Free short stories about Generation End


chris desperately wants to cheat on his wife


crumbling apartment walls

I wanted to tell her about a lot of things: how I wanted to kiss her in front of a zoo, how I hated the loneliness, how I wanted to face my fears yet flee for them – but I’d been told, repeatedly, that happiness could never be found by obsessing over oneself but that instead you had to give your heart to people who need one, so I asked her, “And you? How are you?”

“I’m good.”

“Good? You can’t be good.”

Christie laughed. “Why can’t I be good?”

“If everything was fine in your life it means you’re at the end, you’re at the last chapter.”

“Believe it or not, Dean, you can live life being content with everything.”

“Didn’t I tell you? That Thor guy said I was destined to live a life of suffering.”

“Everyone suffers. They just deal with it differently.”

Something was playing on Spotify from my iPad and it bothered me that Christie never had a say about what kind of music was playing in the background. But I didn’t tell her this. I picked her up, and she asked me, “Have I gotten heavier?”

“I’ve just gotten weaker.”

And I spun her, and as my mind rested elsewhere my apartment walls crumbled, and out came the stars and the roses and the popcorn and the lights, and there were so many things I wanted to say, so many drinks I wanted to drink, so many tears I wanted to cry, but I did none of that and I just watched Christie’s shirt as I spun her around and did not let go.



Book I’m reading: Perennial Seller


billy james turning into a dick


thor the god of thunder

The world was being the world and I was being me, so I walked into the Cathedral of Saint Stephen and knelt down and watched some people rehearse some kind of choir song. I looked at Jesus at the altar, on the cross, and I told him that I was sorry for the garbage truck of horrors inside of me.

There was a man a few metres away from me in a white shirt – some old guy who was standing about, his posture slightly askew like he was some kind of awkward cactus. He walked over to me. “We suffer so that we can learn to love.”

“Sure mate,” I said to him. He looked at me for a moment before walking away.

I kept kneeling there, looking at Jesus, until the man returned.

“It’s going to be a hard life,” he told me. “I have suffered a lot. You will suffer a lot. I have had a hard life. But this is how we love. This is how we connect. Have you listened to the Happy Prince and the Small One? Listen to this, and you’ll understand everything.”

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

“Thor. Like the god of thunder.”

“Are you the god of thunder?”


“Are you a Catholic?”


“What do you think of homosexuals?”

“I think they’re fine. I have plenty of homosexual friends.”

I looked at him. He was standing still, but he was shaking at the same time. There must have been something wrong with his leg or hip or back or knee – I didn’t bother asking him what was wrong. He had green eyes, and he looked at me like he’d met me before. “When you pray, don’t ask for anything, because everything was made perfect. Pray to just converse with God.”

“Didn’t Jesus encourage us to always ask God for favours? Ask and you will receive, and all that?”

“That’s too deep for you at this point in time.”

“Where am I at in my life?”

“I can’t tell. But I know I came here to talk to you.”

We looked at each other in silence for a moment before he continued: “You need to put others first. Remember that, you need to put others first.”

“I think I have to go,” I told him after we conversed some more. “Will I see you again?”

“I go where God takes me,” he said. “I love you, Dean.”

I watched Thor walk away. I wanted to follow him, to see where a man like him lived. But instead I just watched him put on his jacket and leave the cathedral.

I think, if as soon as we were born, we were given a precise checklist of what we needed to do to be happy, to live fulfilling lives, to understand the purpose of suffering, to go to heaven, we wouldn’t do it. We’re too rebellious. We need to fuck up and be shit on before we understand the truth and beauty in anything. And then we make our own checklists.

I spent the next evening Googling “Thor Brisbane,” and, “Strange old man Brisbane Thor in cathedral,” and “Catholic Thor Brisbane” but couldn’t find anything useful. I went to sleep, hoping that I’d some day meet him again.



Book I’m reading: Ask the Dust


billy is about to remind you that he's better than you at everything


billy counting the number of his poor life choices


linda hates obama


goodbye time

There are times when there’s nothing I want to write about. When there’s nothing much I really want to say. Time is so limited. It arrives, then it goes, and it arrives, and it goes – does it ever leave you feeling at peace? I suppose it does. There are times when time itself leaves me alone: it says to me, “Fine, Dean, do what you want,” and I’m at a beach or with some friends or I’m watching Netflix or something, and the little worries of life are chipped away and I’m left with something pure, like contentment, or love, or truth, or something only my heart will understand. How about you? When’s the last time you’ve forgotten to worry? When’s the last time you’ve let time leave you alone?

It was evening and Christie and I were sitting in front of penguins. She had her phone out and she was taking photos of them. The penguins were small, and they had their mouths open and were waddling about. She smiled at them, and I looked at the water and the horizon and I said something, and she said something back.



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… Have you ever been completely loved before? Not the romantic kind of love, not the parental kind of love. I’m talking about the kind of love that’s complete. I know you don’t understand what I mean, and I don’t expect you to. Actually I do expect you to know what I mean, because I want you to experience it one day. Or maybe I don’t, because it’s the kind of love that will make you fragile. It comes by as infrequently as a red moon, and once its gone, once the feeling it leaves you with erodes away, you’ll feel like a useless, dry lake, desperate to see that red moon again.

Complete love is love with no missing pieces. It’s a love that’s interested in everything you’re interested in. It’s a love that cries more for you than you’ve ever cried for yourself. It doesn’t care about that thing you did. It doesn’t care who you are. It laughs with your laughs, and it puts its hands on your hands and even though you know it has other plans it speaks only to you for hours, and hours, and hours, and after it all it smiles and sings to you, and you realise you’re the only person in the universe that matters to it. And you say, “How is this possible? I’m repulsive, I’m ordinary, I’m flawed – how can I be the only person in the universe that matters to you?” And then the love envelopes you and you weep, and it weeps with you too, and it kisses you, and although it’s a complete love, its completeness is limited by time, and it says goodbye, it says it will text you tomorrow, and then you’re left wondering what to do next.



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drawing - tim cant wait - man with goatee_

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