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.
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.
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.
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