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 ONE
Joey White walks outside the front door of her home. She allows the screen door to retract on its own. It’s creaking and crackling is the result of its own inertia and slams to a close. She looks to her right and sees Remy Davis lounging on his porch swing. He could be asleep, perhaps taking a nap. Or - he could be daydreaming again. She doesn’t care either way. She casually heads in his direction with intentions of whiling away his hours. Subtly, she will tell him that he is not so good for her. Perhaps she will laugh at him in the autumn of his years. The soft grass cushions her bare feet. She despises foot-wear. Not since her scholastic career has she worn them. They make her feel like a whore. Don’t ask her to explain, she will only snarl at you.
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 the 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 him the whole time. She wants to see if he takes a peek. She has caught him before in the past, stealing glances of her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Joey is always looking. Despite her many lapses of concentration, she is very much aware. There are only a few steps to take. Once committed, she turns away and slowly glides across the front of the porch, sliding her fingers upon the railing in the process, stopping midway so as to not disturb a lady bug seemingly resting before it takes flight. When it does, she follows it for as long as she can before it magically disappears. “I wish I could do that.”
Remy has one arm behind his head, using it as a pillow. His other lies in his lap. One leg is propped up on the swing, the other, flat-footed on the porch. He is using it to gently rock himself. He has a cigarette behind one ear, a match-stick behind the other. His eyes are shut. He is purposely ignoring her. It is one of his hobbies. Well, one of his favorite anyway. He is grinning internally. He knows how much it gets on her nerves to be ignored.
Joey places her self down in a 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, locking her hands into position, contracting her petite frame. “I won’t be able to wear this dress after labor-day.”
Remy reaches for the cigarette. He places it in his mouth. He then retrieves the match-stick. He strikes it against the back of the swing. It ignites a flame. Once lit, he tosses the now useless giver of fire to the side. He inhales and blows out some smoke. “Fashion faux pas?”
Joey lifts a hand and runs it through her long, blond hair. This is her favorite hobby. A butterfly swoops in and begins to flutter around her head. She watches it dance methodically. Apparently, this is amusing to her. She smiles. On a whim, she attempts to quickly capture it. The insect eludes her and leads her back to the front railing of the porch. She grabs it, preventing herself from toppling over, laughing all the while. “I’m a princess.”
Remy takes another drag. He finally opens his eyes. Turning his head slightly, he admires her nineteen years of beauty. Concluding, he couldn’t argue with her self-indulged remark. She will pamper herself at times when others refuse. That occurrence is rare. She was raised on being pampered. Getting her way is her primary trademark. And this is common knowledge for Remy. His shoulder length, coal black hair, makes him appear gravely ill.
The Missouri heat-wave is disorienting. Who can think on such a humid day? The year is nineteen seventy-three and for all they cared, it might as well be the turn of the century. Boredom sets in quicker than the light of the sun can travel, and that’s just the way they like it around these parts. Joey returns to the wicker. This time, she sits there with her legs spread and her hands in-between them. Joey has loved, but never shown her tears. “I have a new beau.”
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 the 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 him the whole time. She wants to see if he takes a peek. She has caught him before in the past, stealing glances of her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Joey is always looking. Despite her many lapses of concentration, she is very much aware. There are only a few steps to take. Once committed, she turns away and slowly glides across the front of the porch, sliding her fingers upon the railing in the process, stopping midway so as to not disturb a lady bug seemingly resting before it takes flight. When it does, she follows it for as long as she can before it magically disappears. “I wish I could do that.”
Remy has one arm behind his head, using it as a pillow. His other lies in his lap. One leg is propped up on the swing, the other, flat-footed on the porch. He is using it to gently rock himself. He has a cigarette behind one ear, a match-stick behind the other. His eyes are shut. He is purposely ignoring her. It is one of his hobbies. Well, one of his favorite anyway. He is grinning internally. He knows how much it gets on her nerves to be ignored.
Joey places her self down in a 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, locking her hands into position, contracting her petite frame. “I won’t be able to wear this dress after labor-day.”
Remy reaches for the cigarette. He places it in his mouth. He then retrieves the match-stick. He strikes it against the back of the swing. It ignites a flame. Once lit, he tosses the now useless giver of fire to the side. He inhales and blows out some smoke. “Fashion faux pas?”
Joey lifts a hand and runs it through her long, blond hair. This is her favorite hobby. A butterfly swoops in and begins to flutter around her head. She watches it dance methodically. Apparently, this is amusing to her. She smiles. On a whim, she attempts to quickly capture it. The insect eludes her and leads her back to the front railing of the porch. She grabs it, preventing herself from toppling over, laughing all the while. “I’m a princess.”
Remy takes another drag. He finally opens his eyes. Turning his head slightly, he admires her nineteen years of beauty. Concluding, he couldn’t argue with her self-indulged remark. She will pamper herself at times when others refuse. That occurrence is rare. She was raised on being pampered. Getting her way is her primary trademark. And this is common knowledge for Remy. His shoulder length, coal black hair, makes him appear gravely ill.
The Missouri heat-wave is disorienting. Who can think on such a humid day? The year is nineteen seventy-three and for all they cared, it might as well be the turn of the century. Boredom sets in quicker than the light of the sun can travel, and that’s just the way they like it around these parts. Joey returns to the wicker. This time, she sits there with her legs spread and her hands in-between them. Joey has loved, but never shown her tears. “I have a new beau.”
Remy brings the cigarette to his lips. He takes a puff. This time, the smoke escapes through his nose. Is he trying to impress her? Only if she had noticed and – she didn’t. Or maybe she did and just doesn’t bother with that emotion. There are many emotions in which Joey doesn’t concern her self with. It’s just too much effort in her mind. The locusts in the background are playing out to their ears. He concentrates on them. A fly lands on his nose. He swats it away. The butterfly returns and lands on his extended knee. He studies it thoroughly. Joey gets back on her feet. She walks to the stairs. “Looks like you have a new friend.”
Remy raises the cigarette again and draws in the smoke. He blows it out of his rounded mouth at the creature, annoying it to go away. He is successful. It flies off. Joey hugs the extended posts that assisted in holding the structure together. The shade in which the ceiling above provided offers little in regards to refreshing her from the muggy dryness of the air. “He’s much older than you.”
Remy visually follows her as she walks down the stairs and makes her leave. Frustrated at his lethargic demeanor, she refuses to display anymore interest. He waits until she is no longer in view before taking the final taste of his tobacco. She departs as nonchalantly as she arrived. He readjusts his head back to its previous and comfortable position. He stares up at the flaking paint above him. Closing his eyes once again, he captures her in his memories for safe keeping. Smiling quietly to himself, he flicks the butt of his habitual remains off to the side. “Aren’t they always?”
This is the basis of their relationship. The foundation in which their friendship is built wobbles aimlessly amid despair. These encounters sometimes last for a few specs of time while often appearing to never end. It is a recycling event that plays out in such a staunch manner. It is as if both of their daily lives continuously repeats itself over and over and over. A toxic combination, these two, and yet, neither one of them would dare to change a single thing. Life has more important things to worry about than these two lost souls of purgatory.
Remy and Joey are nothing more but a waste of life’s energy. This is just the way it is. Eternity drifts at half the speed of mud in this world. In fact, one might say that it is ghastly.
Remy stands before his armoire. The mirror’s reflection is that of a pale skinned and lanky man with hardly a trace of body hair. Masculinity deprived. He stands six feet, three inches tall, and walks with his shoulders hunched. His hands are engrossing, his fingers frail. Yet somehow, your first impression of him would be that of incredible elegance. His melancholy personality echoes the chilling loveliness of a boy’s choir singing Mozart’s Requiem. A far cry from Joey. She maneuvers like a goddess, often times placing a dandelion behind her ear to enhance her femininity. At five feet, five inches, she appears smaller than that with the naked eye. She is naturally flirtatious, thriving innocently from men’s attention. She obsesses in controversy with her vocabulary. Not that it is vulgar, just presumptuous. She is anorexic where sincerity is concerned.
Remy stares down at a clutter of pill bottles. He reaches for one and brings it up to observe. He reads the label of a tricyclic antidepressant called Tryptizol. He fears secretly that he is doomed. He takes his eyes off of it and resumes looking at himself in the mirror. He sets the pill bottle back down. A pillar of confusion swarms his inner workings. He has a fractured desire to be somebody else. Somebody that wouldn’t give a damn about what he saw in the abyss of his marbled eyes. God works with an inconsistent formula. On the one hand, Joey is flawless. On the other, Remy is nothing but a flaw. Cruelty in jokes is no laughing matter. And for the record, Remy never laughs. He is a statue of tranquility. He concludes – he should have just stayed in the womb.
His thoughts are like a parasite, draining the life force from his heart. The bittersweet oxygen that travels through his lungs stings with every breath. As calibrated as he is, even he would testify to the inhumanity of God’s humor. He is distracted by the opening of his bedroom door. It’s his mother, Cecilia Davis. She is calling him to dinner.
Cecilia is sixty-four years old. She has been beaten down through the years. Her husband, deceased for the past fifteen after suffering a heart-attack. She takes on the persona of a dewy spring morning. Her face is as worn as a catcher’s mitt - and just as harsh a texture. She wanted to be a ballerina when she was but a young girl with adventure in her blood. Instead, she became the wife of a laborer who faltered in supplying the necessary finances to buy her the things she deserved. She harbors no regret in decisions that she has made throughout her years. She is content.
At the table, they enjoy another meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes smothered in gravy and green beans. It’s about all they can afford. Chicken is cheap, their souls are anything but. Cecelia washes down a bite with a glass of ice water. “Keeping busy today?”
Remy nods slightly while feeding. He eats quickly, which strikes many a folks to be a tad bit bizarre when considering, he lives at a snails pace. His movements are about as calculated as a general leading an invasion into enemy territory. He too, will wash it down with ice water however, his eyes, using peripheral vision, are periodically aiming at the upper cupboard to the right. That is where his best friend resides, in a bottle. Sour mash whiskey is his only escape. That and Joey. Between the two of them, he fears they will both lead him to his demise. He is bright in that manner. He would often times wonder about pursuing a career in philosophy. The only thing stopping him is the salary. It pays less than that of a vagabond.
I saw it written and I saw it say, pink moon is on its way. And none of you stand so tall. Pink moon is going to get you all. And yes, it’s a pink moon. – These were his thoughts for the remainder of the day.
Remy raises the cigarette again and draws in the smoke. He blows it out of his rounded mouth at the creature, annoying it to go away. He is successful. It flies off. Joey hugs the extended posts that assisted in holding the structure together. The shade in which the ceiling above provided offers little in regards to refreshing her from the muggy dryness of the air. “He’s much older than you.”
Remy visually follows her as she walks down the stairs and makes her leave. Frustrated at his lethargic demeanor, she refuses to display anymore interest. He waits until she is no longer in view before taking the final taste of his tobacco. She departs as nonchalantly as she arrived. He readjusts his head back to its previous and comfortable position. He stares up at the flaking paint above him. Closing his eyes once again, he captures her in his memories for safe keeping. Smiling quietly to himself, he flicks the butt of his habitual remains off to the side. “Aren’t they always?”
This is the basis of their relationship. The foundation in which their friendship is built wobbles aimlessly amid despair. These encounters sometimes last for a few specs of time while often appearing to never end. It is a recycling event that plays out in such a staunch manner. It is as if both of their daily lives continuously repeats itself over and over and over. A toxic combination, these two, and yet, neither one of them would dare to change a single thing. Life has more important things to worry about than these two lost souls of purgatory.
Remy and Joey are nothing more but a waste of life’s energy. This is just the way it is. Eternity drifts at half the speed of mud in this world. In fact, one might say that it is ghastly.
Remy stands before his armoire. The mirror’s reflection is that of a pale skinned and lanky man with hardly a trace of body hair. Masculinity deprived. He stands six feet, three inches tall, and walks with his shoulders hunched. His hands are engrossing, his fingers frail. Yet somehow, your first impression of him would be that of incredible elegance. His melancholy personality echoes the chilling loveliness of a boy’s choir singing Mozart’s Requiem. A far cry from Joey. She maneuvers like a goddess, often times placing a dandelion behind her ear to enhance her femininity. At five feet, five inches, she appears smaller than that with the naked eye. She is naturally flirtatious, thriving innocently from men’s attention. She obsesses in controversy with her vocabulary. Not that it is vulgar, just presumptuous. She is anorexic where sincerity is concerned.
Remy stares down at a clutter of pill bottles. He reaches for one and brings it up to observe. He reads the label of a tricyclic antidepressant called Tryptizol. He fears secretly that he is doomed. He takes his eyes off of it and resumes looking at himself in the mirror. He sets the pill bottle back down. A pillar of confusion swarms his inner workings. He has a fractured desire to be somebody else. Somebody that wouldn’t give a damn about what he saw in the abyss of his marbled eyes. God works with an inconsistent formula. On the one hand, Joey is flawless. On the other, Remy is nothing but a flaw. Cruelty in jokes is no laughing matter. And for the record, Remy never laughs. He is a statue of tranquility. He concludes – he should have just stayed in the womb.
His thoughts are like a parasite, draining the life force from his heart. The bittersweet oxygen that travels through his lungs stings with every breath. As calibrated as he is, even he would testify to the inhumanity of God’s humor. He is distracted by the opening of his bedroom door. It’s his mother, Cecilia Davis. She is calling him to dinner.
Cecilia is sixty-four years old. She has been beaten down through the years. Her husband, deceased for the past fifteen after suffering a heart-attack. She takes on the persona of a dewy spring morning. Her face is as worn as a catcher’s mitt - and just as harsh a texture. She wanted to be a ballerina when she was but a young girl with adventure in her blood. Instead, she became the wife of a laborer who faltered in supplying the necessary finances to buy her the things she deserved. She harbors no regret in decisions that she has made throughout her years. She is content.
At the table, they enjoy another meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes smothered in gravy and green beans. It’s about all they can afford. Chicken is cheap, their souls are anything but. Cecelia washes down a bite with a glass of ice water. “Keeping busy today?”
Remy nods slightly while feeding. He eats quickly, which strikes many a folks to be a tad bit bizarre when considering, he lives at a snails pace. His movements are about as calculated as a general leading an invasion into enemy territory. He too, will wash it down with ice water however, his eyes, using peripheral vision, are periodically aiming at the upper cupboard to the right. That is where his best friend resides, in a bottle. Sour mash whiskey is his only escape. That and Joey. Between the two of them, he fears they will both lead him to his demise. He is bright in that manner. He would often times wonder about pursuing a career in philosophy. The only thing stopping him is the salary. It pays less than that of a vagabond.
I saw it written and I saw it say, pink moon is on its way. And none of you stand so tall. Pink moon is going to get you all. And yes, it’s a pink moon. – These were his thoughts for the remainder of the day.
Remy sits in a lawn chair in the middle of his back yard. He lifts a bottle of bourbon to his lips and savors the flavor of the nectar. He is close to becoming drunk again. His tolerance level is high and so, more swallows to follow. A light turns on inside of the house next door. He turns his head to look. This moment is for him and him alone.
Joey is seen walking within. She is removing her clothes. Intuitively, she knows he is there, watching. He’s always there watching. Ever since she was seven and he was nine, he’s sat there in the darkness, observing her with his imagination roaming wildly. She’s an exhibitionist at heart. The stars above ridicules his perversion. He ignores it. This is his television - his entertainment. The solace of the night is where he dwells. It’s this moment where he feels unduly. Ugliness doesn’t exist in the dark. At the very least, it can’t be seen.
She turns in the direction of the window. She will stand there momentarily, long enough for him to get his fill. Her breasts will mock him. They aren’t that big, but they are everything to him. They are the only thing. Her smile is the only indication that the show is almost over. She can barely make out his silhouette. Raising both of her arms up, the curtain hides the rest of her activities, whatever they may be.
Joey is seen walking within. She is removing her clothes. Intuitively, she knows he is there, watching. He’s always there watching. Ever since she was seven and he was nine, he’s sat there in the darkness, observing her with his imagination roaming wildly. She’s an exhibitionist at heart. The stars above ridicules his perversion. He ignores it. This is his television - his entertainment. The solace of the night is where he dwells. It’s this moment where he feels unduly. Ugliness doesn’t exist in the dark. At the very least, it can’t be seen.
She turns in the direction of the window. She will stand there momentarily, long enough for him to get his fill. Her breasts will mock him. They aren’t that big, but they are everything to him. They are the only thing. Her smile is the only indication that the show is almost over. She can barely make out his silhouette. Raising both of her arms up, the curtain hides the rest of her activities, whatever they may be.
Remy is fully clothed, wearing blue jeans and a white muscle tee-shirt. His wardrobe never changes from day to day. The vision of her turns him on yet, he is not aroused. He just enjoys the fantasy. The flickering of the flame coming from a match-stick highlights his shadowing image. Once the cigarette is lit, the flame is extinguished. The night will continue onward through its journey, just as it has done for so many years. Nothing really changes in this world. It’s always the same.
Remy often wonders why she is so belligerent towards him. Offerings of opportunities he has presented her to be allies have been indiscriminately refused, rebuffed, or repelled in a malicious manner yet, far from being directly hostile. Her teasing was the result of his ambitions. She knew well how to play his emotions like a fiddle while hiding in the confines of her sexuality, behind a wall of plagiarism. As the orchestra of crickets soothes his pain, he issues his undying gratitude for whatever small amount of identity she gives to him. “I love you.”
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