise you is this: things have gotten better and things have gotten nowhere at the same time.

I met Sara during a group dinner. She looked good and she looked like she wasn’t trouble, which was the type of girl I needed at the time, so for a while, I ignored her and went about talking to other people. Eventually, I said hi. She told me that she works in medical research, and I told her that I write books and work in a job that’s so much more self-centred than medical research. She didn’t laugh, but she still gave me her number.

The next day, she messaged me:

“I bought your book online.”

“Fuck,” I said. “Really?”

“You write a lot of weird stuff. I mainly read personal development books.”

We went out to dinner and we talked about things and once in a while I’d remember the things that happened a few months ago and I’d become sad.

Sara’s a year younger than I am and she’s part Egyptian part Chinese or something. She was strange and great to look at. Her makeup was conservative and her jewellery was conservative and what she said, for the most part anyway, was pretty conservative. Her cheeks seemed to have this permanent rosiness to them that made her glow. She lived fifteen minutes away from me and has only ever had one job in her entire life.

After drinking tea for a while Sara lowered her voice, leant forward and told me that she did a lot of study on semen, and said that men actually ejaculate a lot of abnormal semen.

“That’s great to hear,” I said.

“Is it really great to hear?”

“It’s funny how semen is this magical ingredient that creates human beings, and us men, we shoot it everywhere: faces, stomachs, floors, fuckin’ everywhere…”

“Don’t forget inside socks.”

“Now that’s just crude.”

The truth was, Sara hated her job. What she really wanted to get into was real estate. She told me that she didn’t want to work anymore, that she just wanted to start a business in property. She had three properties already, and she was thinking of her fourth. Her next goal was to buy a BMW because she promised herself she’d buy a BMW outright before she turned thirty. I had no idea what I was getting into and she probably had no idea what she was getting into either. For the first time in my life I felt like one of those adults I used to despise: I had a 9-5, I went on dinner dates and talked about property investment, I had a book on Warren Buffet, I said the word “crude” in conversations, I pretended to understand wine. Had I grown the hell up… or was this all a lie?

I dropped her to her home, and during the drive to her home I told her that I liked her – she said nothing, but she smiled. I drove home and watched Eraserhead on my couch before dropping the remote and falling into a deep and normal sleep where I probably dreamt about flying or something typical like that.

The Key To A Happy Life Is –

The Fly UK movie poster 1958

 

I was busy, but we were under the moon. Or the sun. Or whatever was floating above us at that time.

Sam has a small office in the valley. Sam is about forty years old and has more wrinkles than most forty year olds. They crease deep, deep and hard. Sam’s a bookkeeper, and I’d known him since I was four. There are no windows in Sam’s office. There’s a shower, and a small kitchen, but there are no windows. Sam spent ten years of his life with a broken heart.

Sometimes I go to Sam’s place to type stories on his computer. Sometimes I go to Sam’s place to just sit there and watch his collection of movies: Sam was the one who introduced me to Ichi the Killer, Eraserhead, American Psycho, Cannibal Holocaust, The Notebook.

“What are you writing about?” he asked me.

“I have no idea.”

“Want to watch a movie?”

“Sure,” I said. “What do you have?”

The Fly. You’ve probably never heard of this one, but it’s a classic.”

Sam loves Asian women. He checks out every Asian woman who walks past us, no matter what the hell they look like. His computer’s internet history is full of Asian dating websites and porn searches. He frequently tells me about the Korean prostitutes, Filipina prostitutes, Vietnamese prostitutes, bukkake parties. He frequently tells me about the women he meets on Tinder. The ones from OkCupid. The ones from Instagram. The ones from Facebook, trains, parties, work functions. One of his goals is to fuck at least 3,000 Asian women in the mouth.

After we watched The Fly we went for a walk. We didn’t say much. I don’t know where his mind was; mine was on a volcano. We stopped in front of the Mini dealership and looked at the Mini hanging from the wall.

“One day that Mini is going to fall on someone.”

“You tell me that every time we go here.”

“Christine texted me,” he said.

“And?”

He shrugged. “Still angry. Still only requesting things.”

I didn’t say anything.

“You know the key to happiness?” Sam asked me.

“Yeah.”

“Like shit you do. I’ve read your work.”

“Then what the hell is it?”

“I just look at my whole life objectively and think about how whole I actually am.” He looked towards me, but not at me. “We’re lucky.”

Sam frequently volunteers for a basket brigade. He helps them pack food and household goods for the needy. He regularly flies overseas to countries such as Fiji and Cambodia to build homes, to build schools. He used to always buy me toys when I was a kid. And beer.

“I don’t want to go to work on Monday.”

We went back to his place, watched a few movies. He went to his room to sleep, and, ignoring the buzzing of my phone, I stayed on his leather couch, watching his television until the next day.

 

 

VALENTINE’S DAY LETTER

Valentines Day letter in the futureWell, picture this. The year is like, two thousand fifty or three thousand fifty or whatever, and the world is still the same old bullshit that it is. There are still cars that go on the road, and like, your bedroom, the one at the far corner of the house, is still a mess. It still has that strange smell and we’d still go there three to four times a week and have sex on the floor or on your bed or whatever, and afterwards I’d cover my eyes from the sunlight coming into your window and complain about the heat and you’d sort of laugh and you’d sort of not laugh, and you’d tell me to shut up and stop complaining and I’d slap your arm, and then you’d like, run to the bathroom to clean up and I’d be left behind to stare at your wall: the hanging masks, that framed picture of that old guy with a camera, the scribble you made when you were young. Whenever this happens I will only ever think about one of these four things: that I’m bored of you, that I’m crazy about you, that you need to clean your room, that the sun is too bright.

You still picturing this? You still picturing me? In the future, this future of ours (yes, that’s right: not your future, not mine – OURS – stop thinking that it’s all just about you and YOUR problems. It’s selfish to just think about yourself, did you fucking know that? Seriously, I don’t get you sometimes), I’ll be driving home from work every day at about six in the evening, and it’ll be a twenty minute drive, and you’re only finding out about this now, but I like to listen to really depressing music while I drive. I’ll listen to girls crying about love, I’ll listen to boys crying about love, I’ll listen to lyrics like, “I hurt myself today,” and, “I will follow you into the dark,” and, “he raped me in the chalet lines”. In the future, I’ll be bald like Natalie Portman. Actually, no I won’t: my hair will be a little curlier, my lashes a bit longer, my thighs so much thinner. Sometimes I just hate you. I really, really hate you. I often fantasise about strangling you against the bathroom sink, both of us nude, your hands just flailing wildly, bottles and toothbrushes falling onto the floor, my smile, your smile, your blood under my fingernails, your funeral, everyone’s tears, my tears, rain – no, maybe sunshine; me, hugging my pillow, crying, missing you and calling my best friends to tell them that I feel empty inside.

You know I don’t think things will be that different in the future. There’ll still be jealousy, there’ll still be love, there’ll still be some kind of Valentine’s Day. There’ll still be people who give value to the world, there’ll still be people who don’t. I don’t think we give much value to the world. I mean, like, your job, my job, what are they worth in the grand scheme of things? You once asked me if what I was doing was even that important, and you don’t know this, but it really got me thinking, and thinking, and thinking. This sounds corny, and I hate to admit this, but I feel lonely most of the time. Even when I’m with people, and even when I’m with you. I know I should be grateful for everything that I have. I know I should. You know, there will be a day in the future when I’ll find you just sitting there, or maybe lying there, and you’ll have this gentle smile, this gentle, gentle smile, and I’ll kneel next to you and touch your face and you’ll look up at me. For a very, very brief second, you’ll look concerned, but then you’ll smile again, and then I’ll smile, and I’ll tell you that you can keep me forever.

Imagine like, the year six thousand. Will we be ghosts? Will we be angels, or souls, or animals? Will I be able to meet you again, and again, and again? What kind of girl will I be to you if you were rich? What kind of girl will I be to you if I was in a wheelchair? Will I still think about cheating on you, will I lie to you as often as I do now? I wonder if the girls in movies ever wished they were real. I wonder if life didn’t have to continue once we told each other that we loved each other – that we could just die satisfied in knowing that someone loves us. Because sometimes life just feels like a movie with way too many sequels. It could’ve ended happily so many times already, you know? There’s just too much time for too many more mistakes.       

Imagine, like, the year two thousand and seventy. We’ll both be really old, and you’ll have dementia or something and I’ll always pee myself whenever a nurse touches my arm. At night, at the retirement village, I’ll creep into your room and just look at you in disgust and in love and in awe and in fear and in sadness, and I’ll kiss your forehead, and I’ll cry. I’ll always cry, no matter what. I’ll hold your hand. I’ll whisper about the kids you no longer remember, and I’ll whisper good night and ask you why you didn’t just let me kill you when we were young, and I’ll imagine my life spent differently, with another man, with two men, with many men, and I’ll whisper that I love you, and then I’ll slowly walk back to my room with my hands touching my chest.