The stories of Bryan Young

I've been reading the Finca Vigia edition of Hemingway's short stories and he did this really interesting thing in "The First Forty-nine" that I really liked. In between each of the meatier stories he'd have a very, very short story. Short like 5-8 sentences. These operate in much the same way as the six-word stories but I found that they were a little harder. You have a little bit more room to explore, but you still have to leave a reader feeling as though there's a larger story that they need to play out in their head. I've worked all month on this and of all the ones I tried to write, this is the one I liked the most: When we slept, there wasn't much we could do about them. They skittered about, scratching at the walls and cupboards, scouring every bare corner for food, terrifying our sleep, making it uneasy, queasy and dreadful. We've been here six weeks and will be here who knows how many more longer and they never cease to stress...

We had climbed up the thick, craggy bricks on the west side of the old church building so we could sit on its roof, dangling our feet over the edge, over the rain gutters. It was probably dangerous but that was immaterial to a pair of poorly behaved thirteen year olds . The chestnut-colored roof shingles were deteriorating, we spent our time picking off bits of the crumbling tiles and tossing them into the void of shrubs and grass below. Neither of us attended church any longer, it had been forsaken in the name of rebellion right around the same time we realized we were officially teenagers. On every day except Sunday the church grounds and façade of the building served as one of our favorite playgrounds. Reverence for things others found holy was not something either of us would learn and appreciate for a good many years. Adam and I spoke of many things from our perch, lobbing the bits of tarred shingle every so often between breathes. “We need girls,” Adam said. “Mm- hmm ,” I ag...

Here's another one from the land of shorts that we've done. This one actually got shot, but the footage and all remaining copies have been lost somewhere to the sands of time. INT. BREAK ROOM -- CHRISTMAS EVE -- EVENING There is no sound in the room except for the percolating of cheap Folgers coffee. The coffee maker sits on a counter with nothing else but a score of empty unwashed coffee mugs. A refrigerator is humming quietly in the background as well. A rectangular table rests in the middle of the room surrounded by six or seven folding chairs. A few days worth of newspapers are festooned about it. A few beats of this silence until the door bursts open. In comes two neatly dressed ELECTRONICS SALESMAN. The first through the door, RICHARD, comes in pissed and in a hurry. He's followed by TOM, who enters casually. RICHARD I can't frigging believe these people... TOM You can't get so worked up Richard... You missed one, you hit a bad spell, the world's not ...

A long time ago, when a fellow named Paul Green still spoke to me, he asked me to write him another war type of short for him to shoot. I'd written his first two war films from high school (which are still pretty damn good for high school kids) and so I thought I knew what he was capable of and wrote his filmmaking sensibilities into this piece. It was something we could shoot for no money with the costumes and resources we had. He opted not to do it because he thought "it was too dark." He went on to do " The Sea Angel " which was a loose adaptation of a short in Kurosawa's " Dreams ," that I introduced him to. EXT - THE BRUSH - DAY We’re in the middle of what could be a war. But there only seems to be two people around. The only two men around seem to be wearing uniforms that say “U.S. Army, circa Vietnam.” The scenery, however, seems to say “United States Mid-west.” This story could be a part of any war. This happens to revolve around the two...

I wrote this short and was planning on shooting it on 16mm. INT - CORPORATE OFFICE - DAY A well dressed EXECUTIVE is sitting behind his desk, shuffling through papers. A knock at the door stands him up to greet whoever may enter: EXECUTIVE It’s open... The door opens to reveal a YOUNG MAN, with a resume in his hand. YOUNG MAN Hello sir. The young man comes towards the desk to shake hands with the executive just sits down ignoring the offered hand. Taking the hint the young man sits down. YOUNG MAN I brought my resume, like your secretary asked... He hands the resume across the desk to the executive who in one fluid motion takes it from the young man and throws it in the waste basket. EXECUTIVE Yes. It looks wonderful. The young man looks confused. EXECUTIVE So. Which job are you applying for? YOUNG MAN Well, sir, anything really, but I was told that there was a copy boy position available. EXECUTIVE (quickly, sharply) You were lied to. (pause) There’s a machine doing that now. We do...

I wrote this in pen in my journal while I was in D.C. 5/7/47 Dear Mrs. Dearborn, My name is Sam Michaels and I served with your son during his time in the army. Before he was killed, we had become good friends and he made me promise, in the event of his death, that I write to you, to explain why he died and what he died for. I cannot imagine the grief a mother must endure following the loss of her only son, only that as great as my grief for the loss of your son is, yours must be far greater and deeper. It is a deep hurt and you have my most respectful condolences. Mitch was a good friend, a loud mouth that always managed to say exactly the right thing to soften the tension in any situation. For example, one tense evening in a fox hole, a German barrage began to shell our camp. Myself and the other two in the hole (PFC’s Hunter and Barry) were tensing, beginning to lose our nerve. Your son told us, “Hey guys, they’re playin’ our tune.” He meant the steady drum...

Hemingway once wrote a story in six words. Neal from Leftwich pointed me to it. Here's mine: He had it coming. Didn't he?