The stories of Bryan Young

When I moved to Utah, I felt like I was as out of place as a kid could get. That was last year. I’m 14 now so things aren’t that bad anymore. I guess. I moved here from California because my parents thought I would have to join a gang or something to get along in school. That was crazy. I’m white and I’m a nerd. Guys in gangs at my old school were tough Hispanic kids. I got offered weed one time, but that’s not like joining a gang. (It was on the playground when I was in fifth grade. I said no.) So, the summer between my last year of elementary school and my first year of junior high, we moved to Utah. The adjustment to the people was the weirdest part. I’m not Mormon and everyone around here seems to be. I talked to some missionaries, but I really don’t care about going to church. (I’d rather role play at my friends house on Sunday than hear about God. I had plenty of that when I was in Catechism in California.) But it’s not just the religion thing, everyone around here seemed a...

This is but a sample of this story.  The complete version is available in my print collection  Man Against the Future.   From there, you can order signed copies, or buy it for the Kindle or the Nook. It was Timmy Johnson’s eighth birthday today and his badge and gun would be arriving by mail some time this afternoon. Everyone received a license to detain or kill evil-doers on their eighth birthday. Eight years old is what they called “an age of responsibility.” It was supposed to keep everyone honest. That’s what they said anyway. When they passed the legislation, those in favor of it asked their constituents, “Who in their right mind would commit a crime if they knew that every citizen around them over the age of eight was carrying a loaded firearm and duly obligated to dispense justice?” To their credit, the majority of Americans held it in their hearts that this was both foolish and stupid. Sadly though, the majority of their elected officials were in support of ...

Howard Smalls was an extremely competitive man by nature. Some thought it had to do with his lean frame and scant height of five-foot-five. Others thought it may have had something to do with sexual repression. Still others assumed that he was just naturally competitive. His children suspected that it was a mix of all three of these varying theories. Howard remained extremely competitive for every one of his forty-four years. He played a different sport every night of the week and spent his weekends, depending on the season, playing still other sports or doubling up on his favorites. Monday nights were reserved for playing racquet-ball at the club in club-sponsored tournaments in which he always placed highly, or even sometimes won. Tuesday nights were spent playing softball in a city sponsored league. He pitched for that team every game. Wednesday nights found him captaining a bowling team in a league put on by the local bowling alley. Thursday nights were spent playing more softbal...

It was raining outside of her car, but I didn’t want to get out. I didn’t want to go home. I couldn’t bear the thought of stopping at my place and having that urge to kiss her and not be able to. It’s horrible for the both of us. When we stop, time in the car stands still, our hearts skip a beat and we gulp, waiting for the inevitable. But the inevitable is impossible for her. And so the inevitable becomes me getting out of the car, tearing my eyes away from hers and walking into my house, smiling and pretending it doesn’t hurt. But tonight, I couldn’t make that depressive walk just yet. It would hurt too much. “Do we have to go back yet?” I ask, trying not to sound like a hurt puppy. “No.” She does the same. I had no idea where we should go, only that my house wasn’t anywhere I could go at this point. Not for dread of anything there, but for dread of not being here. With her. She breaks the silence this time, “Where is it you want to go?” The rest if this short s...

I really liked the idea of an older brother coming home from war and explaining to a little brother what he did there. Did it work? You tell me. “Jack?” “Go to sleep, Billy.” “I just wanted to ask you a question.” Billy’s voice sailed gracefully down from the top-bunk above me. It quivered with his eight-year old curiosity but had a way of hanging in the air, demanding response. “Go to sleep, Billy.” I didn’t want to talk. “Ever since you got back, I’ve been wondering…” He wouldn’t let me sleep until I gave in. I think I was like that when I was his age, too. “Wondering what, Billy?” That was a long time ago, though. I could hear him take a breath, summoning all of his courage, before asking me this: “Did you ever kill anybody… You know… Out there?” I rolled to my side, pulling my blanket over my shoulder. Maybe I won’t have to answer him. “Why do want to know a thing like that, Billy?” “Well, when you came back, no one seemed to want to ask you…” “So?” ...

I wrote this as a short film I wanted to do. Then I realized it was probably a little too ambitious to do without resources. Then I wanted to see it done as a comic short and then that sort of fell through as well. I like this. I think it's as fun as all hell. I know it's sort of cheesy, but it's supposed to be. And as far as the formatting goes, I did my best for what blogger is capable of, I know what a real screenplay looks like... TITLE CARD: The Adventures of Chet Chesterfield TITLE CARD: Episode 6 – The Curse of Cantors Claw EXT. MOUNTAINOUS TERRAIN CHET CHESTERFIELD, 30s, handsome and well built. He’s a notorious treasure seeker. He’s hacking his way though mountainous terrain. ANNOUNCER Last time on the adventures of Chet Chesterfield ! EXT. BACK ALLEY Chet is talking to a man with his face wrapped in a headdress like he’s from the Middle East . His name is HANDSOME JACK. They are talking, but cannot be heard over the ...

When I was twelve years old I was diagnosed with severe asthma. Breathing was a lesson in futility. I couldn’t run anymore, I put on ten pounds and got called “The Fat Kid” at school. Before my asthma I was lean and had an easy charm for a snot-nosed pre-pubescent kid. After I acquired asthma, I spent half of every thought on keeping my breath. It seemed to doctors as though I had a rare case insofar as so many things seemed to trigger severe attacks. I was missing weeks of school at a time. They switched me from one school to another, hoping that would help, but nothing did. It was a matter of blind luck that we had insurance. Perhaps the planets were aligned for a brief moment. We never had any access to health care when I was a kid. I’m not sure if it was a matter of not being able to afford it for my father as much as a matter of not wanting to be able to afford it. I think I went to the dentists three times in my first eighteen years of life (each time...