The stories of Bryan Young

It was almost ten years since we’d spoken. You left so quickly that we’d made promises about circumstances under which you’d come back to me that, perhaps, we both knew neither of us could keep, though I didn’t allow myself those thoughts. Not then, anyway. I didn’t realize how much of an impression you’d made on me. In your curlicued handwriting, you’d written down you address for me to write to you. I kept that scrap of paper in my wallet for just over two years. In that time I wrote three letters and was too much of a coward to send any of them. I thought about you a lot, but my memory of you began to fade after I met someone else, but never completely. As Mr. Bernstein explained, you were my girl with the white parasol. Who knew if you’d ever remember me, but I would bet there hasn’t been a month that has gone by in all that time when I haven’t thought of you. The rest of this story is available in the collection "Cupid Painted Blind" available on Amazon for t...

by Jason Young (Editors Note: This is a complete work of fiction. So relax. Jason was trying his had at some Woody Allen absurdism...) When I was a kid my dad used to take me to baseball games at Angel Stadium and we would cheer for them the whole game. When they lost, which was the case most of the time, we would call them bums as they left the field. My dad was a bastard, and now I hate baseball. Although I never lost the urge to catch a home-run ball. He put me in little league when I was seven years old. My team never lost a game and I was the best player on the team. I played left field. In little league it seems to me that the outfielders have very little to do. Even a ball being hit by the mightiest seven-year-old batter rarely travels past the pitcher. I would get very bored in the outfield, and would feel like no one was watching me. Not that I didn’t put on a hell of a show. I once caught a ball by expanding the elastics on my pants to an absurd le...