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.