The stories of Bryan Young

My little brother, Jason, has once again provided some material for the ol' Short Story Corner. This is a short film he wrote, though he doesn't think he wants to film. I don't know why not, I thought it was pretty funny. Expect a short from me next week. And I'll have something special for the anniversary of Kurt Vonnegut's death (the 11th, I believe) so watch out for that. Enjoy: INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT A man and woman are lying in bed, they are in pajamas facing each other having a conversation. Vicky, 20 something typical broad, good looking, she likes having things her way. Kevin, 20 something, a husk filled with quirks. He looks as if he might deserve the broad lying next to him. KEVIN Was it good for you? VICKY Can’t you tell? KEVIN I don’t know, you could always be faking for my sake. VICKY I wouldn’t do that, I would just tell you if there was a problem. Kevin leans over and gives her a kiss on the cheek. KEVIN You don’t mind if I stay the night do you? VICK...

The only thing I'm going to say about this next piece is that kids should play outside more, like I did when I was a kid. We spent two weeks gathering supplies to build our raft. After our parents would go to sleep, we would sneak into the garbage and withdraw empty milk-jugs and two-liter soda bottles and store them in our secret stash behind a bright blue tarp, our makeshift fort, strung up between fence poles into a sort of lean-to in the backyard. When a stiff wind would come in from the valley, it would blow up and down in the air and make thick, thunderous sounds that scared the neighbor’s children in the middle of the night, but we didn’t care, we were teenagers now. Once we’d collected an entire garbage bag full of plastic bottles and jugs, we set out to the dollar store with our saved up pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters to purchase six-dollars worth of duct tape and various odds and ends, lengths of rope and the like. Then we raced back home on our bicycles and go...

Here's some more verse. Damn Anna for somehow provoking this flood of poetry. I'll have a short story proper in the next few days and I think we'll see another guest story from Jason before the end of the month, so visit back often. I cried myself to sleep. Tears of joy, tears of sorrow. Bitter, yet sweet and wonderful. Being with her, close to her, brings joy; away and apart the bitter. Conflicting emotion is overwhelming, floating on air, elated, but also weighted down with reality. It's wonderful and maddening all at once. The most beautiful thing in the world: to have your heart lift inside your chest, even if it's breaking all at the same time. I love it and hate it. I love her, and she'll be mine... ...always... ...and never...

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 ...