Monday, December 31, 2012

My Own Wars

MY OWN WARS - Written by Carroll Bryant


I rushed to the door to open it up
And nothing was standing there
I ran outside and into the darkness
Of my own despair
I fell to my knees
My eyes started bleeding
The pain was just too much to bare
Without  a warning the sky started crying
Suddenly an angel appeared

What have I done?
I started my own wars that just can't be won
Where can I run?
Dodging the bullets I fired with my own gun

I swim in the eye of life's hurricane
As I cling to the fears of my past
Dancing with demons inside the fires
Try but I just can not laugh
I talked to my sister, my mother, my friend
And still I can't defuse the bomb
Without a reason my thoughts all exploded
Suddenly the angel was gone

What have I done?
I started my own wars that just can't be won
Where can I run?
Dodging the bullets I fired with my own gun

And the battle goes on and I still can't believe
In the jaws of defeat, I claim victory

And the battle goes on and I still can't believe
To the love of the angel, I just can't concede

What have I done?
I started my own wars that just can't be won
Where can I run?
Dodging the bullets I fired with my own gun

I'm dodging the bullets I fired with own gun

What have I done?


Sunday, December 30, 2012

Freedoms Wings

FREEDOMS WINGS - Written by Carroll Bryant


I take a look around me
And I can smell the changes in the air
I’m not the way that you found me
I got a brand new heart and I … I’m in a happy place
Better than the place I was before
Living in a broken world
Waiting for the end inside my cage
I was banging my head against the bars
Screaming for somebody to hear

I wanna be free
Free to do what I wanna do
Free to be who I wanna be
I want to spread my wings and fly
Right into immortality
I want to know that love is more than just a dream
I wanna be free

I went down to the river
And laid myself in the healing waters
I got closer to my soul
And there was no paradise when I opened my eyes
It was still this broken world
But I found a cure for the pain
And it was standing right there, right in front of me
In the form of my friends and my family
And I was given the chance to believe

I’m free
Free to do what I wanna do
Free to be who I wanna be
I want to spread my wings and fly
Right into immortality
I’m free
Free to do what I wanna do
Free to be what I wanna be
I want my limits to be the sky
As well as my destiny
I want to know that love is more than just a dream
I wanna be free

You’re gonna drive yourself to crazy
If you keep it all in your head
Why does there always have to be a meaning?
Sometimes … life …. just … is!

And I went down to the river
And laid myself in the healing waters
I got closer to my soul

I wanna be free
Free to do what I wanna do
Free to be who I wanna be
I want to spread my wings and fly
Right into immortality
I’m free
Free to do what I wanna do
Free to be what I wanna be
I want my limits to be the sky
As well as my destiny
I want to know that love is more than just a dream
I wanna be free

I’m free

I’m free


Saturday, December 29, 2012

As Green As God

AS GREEN AS GOD - Written by Carroll Bryant


I look up to the sky
And I see an eagle as he spreads his wings and
I somehow learn to fly
High above and looking down on every living thing
And I remember how it started in the past
I was looking out a window at what they
Told me was the future but I
Never thought that it would ever last
And now it’s like a knife cutting deep into the thoughts of me and
When the rain comes down
I will be as green as God and
When the rain comes falling down
I will be as green as God
Be as green as God

I look out to the fields
And I see some children as they play among their visions and
You are standing there off into the distance
As a storm slowly approaches them and
I watch you walk away, giving up on life
Heading towards a lake that hasn’t a single drop of water and
I see you point to the direction of my way and all that matters
Then all of you just disappear and
When the rain comes down
You will be as green as God and
When the rain comes pouring down
You will be as green as God
Be as green as God

There are no questions for all of the answers
Only the hope of what tomorrow can’t bring
There are no problems if there are no good solutions
And words can not be read if the eyes refuse to read

I look down to the dark
And feel what seems to be the breath of death – an angel
And it eats right through my heart
And makes the hairs stand straight up
On the back of my neck and scares me
We simply keep putting out the fires that we keep starting
With the flood of our own ideas and whisperings but
Never in a million years will we ever get to rebuild
That of which we keep on trying – trying and destorying but
When the rain comes down
We will be as green as God and
When the rain comes falling down
We will be as green as God
Be as green as God


Wednesday, December 26, 2012

The simple Life

THE SIMPLE LIFE - Written by Carroll Bryant





I get up in the morning and I take route 105
I got to earn a paycheck just to keep myself alive
I listen to the radio play some Patsy Cline
The weekend’s just ahead of me … I got one thing on my mind

I’m gonna go out huntin with my old hound dog
Take me a break on a hickory log
And stare out at nature - she has a lot to give
Gonna sit on the porch with my mom and dad
After having the best supper I ever had
It’s a simple life but that’s just the way it is (oh yeah)
This is the way a country boy should live

It seems like all I ever hear are people that complain
They don’t like the sunshine and they don’t like the rain
All I want from living is peace and harmony
I got my love of Christian faith for God and family

And I go out huntin with my old hound dog
Take me a break on a hickory log
And stare out at nature - she has a lot to give
Gonna sit on the porch with my mom and dad
After having the best supper I ever had
It’s a simple life but that’s just the way it is (oh yeah)
This is the way a country boy should live 

And late at night when I go to sleep
I pray the lord my soul he keeps
But I hope I get to live to see just one more day

And if I die before I wake
I pray the lord my soul he takes
And puts me in a special place where I so long to be

Where I can go out huntin with my old hound dog
Take me a break on a hickory log
And stare out at nature - she has a lot to give
Gonna sit on the porch with my mom and dad
After having the best supper I ever had
It’s a simple life but that’s just the way it is (oh yeah)
This is the way a country boy should live

I said, this is the way a country boy should live


Sunday, December 23, 2012

Keeper

KEEPER - Written by Carroll Bryant


We’re so tough
Talking like we mean it
Looking for nothing but trouble

Fair enough
If life has taken me away
And can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel

Figuratively
You and I are dancing like a mystery
Literally
You and I are crazy or so we always seem to be

No, we can’t escape it

And we’re spinning everything around
Digging holes into the ground and getting deeper
Losing everything we found
It’s getting me down
When I met you I thought you were a keeper

Thought you were a keeper

We’re so mean
Walking into walls again
Laughing like it’s funny

Charlie Sheen
Couldn’t act himself out
Of this one for all the money honey, baby

Figuratively
You could be everything I’ll ever want
Literally
Your body to my skin is a natural deodorant

And we’re spinning everything around
Digging holes into the ground and getting deeper
Losing everything we found
It’s getting me down
When I met you I thought you were a keeper

When we kiss lip to lip we can fall in love
Feel our hearts skinny dip to the very touch
When we kiss lip to lip sometimes it’s not enough
Feel our hearts skinny dip as they fall in
They keep falling
Falling in and out of love

Figuratively
You and I are dancing like a mystery
Literally
You and I are crazy or so we always seem to be

No, we can’t escape it

And we’re spinning everything around
Digging holes into the ground and getting deeper
Losing everything we found
It’s getting me down
When I met you I thought you were a keeper

I thought you were a keeper

I think I’m gonna keep her


Saturday, December 22, 2012

Autumn Leaves

AUTUMN LEAVES - Written by Carroll Bryant



I travel back in time
To a place of yesterday and there I find
A pretty face where I can still recall her smile
And it warms my heart and soul
 
My spirit was so wild
And in her eyes I knew she saw me as a child
Imagine my surprise the moment she did take my hand
And it touched me deep to know
 
That I finally found someone to share my life
A woman that I knew would be my wife
But I lost it all so tragically late one angry night
And I promised myself to remember
Until the very day I died
 
So in the memory of my unforgotten love
I still vow to thee in the hopes I rise above
In the midnight underneath a lonely moon
This man still grieves
But by the grace of God I still remember
And as always, autumn leaves

I get to here and now
And in my heart I have managed to somehow
Play the part even though I was a fool
To have believed that God’s to blame

The guilt inside of me
Built a wall and so I never could break free
From it all until I fell for someone else
And with it, gone is all my pain

And so I found somebody else to share my life
With a blessing I will make this girl my wife
For it happened in the blink of an eye one grateful night
And I promised myself to remember
Until the very day I died

So in the memory of my unforgotten love
I still vow to thee in the hopes I rise above
In the midnight underneath a lonely moon
This man still grieves
But by the grace of God I still remember
And as always, autumn leaves
 
And so I ride the wind to the temple of the sun
Life begins again, to witness each and everyone
I bow to the king and all the happiness he brings
And to the girl who has invaded my world

My troubled world
 
In the memory of my unforgotten love
I still vow to thee in the hopes I rise above
In the midnight underneath a lonely moon this man still grieves
But by the grace of God I still remember
And as always, autumn leaves
And by the grace of God I still remember
And as always, autumn leaves


Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Soft On Lonely Street

SOFT ON LONELY STREET - Written by Carroll Bryant


Knights gather at the round-table
Telling of the battles they have won
Drinking to the sweet taste of victory
And yes, I think maybe I may know some

As for me, I'm still waiting in that line
Ain't got no armor to protect me
My heart is invisible and I can't really claim
To understand how nice winning can ever really be

I think I could fall victim of a love
But I have to feel her, our eyes need to meet
Until then I just play it cool
Playing it soft on lonely street

And so the stories are handed down through generations
And friends introduce friends to other friends
But I can't seem to find that somehow perfect niche
And I don't think anyone truly understands

Now the warriors of the road are pretty big
The competition gets tougher everyday
There's always someone else standing in the picture
And that someone always seems to steal her heart away

Well the king and queen sit high upon their throne
Glancing at the peasants way beneath their feet
I bet they never spent one single night alone
And I'm still playing it cool
Playing it soft on lonely street

And answers aren't visions
They don't appear in sight
You have to take what comes along
To help you get through the night
You know it's wrong, but then again
It's the only right
And nobody's eyes meet
Playing it soft on lonely street

I think I could fall victim of a love
But I have to feel her, our eyes need to meet
Until then I just play it cool
Playing it soft on lonely street

Knights gather at the round-table
Telling of the battles and drinking to their victory
I'm still playing it cool
And playing it soft on lonely street


Saturday, December 15, 2012

Ghetto Graffiti

GHETTO GRAFFITI - Written by Carroll Bryant


Your shadow gets cast on the wall
You’re like an alley cat baby, in the way that you walk
Your eyes can see through it all
Everything you say is nothing but talk

You’ve been around the block a time or two
I saw it coming, but I didn’t see you

Your heart is like a city
Your love is ghetto graffiti
I avoid downtown
I take the long way around
And girl, that’s just a pity

Your heart is like a city
Your love is ghetto graffiti
I want to settle down
You want to run around
And girl, that’s just a pity

Your scratches found a way how to bite
You’re like a junkyard dog in the heat of the fight
Your thoughts seem to lose their mind
Everything you do you seem to do it all the time

You troll the streets looking for your gold
But time is something that you just can’t control

Your heart is like a city
Your love is ghetto graffiti
I avoid downtown
I take the long way around
And girl, that’s just a pity

Your heart is like a city
Your love is ghetto graffiti
I want to settle down
You want to run around
And girl, that’s just a pity

You think you’re something else girl
I know what it is you said
You think you’re something special
Feeding off of the dead
You think you’re something else girl
Wearing your invisible tiara
You think you’re something special
Trust me on this, you’re no Sky Ferreira

Your shadow gets cast on the wall
You’re like an alley cat baby, in the way that you walk
Your eyes can see through it all
Everything you say is nothing but talk

You’ve been around the block a time or two
I saw it coming, but I didn’t see you

Your heart is like a city
Your love is ghetto graffiti
I avoid downtown
I take the long way around
And girl, that’s just a pity

Your heart is like a city
Your love is ghetto graffiti
I want to settle down
You want to run around
And girl, that’s just a pity


Friday, December 14, 2012

Of The Light (The Book)

Of The Light was the third book I ever wrote. (My first two have still yet to see publication.) What inspired Of The Light was the movie "Cocoon". After watching it, I understood the desire for elderly people to leave Earth if given the chance, but my thoughts were - "What if you were in your mid to late 20's? Would you still want to leave Earth to live in a more perfect society?"

And thus, Zenakis Vinzant was born.

I took a lot of the characters in the book from real people. For example, there is a lot of Zenakis in me. (Or is it the other way around?) LOL Anyhow, everything that happens to Zenakis, happened to me. The place where he lives in the book is where I once lived. His job was my job. My sister, her husband and kids. Even Zen's Aunt Sandy is my real life Aunt. (Just slightly changed all of their names in the book) Even Sabrina and Debbie are based on actual people whom I know. And of course, Zen's mother, Terrella, was based off of my own mother.

Even the cities, Columbus and Chillicothe, are used in the story. As the series progresses (five books in all so far) Waverly and Piketon will come into play. You can debate with your friends if I actually encountered "The Light Beings". That's a discussion for another day.

The theme of using real people, places where I have lived and certain things I have done in real life continues throughout the series. So yes, it is placed under the realm of "science-fiction" however, there is plenty of non-fiction in the story.

When I first started writing Of The Light, I had no intentions of extending it. Once completed, I realized I didn't touch base much with the alien culture. This prompted me to write a ssecond book. (Due to be released in 2013) Once done, I realized that something was missing from the story and so, I fixed that with book three. I was able to bring the character Zenakis Vinzant full circle. However, there still lingered this nagging voice telling me that there was more to the story. I needed to really bring in the "Light Beings" more. I needed to do something with them. I had a story in the back of my mind that I thought was going to be something different, but I just couldn't get it out. It was a sci-fi also. Only when I decided to make it an extension to "Of The Light" trilogy, did it all come together for me.

Now, the 4th book in the series could have been the last one. (It could have also been about 450 pages long) But I decided to keep it around 200 pages and extend it to a 5th book. I'm glad I did. And while Zenakis is in those last two books, the story mostly revolves around the "Light Beings" and some other things. (Keeping it a secret for now. No spoilers!) LOL

The first three books of the series is done in the first person while the last two books of the series is told in third person. In the 4th book, it starts off with a tale of sorts that a new character revisits. This tale that the character tells is one that really happened to me and my family one Christmas Eve when I was nine years old. It is also in book four when I actually bring two of my "selves" together. The new character I introduce into the series lives in Columbus and is based off of me during a time when I lived in Columbus too. And the character of Zenakis lives in Piketon at the time, where I live now. So in essence, I based two characters in the book off of me in the same story. (I know, I'm odd) LOL

Anyhow, the last two books have more mystery and action in it because the first three books were really about Zenakis and his search for the meaning of life, more or less. No to say there isn't any action in the first three, the action actually gets better in each book.

But it is really in books four and five when you get to read about all the fancy technology the "Light Beings" have and use.

A few people have mentioned that they felt the story got better with each book. (I have a few people who read my books before I publish them) This was what I was aiming for.

Looking back, I realize that to write this into a 5 book series was indeed the right thing to do. It was meant to be a series. I have often considered extending it into a six, and maybe even a seven book series. Still haven't decided that yet.

Of The Light (For Kindle) - Of The Light (For Nook) - Of The Light (For Kobo)

Of The Light (For Ebook Pie) - Of The Light (For Copia) - Of The Light (For Sony Reader)

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Baptized

BAPTIZED - Written by Carroll Bryant


Everything around us starts breaking apart
Breaking our hearts
Giving us reason to walk away

You and me struggle like a couple of fools
Breaking the rules
Take it or leave it and we live with the pain

We can’t seem to make decisions
One look reveals just how we feel
Don’t give this love a circumcision
I’m standing here
So let me make this clear
I love you
I need you
I don’t want to try and make it without you

And I want to be baptized in your eyes
Maybe you can save me with some Harlequin nights
And I realize that you’re right
Can’t battle my history for the rest of my life
It never will be easy
Love is never for the blind
And I want to be baptized in your eyes
So I can baptize you with mine

Every step taken is another step forward
Watching with horror
One foot up and two feet down

You and me differ like there’s no tomorrow
Making it harder
Giving each other the big run around

We can’t seem to find an answer
One touch at large can supercharge
Let’s give this love just one more prayer
I’m standing here
So let me make this clear
I know you
I want you
I don’t ever want to try living without you

And I want to be baptized in your eyes
Maybe you can save me with some Harlequin nights
And I realize that you’re right
Can’t battle my history for the rest of my life
It never will be easy
Love is never for the blind
And I want to be baptized in your eyes
So I can baptize you with mine

Let’s put it to sleep
With an angels voice to a lullaby
There’s so much to keep
Let’s give this love just one more try
And maybe our sun will finally shine
If you are the one then maybe, so am I

Everything around us starts breaking apart
Breaking our hearts
Giving us reason to walk away

You and me struggle like a couple of fools
Breaking the rules
Take it or leave it and we live with the pain

We can’t seem to make decisions
One look reveals just how we feel
Don’t give this love a circumcision
I’m standing here
So let me make this clear
I love you
I need you
I don’t want to try and make it without you

And I want to be baptized in your eyes
Maybe you can save me with some Harlequin nights
And I realize that you’re right
Can’t battle my history for the rest of my life
It never will be easy
Love is never for the blind
And I want to be baptized in your eyes
So I can baptize you with mine
So I can baptize you with mine
So I can baptize you all night



Monday, December 10, 2012

Time Of No Reply - Chapter Ten

TIME OF NO REPLY
Copyright 2012 by Carroll Bryant
All rights reserved

This is a short story written by Carroll Absolom Bryant. Re-posting or copying this work on your blog or website without Carroll Bryant's permission is strictly prohibited and subjected to prosecution under law. All rights to this story belong to Carroll Bryant. Any or all pictures posted in accordance with this story has been done so with the permission of those who hold the copyrights to those pictures and or are considered public domain under the Creative Commons attribution laws.

CHAPTER TEN

Voice from the mountain and a voice from the sea. Voice in my neighborhood and a voice calling me. Tell me, my friend.. Tell me with love. Where can it end? This voice from above. The sound on the ocean wave. And a sound in the tree. Sound in a country lane. Say, can you be free? Tell me you crowd. Tell me again. Tell me out loud. This sound is rain.

Remy and Joey lay on the grass in the backyard. They are pretending to be astronauts, gazing at the stars above. How he knew they envied her sparkle and shine. Their heads resting next to each other, legs pointing in opposite directions. She pretends like they were the center of a pinwheel. He pretends she is madly in love with him.

There’s something to be said about the influence of a revelation. For Remy, he was now entrusting the magic would guide him to her stream. Where he could bath within her luster, and eat from her garden of Lavender.

For Joey, she just wants to continue living in her make believe world of pyramids and mazes. It is fun. Nothing to worry about. Forever is her true best friend. She loves waking up each morning and dancing with the prince of tides.

Remy may have fallen short in this life, but he is confident the next one would reward him in ways no mortal should be rewarded. If Joey did not belong to the God of sun then she was free to be with whomever was daring enough to find her. It would take a brave soul to seek out what can’t be sought. To capture that which constantly eludes.


Joey just assumes she was here from the beginning of time. She was there since the first inception of intelligence. She was where-ever she wanted to be. A unicorn in disguise as a fairytale. She throws caution to the wind. Her detour from the place she was destined might not have occurred within her bloodlines. It occurred from the back seat in a dark forest with the serpent who craved female flesh and blood.

At the hands of Satan did she meet her fate.

If only Remy knew the reality of Joey. He would have reconsidered his quest. He would have realized - he was already just as fictional as she was. If only - indeed.

I was born to love no-one. No-one to love me. Only the wind in the long, green grass. The frost in a broken tree. I was made to love magic. All its wonder to know. But you all lost that magic many, many years ago. I was born to use my eyes. Dream with the sun and the skies. To float away in a life-long song. In the mist where melody flies. I was made to love magic. All it’s wonder to know. But you all lost that magic many, many years ago.

Remy stands before his armoire. The mirror's reflection was that of a corrupt mind. He glances down at his medication, and the bottle in his right hand. With his left, he opens up a drawer and pulls out a small book. It's his diary. It has been ages since he wrote in it. He places it on top of the armoire. He opens it. He then places the bottle of whiskey next to it and withdrawls a folded piece of paper. It's an article he ripped off of a newspaper. It was the first newspaper he ever bought. In his life, he only bought two.

He unfolds it and begins reading.

 The article begins with the headline: "Missouri Girl Slain By Serial Killer"

Remy looks back at his reflection in the mirror. He takes in a deep breath. He reaches for his pill bottle and opens it. He pours all of its contents into his mouth.

Remy places the article down and reaches for another one. It's another article from the second newspaper that he ever purchased. He unfolds it and reads the caption. "Missouri Serial Killer Dead After Shootout With Cops"

Remy looks back up at his reflection in the mirror. He places the article down, and picks up the bottle of whiskey. He places it to his lips and washes down the pills.

He walks to his phonograph and plays a record.

Joey will come to see your flowers. Joey will come to while away your hours. And you may smile when you find that you've been wrong. You thought you'd found her, but she knew you all along. But Joey will come to say hello.

Cecilia woke up with conflicting tangles. Something was gnawing at her. Still, she prepares the breakfast for her son.

She enters his room like an angel of lost solitude. She walks to the side of his bed. He makes no movement at all. No sound. No sympathy.

She places herself on the side of his bed. She gently pats him on the leg. “You sleep. You sleep.”


The coroner ruled Remy’s death an accidental over-dose of his prescribed medication. Cecilia knew better. Nobody understood her son more. Not even Joey. He went in search of his soul-mates soul. Never realizing - there was a reason she was the way she was. Never realizing - she was right there the whole damn time. She just wasn’t always around.

She was transparent.

I was born to sail away into a land of forever. Not to be tied to an old stone grave. In your land of never. I was made to love magic. All its wonder to know. But you all lost that magic many, many years ago.



Joey White walks outside the front door of her home. She allows the screen door to retract on its own. Its creaking and crackling is the result of its own inertia and slams to a close. She looks next door at the empty porch swing.

The soft grass cushions her bare feet. By the time she makes it to the old, run-down looking porch, she rustles up some dirt from a dead spot before the steps with her toes. Only to her understanding does she find it to be remotely humorous. The dirt is blown away by a gentle summer wind. She stands there, looking down at the gray, chipped, painted wood. It represents her idea of life. Rotted and uneventful.

Climbing them slowly, she keeps her eyes on the empty swing. She places herself down on the brown wicker chair that nestles in the far corner. She brings her feet up on the edge while ironing her long, white dress down her shins and locking her hands into position, contracting her petite frame.

She gazes aimlessly at the vacant swing. She is beside herself with despair. She can’t believe it. He finally did it. Against everything she ever thought she knew about him, he proved that nobody ever really - knows anybody. He left her. Where is Remy?

Suddenly, she leaps onto her feet and races to the edge of the porch. In one lift, she jumps beyond the stairs and lands in the yard. She races to the edge of the road. She looks left. She looks right. She looks up. She looks down. Where is Remy?

“Buster! Go home!”





Time Of No Reply
(Written by Nick Drake)

Summer was gone and the heat died down. And autumn reached for her golden crown. I looked behind as I heard a sigh. But this was the time of no reply.

The sun went down and the crowd went home. I was left by the roadside all alone. I turned to speak as they went by. But this was the time of no reply.

The time of no reply is calling me to stay. There’s no hello and no goodbye. To leave, there is no way.

The trees on the hill had nothing to say. They would keep their dreams until another day. So they stood and thought and wondered why. But this was the time of no reply.

Time goes by from year to year. And no-one asks why I am standing here. But I have my answer as I look to the sky. This is the time of no reply.

The time of no reply is calling me to stay. There’s no hello and no goodbye. To leave, there is no way.

Summer was gone and the heat died down. And autumn reached for her golden crown. I looked behind as I heard a sigh. But this was the time of no reply.

This was the time of no reply.

Time Of No Reply - Chapter Nine

TIME OF NO REPLY
Copyright 2012 by Carroll Bryant
All rights reserved

This is a short story written by Carroll Absolom Bryant. Re-posting or copying this work on your blog or website without Carroll Bryant's permission is strictly prohibited and subjected to prosecution under law. All rights to this story belong to Carroll Bryant. Any or all pictures posted in accordance with this story has been done so with the permission of those who hold the copyrights to those pictures and or are considered public domain under the Creative Commons attribution laws.

CHAPTER NINE

Falling fast and falling free, you look to find a friend. Falling fast and falling free, this could just be the end. Falling fast, you stoop to touch and kiss the flowers that bend. And you’re ready now for the harvest breed.

Cecilia walks onto the porch. She turns to look at the swing. “Cornbread and beans for supper.”

Joey sits in the brown wicker chair to her left, seemingly going unnoticed for the first time in her days on the Earth. This is absurd!

Cecilia Walks back into the house. Stunned that she couldn’t find Remy. It was time to talk to the father of the crucifix.

Joey sighs. This mood passes as quickly as it comes. She sees company in the form of her rival - the tortoise. Rushing to its side, she falls to her knees. “We meet again!” She barked furiously at him. Her intentions are that to scare. He braves the noise and continues employing his objective. What that objective is, is only known to reptiles of similar mode. Joey is devastated that he did not retract into his mobile shell. Had he done so, she would have asked to be invited in to share in some tea and crumpets. Some rival he turned out to be. “You would make a good soup.”

You can say the sun is shinning if you really want to. I can see the moon and it seems so clear. You can take the road that takes you to the stars now. I can take a road that’ll see me through.

The stars gathered for another all night party. Remy sits in his chair in the backyard. His back to the window. He is looking in the opposite direction. He has seen all he was going to ever see. There is nothing more left to expect. Nothing more to anticipate. The lake has dried up. Just dust and remembrance left dangling under the radiation of space.

He plays with notions of happenstance. His existence is as important as that of a journalist with no readers. He wonders more this night than ever before, what kind of person was pride? What did he look like? Remy figures he is an old man with a beard down to his knees and arthritis in his elbows.

Joey performs for her audience in the window of her room despite the inattentive response. Now that he isn’t paying any attention to her, she can smile again. She fondles her own breasts. For what is a playground with no play? There’s just ground.

Remy is clearly basking in delight. Retribution never felt better. It also hurts like hell. There is too much to consider because Joey hates change. This is his revenge. And this was her destructor. Pretending she isn't there is justifiable justice.

Joey reaches up with both arms and closes the curtain.


Who has dressed you in strange clothes of sand? Who has taken you far away from my land? Who has said that my sayings were wrong? And who will say that I stayed much too long? Clothes of sand have covered your face. Given you meaning, but taken my place. So, make your way on down to the sea. Something has taken you so far from me.

Vixen of the netherlands.

Remy sits in the kitchen staring down at an empty plate. His belly full. He couldn’t recall the last time he felt so fulfilled.


Joey waits in the yard. She does hand stands to while away the time. Nobody is there to look at her precarious flirting or exposed white-cotton panties. Nobody but the sun. God is too busy working to care. He has a planet to attend to. A galaxy. A universe.

Remy places his dish into the sink. He walks to the screen door to watch as Joey rolls around, playing with grasshoppers. She does appear to recapture her insatiable draw. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out with some vigor just to hear himself make a noise. He worries, if you are silent for too long, you could incinerate into a memory that would be soon forgotten in a day. That or, God would forget he made you. Even the all mighty needs to be reminded of your existence once in a while.

Joey sits upright with her hands behind her for support. She looks at the screen door. Her intuition is about as accurate as a sharp-shooter. She has a feeling he still cares and she still matters. Making up is the easiest thing to do with Remy. Getting there is the hardest part.

Does it now seem worth all the color of the skies? To see the earth through painted eyes? To look through panes of shaded glass? See the stains of winters grass?

Remy walks a path through the woods. Joey on his heels, mimicking his every movement. Stepping in his foot-prints as so not to leave hers behind. If you couldn’t track her, then she wasn’t there to begin with.

He finds a log lying off to the side. It looks lonely, so he takes a seat. Joey stands behind him making funny faces. Entertainment comes cheap with her.

A frog leaps out from some high grass near-by. This brings her to sensibility. He is easy prey for to which she could take prisoner. Holding it in her hand, she studies him to the point of over-kill. She brings it to her lips and kisses it. Something she has never done for Remy. “You’re not a prince.”

She releases it back to the wild.

Once the reptilian prophet exits her view, she turns to Remy. His back is to her. Not that he is avoiding - just unsatisfied with his inheritance. She kneels behind him and wraps her arms around his waist and rests her head on his back. He is cold as ice, but much warmer than she could ever be again.


Can you now return to from where you came? Try to burn your changing name. Or with silver spoons and colored light. Will you worship moons in winters night? Clothes of sand have covered your face. Given you meaning, but taken my place. So, make your way on down to the sea. Something has taken you so far from me.

Remy is walking in a circle in his back yard. The sun is losing its power. Joey stands in the center of that circle. She is spinning around in place, watching him contemplate mysteries and resolve.



She reaches down to grab the bottom of her yellow dress. She lifts it over her head. She knows what he wants to see. From the corner of his eye, he accommodates her insecurities. She laughs mockingly at his conscience. It is a forced laugh. He sometimes debates if maybe all of her laughs are fake. He has never seen her cry. No emotion means not alive. Not real. Just a figment of ones imagination.

He’s never even seen her wear one ounce of make-up. Cosmetics would have only made her to look like a clown. She doesn’t need it anyway. What she is was given at birth, and what millions of others never were. Or will ever be.

Even her scent is as natural as an autumn day. Her skin glistens with every ray of light reflecting from it. Soft to the touch like a rubber ball. Tender, as the night is long in the middle of a January monsoon.

This knowledge prompts him to question the manner in which God operates. Why did he make her perfect and him distilled as moonshine in Kentucky? No two people were meant more for each other and yet, too comparable to be a confectionary match. He has to work so hard to be presentable. Not that he presents well. Just - if he were to be so inclined. But Joey, it is all there for her. Laid before her bare feet. And she, raising her nose to it like she knew it would always be this way.

She is never wrong. Only right when the time truly matters.

His thoughts return to Mary Jane Rodgers. She is probably the same way. And now look at her. Wrinkled, like a cheap business mans suit.

 Would Joey wake up one morning and find herself regretting her decline? For that matter, does Mary Jane court any regrets? She didn’t appear to. Then again, perhaps his whole entire belief system was incorrect. After all, Mary Jane gives to others, her time, her skills, her soul. Her friendship. Where-as, Joey gives nothing. When you are scurrying the bottom of the barrel - there isn’t much you can offer. And yet, Joey gives so much in just being herself. And being there to look at, to appreciate her chiffon smile meant you were a fool.

Was it her fault that the magic that created her - did so with extra attention to details? No. Joey would never wilt into a creepy old sack of raisins from yesterdays fresh prunes. She would never.

No scars. No scratches. No bruises. No cuts. No pains. No worries. Hair as silk. Everything about her is more perfect than perfection. She is the daughter of the anti-Christ. She is … every mans soul mate. Joey could fall fifty feet into a wooden crate of nails and not a mark would there be to show for her descent.

 Remy is now beginning to understand. Joey will never grow old. She will never die. She will always be what she is this very day. A flower captured for all to cherish for eternity. The only question now remaining - could he live with that? Even if he had her the way other men have, could he stand such magnificence?

 Remy finally stops walking in his circle. Joey finally stops spinning with him in the center. She isn’t even dizzy. And he knows - she is not real. She comes from a place that never did exist and never will again.

Joey bats her eyes. She smiles. She raises her hand as if she is the pope blessing a congregation of sinners and sinner wannabes. “I don’t hate you anymore.”

Now comes the irreversible - he must set out on a quest to find her and become what she will always be. What he always wished he was. Equality must be achieved for him to gain her everlasting love and affection. He too must become fictional. And live in a non-fictional world with make-believe characters of animation.







Sunday, December 9, 2012

Time Of No Reply - Chapter Eight

TIME OF NO REPLY
Copyright 2012 by Carroll Bryant
All rights reserved

This is a short story written by Carroll Absolom Bryant. Re-posting or copying this work on your blog or website without Carroll Bryant's permission is strictly prohibited and subjected to prosecution under law. All rights to this story belong to Carroll Bryant. Any or all pictures posted in accordance with this story has been done so with the permission of those who hold the copyrights to those pictures and or are considered public domain under the Creative Commons attribution laws.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Please give me a second grace. Please give me a second face. I’ve fallen far down the first time around. Now, I just sit on the ground in your way. Now if it’s time for recompense for what’s done, come, sit down on the fence in the sun. And the clouds will roll by and we’ll never deny it’s really too hard for to fly.

A cheery breath of air surrounds Joey as she mingles with the day. Taking in all the sights of the enchanted forest made specifically for her and Remy. They wander too far from the kingdom on this journey. Her dress is more wicked black than her adventure. They spot an old barn to explore. Remy found the small pile of hay more to his liking.

 Joey becomes enthralled with a web in one of the corners. A spider still weaving out a place to call her own. “Good afternoon, Charlotte.”

 Remy simply adores the way in which she is compelled to name everything that didn’t make sense to her. No matter how many times she squares off with interludes - it never gets old to him. She is his most prized possession.

 Please tell me your second name. Please tell me your second game. I’ve fallen so far for the people you are. I just need your star for a day. So come, ride in my street car by the bay. For now I must know how fine you are in your way. And the sea, sure as I. But she won’t need to cry. For it’s really too hard for to fly.

Joey happens across a ladder that leads to the loft. She goes in search for romance. Climbing them, she nearly finds a fall instead. The ladders steps are more in resemblance to Remy’s porch stairs. In that same manner, they did hold her lightly built frame. Barely.

She spins around like a little girl, showing off her dancing shoes. Leading herself to the opening on the other side of the platform. She looks down at everything beneath her. Now she is a global force to be reckoned with. “I can see forever!”

I know you. I care too. I see through all of the pictures that keep you on the wall - All of the people who will come to the ball. Hear me calling. Won’t you give me a free ride?

The passing of time is still in their mind.

Remy stands beneath the branch of a hickory tree. Joey weasels herself up the trunk and to the branch. She uses her legs to hang upside down, looking up at him when he turns his head. She laughs hysterically as the blood rushes to her brain. It is infiltrating her into deeper madness - like a drug. She closes her eyes to induce a more psychedelic trip.


Remy can't resist the urge to lean in towards her exposed white-cotton panties and smell her womanhood. She always wears white-cotton panties. She is as smooth as a baby’s bottom down there. She knows how to use a razor to capture the interest of vampires and flesh eating vermin.

Joey can feel his breath skimming across her loins. She keeps her eyes closed for him. He can only do things like this when she isn’t looking. When she isn’t aware. She is always aware. Remy knows this to be true. Their pretend state works out to both of their advantages. “I can only hang for a few more minutes.”

She has a kind streak in her after all.

I know too, what you do, when you’re through counting the cattle as they go by the door. Keeping a carpet that’s so thick on the floor. Hear me calling. Won’t you give me a free ride?

The night creeps in. The stars creep out. Creepers creep about. Creatures hide with creepers in the dark shadows.

Looking up at Remy while he stands on the porch, Joey tries to picture herself kissing him. He doesn’t bring out one single solitary emotion from her wanting. Her longing is given to strangers with cute features. Remy has none. Not in her opinion. But he does have charisma. In a dull, nit-witted kind of way. “Tell me a secret to the wind at midnight.”

Mayfair strange in the morning light. Mayfair strange in a summer night. Mayfair strangest in the afternoon. Mayfair stretching far above. Full of fame but lacking love. Could it be we see the Mayfair moon? Mayfair strange across the park. In the day or in the dark. There’s no need to walk or even run. Mayfair faces clean and nice. But beauty here is cold as ice. Could it be we see the Mayfair sun?

Remy can see from his bedroom window the car that pulls into Joey’s driveway. It is him again. The stranger. Like some invading entity from Hades, he returns, to take back what he discarded earlier. He is a serpent of repetition.

Joey swivels from side to side, her hips punctuating outward with each step she takes like some adolescent child of non-worry, making her way to the chariot of fire. Her dress of golden linen flowing recklessly. It doesn’t seem fair to him. He reaches up with his right hand to scratch an itch on the left side of his cheek. How did this happen? When did this happen? And why? Perhaps if he and Cecilia could afford a phone, he could make magic happen too. Talking, however, isn’t his strongest suit.

Magic sucks.

Mayfair strange at every hour. Hidden frowns with mystic power. Scary heights and golden throne. Down below, you’re on your own. Mayfair strange for passers-by. Sights of wonder for the eye. Could it be that they’ll pass by again? Mayfair calling far and near. For even trees are wealthy here. Could it be we hear the Mayfair rain?

It isn’t Remy sitting in the brown wicker chair on the porch. It is disdain in disguise. Same face, just different out-look. He couldn’t help but wonder, was it something he said? Or something he didn’t say? Couldn’t say? He has trouble making words. For the most part, they are useless givers of dribble. People speak too much as it is, but they never say anything worthy of ears. How often do they mean what they spill? Just jibber-jabber and flim-flam.

 Joey has no use for them - words from deceptive tongues. Everyone is deceptive to her. He knows this. He knows more than any man in the world when it comes to his Joey. They only want one thing from her. Touches that can never, never end. She is a conductor of her very own orchestra. Buying a ticket to view her own performances. She will always sit there, involved with the music she makes by herself. Motioning with her hands and fingers, what she wants herself to play. It is mysteriously decadent.

It is simply put - a mystery.

He can envision this - for the first time of knowing where she is and what she’s doing and to whom she is doing it with - he can watch it right there, from that brown wicker chair. His visions are endless and always over before they even start.

Mayfair strange in the morning light. Mayfair strange in a summer night. Mayfair strangest in the afternoon. Mayfair stretching far above. Full of fame, but lacking love. Could it be we see the Mayfair moon?

The coon-dog comes walking by. This sparks some type of sovereignty from Remy. He gets to his feet and in one leap, lands in the yard, running to the edge of the road. “Buster! Go home!”


And now you know my name. But I don’t feel the same. But I ain’t gonna blame the rider on the wheel. You know my song is new. You know it’s new for you. I tell you how it’s true. For the rider on the wheel.

Morning as slow as molasses.

Remy is on the swing. Joey sitting, leaning on the front railing facing the house. Her head lowered, looking at the porch. Guilt eating at her like some airborne, microscopic disease. Her radiance still shines though. This can never be taken away from her. Only borrowed for a few precious hours. Her hands tussling the edges of her bronze dress. Flipping at it from underneath. Playing another silly game. “What is the capitol of the state of confusion?”

Remy can’t betray her despite his effortless efforts. He succumbs to her as so many others do, and have. Against their own will. There is just one indifference, they were given permission to taste her bliss. “Anxiety.”

 And round and round we go. We take it fast and slow. I must keep up a show. For the rider on the wheel.

Remy is laying in the middle of the brook. Fully clothed, he wants to be her for one moment in time. To do something rash and unpredictable. It is the only way he can get from her what he craves so desperately. He is making love to her. He is making love to nothing.

Memories faded, old and worn. Memories jaded, tattered and torn. Shreds of mistletoe dangling from rotted trees and lingering needs.

Procreation of passing minutes and time.

Joey stands on the bank. She is in shock. You probably can’t tell it. She is always projecting that absurd image. It’s her way. “That’s not skinny dipping!"

He rises up and turns to face her. She refuses to give in. Her temperament is not to be toiled with. They snicker at each other. Nothing more is needed to be said or repeated. It is now understood by both. Sin can be acquitted by a jury of their peers.

Why leave me hanging on a star? And when you deem me so high? And why leave me sailing in a sea when you hear me so clear? And why leave me hanging on a star when you deem me so high?

Intermission. Interception. Fast forward to shame.

Remy walks the country road to nowhere. Excess and pent up energy needs releasing. Attitudes evaluated and re-evaluated. Decisions, decisions, decisions. God is waving at him through a clearing of the trees. He appears tattered and torn. His poverty shows more than Remy’s.

A symphony of arrows sear across the sky. They are pointing him the way to Babylon. Rock-salt of indiscretion and complicated fervor. Nothing makes sense anymore. It’s a clash of unknown demons. Screeching their vocabulary into his eardrums.

Where in the midst of everything holy did he go wrong? Why couldn’t Jesus just visit him one day? There are so many questions and not one answer in which to base his nonexistence. Is one salvation really too much for a savior?

He stands in the middle of the road, waiting for a car to do what he himself couldn’t figure out how to perform. None would surface to face the challenge. His victory is shallow. Life waits for another day. Remy bows his head to the glory. He is now indebted to Christ. He shalt never forget this day of blessing.


And time resurfaces to spill lies for mockery.

Joey stands in the yard before the steps. She is looking every bit as lost - she refuses to admit the truth. To herself or anyone. Where is Remy? Her beige dress hangs hopelessly. She darts around and to the edge of the road. She looks left. She looks right. She looks up. She looks down. Where is Remy?

No resolution can be found. This is what confuses her the most.






Saturday, December 8, 2012

Time Of No Reply - Chapter Seven

TIME OF NO REPLY
Copyright 2012 by Carroll Bryant
All rights reserved

This is a short story written by Carroll Absolom Bryant. Re-posting or copying this work on your blog or website without Carroll Bryant's permission is strictly prohibited and subjected to prosecution under law. All rights to this story belong to Carroll Bryant. Any or all pictures posted in accordance with this story has been done so with the permission of those who hold the copyrights to those pictures and or are considered public domain under the Creative Commons attribution laws.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Saturday sun came early one morning. In a sky so clear and blue. Saturday sun came without warning. So no one knew what to do. Saturday sun brought people and faces that didn’t seem much in their day. But when I remember those people and places, they were really too good in their way. Saturday sun won’t come and see me play.

Missouri is a death trap for arch-angels like Joey. It never does acquiesce to her demands. The lone exception to the rule of Joey. But Missouri isn’t real. Not to her anyway. She lives in Camelot. King Arthur is her love slave. Then again, so is Galahad, the noblest knight of the round-table.

 Remy loves Missouri. It is his coffin. Being as poor as he is, that works well with his future plans, and his mothers finances.

Route sixty-six is just a stones-throw away. The other inhabitants around them holds festivals to celebrate from time to time. Celebrate what? Neither of the two can ever figure that out. Perhaps aliens landed and was going to fly them off to another galaxy. Good riddance. This is how Remy and Joey see it. She secretly wants to go with them.

They attended one of these affairs before when they were young whippersnappers. They didn’t enjoy themselves that day either if memory serves them correctly. Funny thing is, neither of them contain any remembrance of anything except dark shadows and empty whisperings of invisible creatures.

 The nearly nonexistent summer breeze carries the smell of charcoaled flesh and baked sugared sweets aimlessly through the air. The mixture almost causes Joey to vomit. She would prefer eating dirt. In fact, she does on occasion.

 Remy stands before a table of pies. Joey soon walks up next to him and joins in the fun. He wants to take one and plant it in the ground to see if it would turn into a garden. She wants to smash them beyond edibility.


 He turns his head to look at her despite the fact that her Safire dress burns his retina. She is really popping today. Like 3-D. He never can understand her desire to be noticed. She only repels people away once they did take an inkling. Most people anyway. Not many of the men, only those who reminded her of her father and the man in the car will she shun. Her fluorescent and insidious demeanor starts out as an act that transforms into habit. This is his perception. His interpretation.

The coon-dog ventures into the open of the crowd. This puts a smile on her face. She is really glad to see him again. He is fast becoming an old rug at your feet on a cold winters night. “It’s a dog-day afternoon.”

Remy is now beginning to resent the canine. He longs for a marble to throw at him. Buster is stealing his thunder. Garnishing more of her attention than he cares for. He has no prospect of knowing that first day this new-found relationship would evolve to its current infamy. Dogs are less mysterious than cats. This rule does not apply to Buster.

Think about stories with reason and rhyme. Circling through your brain. And think about people in their season and time. Returning again and again. And Saturdays sun has turned into Sundays rain. So, Sunday sat in the Saturday sun And wept for a day gone by.

The festival disappears as fast as it materialized.

Joey stands next to her mailbox while drops of refreshing H20 covers her and her light gray dress. Another day come and gone. Mostly gone.

 Remy stands on his porch smoking a cigarette, fixated like a scientist looking at an atom under a microscope. Even from this distance he can visually see the net results of the water to her garment. Her panties outline it. It is like looking inside a prism of consequence and obscurity. Her curves cause a mild disturbance to his hormones. She only wears two items of clothing. He can see both of them - and then some. It is like looking directly into the belly of the sun beast.

Joey is waiting for the postman. She is going to pull a prank on him. The fact that it is Sunday is the prank. He would never know she got the better of him. She will wait there for hours. The best prank played is the one of ignorance. “Stamp this!”

The wet day doesn’t last. It soon resumes its daring punishment. Joey finds herself lying beneath the swing which Remy occupies. She stares up at him, only rolling her head to one side or the other in intervals. It is as if she is losing her mind. Or trying to find it. Just like her mother. This upsets her terribly. There is an umbilical cord after all. All this time, she assumed her belly-button was a cruel joke played upon her by the Gods of antiquity. She hates being wrong.


When the day is done. Down to earth then sinks the sun. Along with everything that was lost and won. When the day is done.

Remy sits in his chair in the back yard. His canvas is her window, set to the background of the night and her bedroom light. She is the painting - his indented imagination, the brush. But the light has yet to turn on. He waits patiently. It is in his nature to do so. Nature is sought through imperialism.

When the day is done. Hope so much your race will be all run. Then you find you jumped the gun. Have to go back where you begun. When the day is done.


Joey comes walking towards him from out of the distance. She is naked. She maneuvers with intent. Answering a prayer of endless requests. She stops in front of him. Nervously, she reaches out and with both hands and takes both of his, rising him up and to his feet. Her face is blank. She has no eyes, no nose, no mouth and thus - no smile. She is completely nude. She is a moveable mannequin.

 When the night is cold. Some get by, but some get old. Just to show life’s not made of gold. When the night is cold.

She lifts his hands to her breasts. Holding them there, placating her inhibitions. It is this moment that Remy realizes, she thinks of herself as refuse. At least in this realm of consciousness.

Her skin is warm to the touch. He’s never felt anything like it before. Except to say, they felt like balloons half-filled with water. His sorrow collides with hers. Succumbing to her whorish deviance, he relishes the gift.

When the bird has flown, got no-one to call your own. Got no-place to call your home. When the bird has flown. When the game’s been fought. You sped the ball across the court. Lost much sooner than you would have thought. Now the game’s been fought. When the party’s through, seems so very sad for you. Didn’t do the things you meant to do. Now there’s no time to start anew. Now the party’s through.

He releases his hands from their torment and reclaims the chair. She lowers to the ground and cuddles between his open legs. She places her hands on his lap. But not for that. To rest her head upon them. She falls asleep there in that position. He remains awake, guarding her innocent shame. He discovers a purpose more than that of the green apples. More than that of the fruit tree. More than that of the man in the car.

When the day is done. Down to earth then sinks the sun. Along with everything that was lost and won. When the day is done.