Free short stories about Generation End

Posts Tagged ‘God’

CONVERSATION WITH THE SKY

speaking with the sky

 

“What’s your worst secret?” Jude asked Graham. “Tell me, don’t be shy.”

“I have none.”

“Tell me your secret!”

Graham slumped to the side, trying to wave Jude away. “I steal! I steal!”

“The hell you mean you steal?”

Graham’s eyes were closed, but by the way he was raising his eyebrows you could tell he was trying to keep them open. He’d been smoking from Jude’s pipe for hours. Everyone was laughing at him.

“I take…” Graham lifted one of his large arms up. “I take one piece of silverware from anyone’s home I go to.”

Jude kicked his leg. “You’ve been to my place like, ten times.”

Graham rolled over again, screaming and laughing into the couch. “I’ve stolen so much from you! I’ve stolen everything from you!”

Jude laughed. And then I laughed. And then everyone laughed.

I walked out of the room when Annabelle, who I’d taken with me, had turned green. I kept screaming, “You’re green, Annabelle!” I stumbled to the front screen door, managed to unlock it, and floated to the driveway. It was about one in the morning and the air was crisp. The streetlights made everything orange and black. I looked up at the stars.

“God?” I asked the stars.

“God?” I asked again.

Annabelle came out, onto the street. “You’re not wearing shoes, Dean.”

“And you are.” I looked at her face and snorted. “Your face, it’s still like a different colour.”

“What?” She pulled out her phone and turned on the selfie camera. “I’m completely fine.” She touched my face, giggling. “You’ve smoked a little too much.”

“I’m in pain,” I smiled. “I want to be happy but there’s something missing.”

“I don’t feel high,” she said.

“You didn’t take enough of anything.”

“Want to go to the markets later, in like five hours?”

I thought about it. “I’m seeing Christie.”

“Next week then?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

She walked back inside, and I continued looking at the sky.

 

 

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YOU NEED MORE MONEY

you need money

Sometimes I see the earth as this tiny marble occupied by these even tinier dots called people, and all these people are looking up at a giant sun made of money, and they’re all bowing to it, talking about it night and day, thinking about it night and day, and when they’re not talking or thinking about money night and day, they’re talking or thinking about sex night and day: these vast fields of moist, succulent cocks and pussies and bumholes and mouths all fucking each other endlessly – then all these people, these tiny, tiny people on this tiny marble, their minds are so filled with money and fucking, money and fucking, money and fucking, that their brains actually explode from the immensity of it all, and because of this the marble they live on shatters to pieces, but then you know what? The sun made of money keeps on living, imposing its brightness on anything else that stumbles beneath its path.

“I’m tired of being poor, Christie.” This is what I said to Christie.

“Then stop being poor, Dean.” This is what she said back.

“It’s not that easy.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

“Why can’t it be easy?”

“Nothing good comes easily.”

“But is money good?”

“Hmmm.” She put her finger on her chin.

“What would we do if we didn’t have to make money?”

“Travel, I guess.”

“Everyone says they want to ‘travel’ but in the end we’ll get sick of travelling. Plus I think people are secretly afraid of travelling or of change or of anything they can’t complain about.”

“Then what do you think we would do, Dean?”

“We’d kill ourselves from boredom,” I said, trying to sound philosophical and wise.

“Compared to everyone else, are you even that poor? It will never be enough, no matter how much you make.”

“I’ll be fine with thirty-eight billion dollars.”

“Just trust in God.”

“I don’t think God rewards lazy, trusting people that much.”

“You say the prayers but you also have do the work.”

I thought about this guy in the city who asked me for money. He said he needed it for the bus home. I gave him money and watched him walk into a McDonald’s. “I just want to sleep.”

“You spend more than you earn, Dean.”

“I just don’t like being limited by life and all its limitations.”

“You don’t want to be someone who takes but never gives.” Christie looked up from her iPad. She’d just finished ordering a new dress online. “Want to go out for dinner or something?” she asked.

“Where you thinking?”

“That Indonesian place in New Farm?”

Sure. I looked at my bank statement from my phone and frowned.

 

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MIRACLES IN WEST END

miracles in west end

I had become a mess so Christie told me to visit a lady in West End who performs miracles. Apparently, she helped cure a lady of her cancer, she helped cure a friend of his chronic back pains, she returned joy to a broken person’s life.

I went to the hall and sat down among a small group of others. The lights were dim and music was playing, and although I was thinking of nothing I wept. It was a ridiculous catastrophe: tears keep stumbling away from me and I had no idea why.

“I don’t have powers,” she said to the small crowd, “I am merely an instrument of God.”

After a while a queue had formed for people to come up to her to be healed. As each person would approach her, she’d say something to them, and no matter their size, they would fall to the ground.

I was invited to come up to her. She closed her eyes and clasped her hands and smiled, and she placed her hands in mine and she whispered in my ear: “You never have to feel lonely again. God is with you.” She blew onto my chest and I fell to the ground, and I lay there, thinking that nothing inside me had changed.

I stood up and returned to my seat, wondering what the hell just happened.

This guy who was around my age came from nowhere and sat next to me. “You don’t have to feel alone anymore,” he said without invitation, “I’m certainly not.” He spoke of other things – his addictions, his ego, the homes he’d lived in, and how his coming closer to God had cleaned his soul. He told me that everyone will go to heaven. “I think I’m supposed to talk to you and I don’t know why.” He hugged me, stood up and walked out of the hall.

I sat there on my own until ten in the evening. I was exhausted. When it was over I drove home and fell into a deep sleep.

 

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Book I’m reading: Walt Disney: The Triumph of the American Imagination 

Show I’m watching: Billions

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LOVE CHECKLIST

love checklist are we free

“Being in a relationship is an easy yet complicated process.” This is what Christie started our conversation with.

“Really now.”

“At first it’s easy because there’s no checklist yet. There are no rules – you’re soaked in this, this unshakeable high. But then, once you get comfortable with the other person, a checklist emerges, and all of a sudden you find yourself looking at your lover and asking, ‘Do they fulfill my checklist?’ and in turn, they’re looking straight back at you and asking the exact same thing.” She played with her fork a little bit. “But then, but then it gets much more complicated. Because the checklist changes, because people change.”

“So when it comes to love or any kind of relationship, checklists can like, come and ruin everything.”

“That’s an odd way of seeing things.”

“So what’s your checklist of me?” I asked her.

“Are we in a relationship?” She smiled.

“Once upon a time I wrote down exactly who I wanted to be with on a piece of paper.”

“So did I.”

This amused me. “So we both have checklists.”

“I guess so.”

“Can’t you say these checklists are ruining our lives?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘ruin’.”

“Is your checklist different now?”

Christie took my hand and then took me to a church. The church wasn’t the same as the types of churches I grew up seeing in the movies. The church had rock music, and people would sing for long stretches of time, some speaking in tongues, and the guy in the middle, the pastor, would speak in the same way Obama would speak. I looked at Christie singing with the other people. Her eyes were closed and her hands were high and she was smiling and she reminded me of someone I was once in love with.

On the drive to Christie’s, at a red light, I asked her something I suddenly thought about: “Why do women say ‘Oh my God’ during orgasms?”

 

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Book I’m reading: Love in the Time of Cholera