The stories of Bryan Young

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