Thomas Bryant
Bio
I write about my experiences fictionalized into short stories and poems.
Stories (19)
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taking the train to the sea
Stranger Danger The clanking steel wheels crash against the hot, expanding metal of the rail track as puffs of steam engulf the station. The clouds in the sky swirl like blobs of paint mixed in water; the faint sprinkles erupt as if struck by a paintbrush. These scattered showers dance across the sky as they splatter against basalt roof tiles and voluminous oaks. People dressed in heavy jackets depart from the train car, stepping past me, past the concrete squares that litter the ground. Like salmon, they push on unimpeded, past everyone around them on their way to work.
By Thomas Bryanta day ago in Fiction
Guardian Angel
The world spun, as if in a fishbowl; the clouds raced across vast cerulean waves. A man’s striped shirt warped into a hotel towel, stretched with sweat seeping through the fibers. His crown receded into the sky, flying white follicles that resembled a seagull’s wing. The sun rose beneath, overtaking the aberrant trees: pines and conifers, oaks and mulberries, sprouting from her eyelids.
By Thomas Bryantabout a month ago in Fiction
A Night Painted with the Scars of Hate. Content Warning.
Steam clouds emanate from the sewer grates like puffs of smoke spilling from the listless mouths that pass on the street. His nose turns away at the slightest hint of smoke; the smell clings to his clothes like children grasping for toys in displays. Opening the door to a discreet shop along the burgeoning street, he files inside to a world utterly alien to him. His eyes darted around the interior store with its neon signs advertising paraphilia in bright, abnormal colors. The walls must have been wrapped in leather dyed by the night sky. Corvids decorated the walls as if they were suddenly going to attack the puppies on leashes, or those meant to resemble them.
By Thomas Bryant2 months ago in Fiction
Free Loveseat
Every other night, I notice the variation of kipple that loiters—the many monuments littering the city—of every single different kind of leather chair, plush recliner, and loveseat, and Art Deco sofa, many of which end up abandoned, deteriorating the crumbling, and most definitely paper-thin, sidewalks of the street. They rest discarded, like departed souls, or perhaps, the poor souls of Black folk, neglected by the bluest of eyes. Of all of the rubbish, chairs are my fancy. There’s a lot of character in the shape of a chair; the subtle curves especially remind me of the night women who stand on the curb.
By Thomas Bryant2 months ago in Fiction
The Corpse Found on Languid Lane
A jar of jam rested, the lid upturned; half of a loaf of sourdough flakes before the sunlight peered through the glass pane like a voyeur. The gelatinous glucose purée of wild strawberries clung to the glass but left behind a faint trail of rose, resembling the lens of a pair of lunettes. A spoon lay on the eggshell counter; blood pools in the concave shape. A saucer lay beside with the crust of freshly cut bread atop, hanging off the edge with a half-moon impression.
By Thomas Bryant2 months ago in Fiction
