Time Of No Reply - Chapter Five

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 FIVE

Know that I love you. Know that I don’t care. You know that I see you. You know that I’m not there.

Remy sits at the kitchen table. He is confused. He’s reading a letter and doesn’t understand what it’s trying to say. It was written for his mother by his deceased father. In it, he is professing his love to her, but never wrote the word directly. What was the meaning of this?

Cecilia is in her bedroom, hypnotized by the gentle caress of the knowledge she possessed. This is her one millionth wedding anniversary. The first time she ever felt alone without her husband. What was the meaning of this?

Joey stands on the porch in front of the screen door, pouting. She is wearing an orange dress. Looking inside, she couldn’t see Remy. He is suppose to be on the swing at this hour. What was the meaning of this?

Which will you go for? Which will you love? Which will you choose from - from the stars above? Which will you answer? Which will you call? Which will you take for - for your one and all? And tell me now, which will you love the best?

Everything swirls down a drain. Elapsed time and footage of a never ending nightmare of dreams and consequence. Damn the torpedoes.

Remy stands off to the side in the far distance of his yard. Joey is standing in front of the strange man, next to his car in her driveway. She displays an expression of being deeply unfettered. Without warning, without hesitation, without remorse, she slaps him across the face. Blood isn’t drawn, just the bruising of ego’s.

The man reaches out and grabs her by both shoulders. He spits in her mouth before making his hurried and desperate leave. She savors the taste of his hatred like a fine wine from Italy.

Her polite gesture wishes him well in response - by raising her arm and extending her middle finger in his wake. The thrill is, at long last, gone. For Remy, it is a beautiful day.

Joey has a mechanism of defense. One in which Remy is convinced she was born with. It’s called denial. The manner in which she skips towards him indicates she utilized the switch. So care-free, she zips right by him merrily and rejoices. “Let’s take a rocket ship to the moon.”

Which do you dance for? Which makes you shine? Which will you choose now if you won’t choose mine? Which will you hope for? Which can it be? Which will you take now if you won’t take me? And tell me now - Which will you love the best?

Another spur of time goes by without a sound.

Remy is sprawled out on the ground near the brook. His head resting against a poplar tree. His arm - the pillow. With ginger-bread daydreams baking in the oven of his thoughts, a whippoorwill tells a joke at his expense. Luckily for him, he isn’t listening.

Joey stands like a statue in hard mud a few feet away. She stares down to watch a snake slither across her toes. It tickles her. However, she doesn’t laugh. Not out of fear, that emotion is as foreign as a pleasant deed. No, she just doesn’t want to give the slimy serpent the satisfaction. Her peculiar attitude is striking at times. She follows the creature several feet, picking up a sturdy stick along the way. Once she declares war, the snake coils up for the battle. She pokes and prods, antagonizing it unmercifully. Within minutes, she pardons it. “Go! Your not welcomed here anymore.”


Remy watches with a dainty stare. Never let it be said that she can not motivate his curiosity. It runs free like wild horses on an Indian reservation with intentions of never being saddled. “That could have been Buddha.”

With the day pretty much shot, the two muster up enough initiative to return to the porch before the stars come calling. A rustling noise from the bushes afar startles her. She sits invitingly on the stairs, sideways. Her legs propped up with her feet pushing against one of the posts. Her panties were revealed. Remy didn’t look. He isn’t a monster. Okay, he glances once to cop a thrill - he is a man.

The coon-dog returns for another visit from out of nowhere. Joey subconsciously expected a wolf or coyote. Mostly because, she has never seen one in real life. Her disappointment is hardly realized. “Poor Buster, can’t find his way back to the ranch.”

Lifting the mask from a local clown. Feeling down like him. Seeing the light in a station bar. And traveling far in sin. Sailing downstairs to the northern line. Watching the shine of the shoes and hearing the trial of the people there. Who’s to care if they lose?