The stories of Bryan Young

“Hello?” I said into the phone, accepting the call from a number I didn’t recognize. “Hey,” the feminine voice on the other replied, as though I should know the sound of her voice. At a loss, I said, “Can I help you?” “It’s Brooke.” Her name stopped me. It couldn’t possibly be her. We hadn’t spoken in years, a decade perhaps. “Brooke?” “Yeah, Brooke Baker. This is Mark, right?” Jesus Christ. It was her. “Yeah, it is Mark. Brooke. Wow. How are you? It’s been a long time since… well… since anything.” “I know.” “So, how are you doing?” “Okay, I suppose…” Her voice belied her words, though. Something was up. “I… It’s just been so long and I guess I wanted to hear your voice.” “I don’t think I had a number for you. Ever. I offered a couple of times, but…” “I was a brat back then.” And that’s how a random phone call turned into a two-and-a-half hour catch-up session. We spoke of everything under the sun: people we still knew, how different we were, h...

You've told me many times before that we're nothing but "just-friends" anymore But I dreamt of you last night, and it was the sweetest thing I've ever seen. We were running from someone, arm in arm. He was after you, your beauty, your virtue, your love, but you couldn't surrender it, not to him anyway. And so there I was, just a friend. But I loved you anyway and there we were. He called out to you and we ducked under an outcropping, thick in the fog. We were pressed against each other, keeping from his sight, trying our hardest to stay quiet. And I could feel your heart beating so close to mine that your "just-friend" just had to do something about it. Softly, on your lips I kissed you, knowing full well that I shouldn't have. But you kissed back and for five brief seconds I was in bliss. But it was all just an impossible dream. I woke up and could still feel your lips on mine, and it broke my heart when I realized my dream might never come true...

In honor Kurt Vonnegut's memory on this, the second anniversary of his untimely death, I wanted to share with you guys a letter I wrote to Vonnegut but regret never sending. Dated February 18, 2006, it was written just over a year prior to his death. I typed it up on an old Corona typewriter. I've also submitted this and accompanying column to the Huffington Post. Here's the link to that article. (For other Huffington Post columns of mine, click here. ) Also, It'll only be another day or two for me to be posting a new short story. It's being a little bit more troublesome than I'd like. Mr. Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., My name is Bryan Young and this is the second letter I've written you, but only the first I've sent. I read the first letter I wrote to you and crumpled it up and threw it in the trash. What it had to say was this: I'm 25, I've read almost your complete library every year since I was 15 and respect, admire, and cherish you and what yo...

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...