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.
Remy follows closely behind Joey in the super-market. Her father supplied the money for a taxi. His name is Vernon. He’s a forty-five year old dentist with a pot belly. Remy naturally assumed that explained her pearly white teeth which merely heightens her alluring ways.
She is a spider of transcending enticement. Her poison - a nectar for kings. There are plenty of royal suitors giving her the drool as she makes her march down the aisles. They fail to see her vicious web. They are ignorant that way.
Her tanned dress clings loosely around her frame. Perhaps this is why they are unaware of her viciousness. The pompous manner in which she carries herself also contributes to their faulty construction of who they believe she is, and what she is all about. No matter, Remy is certain each and all of them would have taken a bullet to hear her sighs of ecstasy on any given night.
Joey delights in the knowing that her power can reach anyone at anytime. She even feels the sensual praise of female envy. Her beauty is that glorifying. It does come with a price, all of that splendor she exudes. Her mind is not her own. Her own self is lost.
Nobody even concedes that he is her escort. Nobody knows he is even there. Remy blends in with everything. Even nothing. He is as plain as a white room. His genes hold stealth capabilities. You will never hear him complain against it.
And take a look - you may see me on the ground. For I am the parasite of this town. Dancing a jig in a church with chimes. A sign of the times today. And hearing no bell from a steeple tall. People all in dismay. Falling so far on a silver spoon - Making the moon for fun and changing a rope for a size too small. People all get hung.
They sit on a park bench enjoying an ice cream cone. Joey partakes in strawberry. The reason to her choice of flavor is as undaunted as a drug-store novel. The color of it reminds her of a dead-mans snickers. Remy never asks for clarification of that explanation. He values his sanity way too much. Or what is left of it anyway.
His choice of flavor is vanilla. Almost always with a covering of sprinkles. He passes on that topping today. There are already enough people looking in their direction as it was. Avoid being spotted at all costs. That is his motto. Sprinkles draw too much attention. Not as much as Joey, but close enough. Never mix gasoline with gun powder and a flame.
Joey never finishes her dairy treats. Never has Remy seen her do so. Today is no different. She takes several swipes of it with her juicy tongue before tilting it and watching as it splatters on the sidewalk. With her bare feet, she squashes it as best she can. This is the portrait she wants to leave behind. Remy admires her artistic expression. That expression is as bright as a dead rainbow.
Take a look and see me coming through. For I am the parasite who travels two by two when lifting the mask from a local clown and feeling down like him. And I’m seeing the light in a station bar. And traveling far in sin. And I’m sailing downstairs to the northern line. Watching the shine of the shoes.
The ride home resembles the soul of a mummified Egyptian.
Remy gets out from the taxi first upon their return. He walks directly to his house, never offering to help carry the bags. Joey doesn’t mind. She already has a slave. The driver. He raped her constantly the whole ride home with his leering glances in the rear view mirror while Remy rode up front with him. The mere fact that they arrived with body parts still in tact was a talented display on his part of his skill level. Her exposing her breasts for no purpose other than to get a reaction could have also played a role in his perpetual lust. It also didn’t hurt to help encourage him to willingly sacrifice his energy to wait on her both hand, and foot. Pigs are good for something other than eating and sleeping in their own filth.
After tipping his hat to say his farewell, she reaches down and grabs his crotch. Being uninhibited has its advantages. “Next time, I ride shotgun.”
|By Cristy Quinn|
She stands in the middle of his front yard for nearly an hour that evening, holding something in her hands while he stares at her from his bedroom window. His nostrils flaring. Her heart pounding.
His quick and sudden appearance onto the porch is his way of bellowing. He stops at the stairs. She approaches at the bottom. Looking up, she shows him a bowl of macaroni and cheese. She stabs her fork into the food and holds it up to display. “Want a bite?”
Fame is but a fruit tree. So very unsound. It can never flourish until it’s stock is in the ground. Men of fame have danced on lesser inventions than that of a lonely face. Where monks would shy away in embarrassment, Joey would blush with tempting endeavors.
Procreation of time is running amuck.
Her lethargic expression needs vindication. She slowly slides her left leg off the railing and allows it to dangle meaninglessly. There, her job for the day is complete. “This Christmas, I’m going to ask for all or nothing.”
Life is but a memory. Happened long ago. Theater full of sadness for a long forgotten show. Seems so easy to just let it go on by. Until you stop and wonder why you never wondered why.
Mrs. White steps outside. Her name is Evelyn. She is three years Vernon’s senior. He often entertains the possibility of having her committed. He was over-heard once saying that her mind was storage space for a clutter of empty boxes.
Joey hones in on her while she stands gazing at particles of oxygen. Why does her mother harbor no paternal instinct towards her? She is her daughter after all. Was she born without an umbilical cord? She turns her head in Remy’s direction. She couldn’t see him, she was just addressing him. “I’d like to borrow something and never return it.”
Safe in the womb of an everlasting night. You find the darkness can give the brightest light. Safe in your place, deep in the earth. That’s when they’ll know what you were really worth. Forgotten while you’re here. Remembered for a while. A much updated ruin, From a much outdated style.
Pink moon emerges for all to weep under its glow of doom.
A turtle is happening by. It struggles with each tiny step. Joey doesn’t look at it - she knows it’s there, just a few feet away. She senses it. She pretends they are involved in a race where the outcome meant life or death. It makes the whole scenario more interesting to her. “I wish I were famous for coining a phrase.”
Fame is but a fruit tree. So very unsound. It can never flourish until its stock is in the ground. So, men of fame can never find a way until time has flown from their dying day. To the floundering of minutes, the day wiggles onward to its future.
Lying beneath an apple tree, Remy stares up at Joey while she sits upon an extended limb. It doesn’t look safe to him, then again, she hardly weighs an ounce.
She places one hand on that limb for support while stretching out and reaching for green apples. Plucking them one by one, she sparingly takes a single bite before dropping them to the ground below. For Joey, everything has to have a purpose. Serve a need. Or it be rendered wasted by Saints. She just couldn’t tolerate these items of nourishment to rot away in the summer heat. By taking one bite and releasing them to their fate, they were supplying her with life, as it was intended to be. They now served their purpose. It was okay for them to die.
Remy quietly understands her rationale. Her job is to ensure they did their job. This is what she expects on a daily basis. Not just from the green apples - but from all of civilization in general. But not from Remy. He is not a Saint.
Fruit tree, fruit tree, no-one knows you but the rain and the air. Don’t you worry, they’ll stand and stare when you’re gone. Fruit tree, fruit tree, Open your eyes to another year. They’ll all know you were here when you’re gone.
Her exit from the tree is much more dramatic than was her climb. She clutches to the limb while hanging frighteningly false from it. Her feet - just inches from the ground. She is pretending to fall to her unwitting demise, screaming out in horror from the tragedy of it all. Plummeting to her imaginary death, she rolls in acoustic fashion and lies perfectly still for affect. Her mundane act goes without recognition.
Remy views her as an entertaining monkey on a black and white television sitcom. A pre-required applause was the only thing that was missing. Knowing Joey like he does, he is sure that was taking place inside her self-made program. She is always throwing herself a ticker-tape parade. She is her number one fan. She is a cunt.
Joey eventually comes around. On her back, she reopens her eyes and becomes resurrected. Now, she begins to associate herself with that butterfly she failed to capture a few hundred years ago. “You can’t get anywhere by walking in place.” Finally coining a phrase. She immigrates the notion that she invented it despite hearing somebody else saying it one day when she was somewhere doing nothing. Remy wasn’t with her at the time so, it is new to him. He carries a secret that he chooses not to reveal. He doesn‘t remain silent, however. “Next time, wear shoes.”