The stories of Bryan Young

This isn't very long or anything, but it struck me suddenly while at the cinema, waiting in line to buy tickets. I apologize again, as I'm not actually a poet. When once the wonders of my heart unlocks its forlorn mind to thee, Perchance a star-cross'd love may start and the need inside my soul -------------- may finally come to me...

I watched my pen etch crooked black letters across the page of my moleskin, making notes about dreams I had and stories I wanted to write. Often when I jot notes in my notebook, they’re in the first person, reminding myself about wisps of stories or moments I want to stuff in a book somewhere if I ever get the wherewithal to write another. When I want to clear my head enough to write like that, I hunker down in the back of one of half a dozen different coffee houses littered through out my normal routes. For some reason, sitting anonymously in the back corner of a room dripping with the scent of fresh coffee is always the sort of pick me up I need when I’m struggling with new ideas. The anonymous solitude is always welcome, but there is always the risk of being recognized. Indeed, it can get annoying when some acquaintance or another who wants to catch up or opine about politics or chat about films recognizes you, but it comes with the territory. It’s worse when you can’t remember t...

This is a poem I wrote for a character in a screenplay. I'm no poet. A rogue as I deserves not beauty and perfection as she. Virtue and titles and monies mean nothing to those as we. All I've wanted I've fought for, all I've needed I've swindled, all I've loved is you. The love of one Julia is all I ask, the love of one Julia is all I live for, and to glance upon her beauty forevermore...

She awoke at about five in the morning to the incoherent shouts of her husband and a firm fist in the face. “Jimmy?” she asked, panicked, stinging still from the blow he landed. “But… Who… And…” Jimmy was shouting nonsense and flailing his arms about, his face contorted in anger. “It was just… Wha…?” “Jimmy? Are you okay?” She asked again, shaking him hopes of rousing him from his deeply troubled sleep. And as though it never happened, his confusing tirade turned to gentle snoring. Unfortunately for Shannon, though, she couldn’t get back to sleep. Her face was hot where the bottom of his fist made contact with her eye and the adrenaline rush of having been aroused from her slumber in that way made it impossible to continue resting. Leaving Jimmy to rest, she got out of bed and wrapped her terry robe around her slender frame and left the bedroom. This story appears as part of the collection " The Cruel Kids: Four Short Stories ".  You can get it for the  Kindle ...

Here's a short film I was writing for a friend and his step-dad as some type of acting exercise but never finished. It would have been good. I found the beginning I wrote for it, but decided to rewrite it for the ol' short story blog. I hope it doesn't suck too bad. (Also, expect another short story proper in the next week or two...) And lease bear with me on the format, blogger still just doesn't like any semblance of screenplay format. I/E. CAR - CITY STREETS - DAY SHADE drives through town, headed to a specific destination. He’s talking on his cellphone, presumably to his mother. SHADE ...it was just great, I still can’t believe it. (beat) Yeah. That’s what I thought, too. But when he just sort of hit me with it, he said, this is what he said, he says, “Son...” He’s interrupted... SHADE (CONT’D) Yeah, totally. He called me “son.” Can you believe that? Anyways, he says, he says, uh, “Son, there is no one I would rather have on the ground in Madrid.” And then he ...

You asked me to write an explanation for the inexplicable behavior of the men in your life, myself included. The simple answer to your question is this: Love does funny things to men. The long answer? That one will take some doing. I’m drunk and in a love-filled depression as I write this, so please bear with me. Why do I inadvertently sabotage my best attempts to be nearer, closer to you? Why do I self destruct the moments with my anguish and self-pity? Why do I do the things that drive you mad? Why do others call you a dozen times a day? Why do others still cling to your memory as though it were a dead loved one? You. That seems to be the best answer. You bewitch me and I imagine you bewitch others. The sad pall of inevitability looms over every life you touch. No one knows how to crack the code and those that do don’t manage it for long. No one knows how to get in deep. I try. You bring out the raw romance in my soul. Your coy rejections of my affection only egg on my ...

This is something I thought I'd toss on here while I'm finishing up another short story. This is a script that I actually filmed twice, once as a mostly silent film and again as a completely silent film. Sadly, neither version exists. Hard drives crashing can be a bitch, since I was really happy with the second one. INT - UNKNOWN LOCATION CLOSE ON a desk. Two hands slap a wrinkled dollar bill on the desk. They ably tape the two pieces together, flip the bill over and tape the other side. CLOSE ON the hands putting a stack of cash and the "dollar" in a deposit envelope. I/E. CAR - NIGHT CLOSE ON the hands driving--steering--with the deposit envelope in one hand. EXT. BANK NIGHT DEPOSIT - NIGHT CLOSE ON the hands depositing the envelope in the night deposit slot. Track back to see a HOBO sleeping outside the bank. LONG SHOT of the hobo sleeping on his bench. The depositor gets back in his car and pulls out of the bank driveway, driving away. EXT. STREET - NIGHT The c...