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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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