Bryan Buffkin
Bio
Bryan Buffkin is a high school English teacher, a football and wrestling coach, and an aspiring author from the beautiful state of South Carolina. His writing focuses on humorous observational musings and inspirational fiction.
Stories (50)
Filter by community
Premature Hope
It was 2016 in Saluda, South Carolina. A week before Spring Break. Anna was as big as a house and we were expecting the boys any day now. Despite her impending childbirth, Anna still worked from time to time, and my teaching schedule hadn’t changed at all. This particular day, around late month-seven of the pregnancy, Anna went to her doctor for yet another check-up. As it turns out, twins can fit in a mother’s stomach any number of ways, and our twins decided to lay one on top of the other, Logan on top and Lukie on the bottom. Now that I think about it, much of this still rings true to what the boys are like today; at any given moment, the boys are probably laying on top of each other right this very moment.
By Bryan Buffkin2 years ago in Chapters
Akdown
It was my Junior year of high school, and I belonged to a group of friends that were obsessed with video games and professional wrestling. We weren’t meatheads, per se, but when we got together, we often acted as such. I would go to my friend Jonathan’s house, we would fire up his Sega Saturn, and we would play these terrible professional wrestling video games. They would handle poorly, the graphics wouldn’t impress anybody, and it was very stupid, juvenile, and overall harmless fun. One such week, we used the create-a-wrestler function to create our own personal and horrific abominations. We would program their moves, their finishers, their celebrations, everything; we fashioned them after psychopathic clowns in the vein of the Insane Clown Posse (we were stupid teenagers; I’ll apologize for nothing). We played our characters against Stone Cold Steve Austin, Shawn Michaels, The Rock… and we had a blast.
By Bryan Buffkin2 years ago in Writers
William Goldings "Lord of the Flies"
People are all born evil and selfish, always choosing themselves first. It is only society that makes us good or redeemable. How do we know? William Golding’s masterpiece puts this front and center, showing that good British boys will immediately slice each other’s throats the second the chips are down.
By Bryan Buffkin2 years ago in Critique
Twisted, by Laurie Halse Anderson
It was 2007; I was in graduate school, getting my masters in Secondary ELA Education, on my way to becoming a high school English teacher. I’m starting the first round of my student teaching, and on my first day at this particular school, I was given a rather brief tour of the school. When I went into the uncomfortably tight guidance office, a book on the counselor’s shelf caught my eye. It was a dark, reflective black cover, and on it was a bright red pencil that twirled around itself at the top. The glaring colors against the deep black backdrop grabbed my attention, as did the title etched in stark white going up the side of the pencil. Simple, sharp. Twisted. I picked it up and looked it over, and the counselor began to gush. “Oh, it’s so good.” “You’ll read it in one sitting.” “Just the best young adult novel you could ask for.” All glowing recommendations.
By Bryan Buffkin2 years ago in BookClub
Tales From a Dad With a Whistle
So, the Italians derived a term, the title “prima donna,” in the late 17th century. It was a term used to refer to the premier, most talented opera singer in an opera company. Typically, this was a female soprano, the best of the best. From this title, two centuries later, the term “diva” was born. Diva is an Italian term for a female deity, or a “goddess”, and the implication was that these prima donnas were so talented and so popular that they were goddesses compared to other singers in the opera company. It was a supreme compliment.
By Bryan Buffkin2 years ago in Chapters
New Day Baptist
Tyson could have slept clean through the alarm clock were it not for the beam of sunlight cutting through the tattered remains of his hand-me-down curtains, reminding him that he’d already slapped the black snooze button twice. He groaned and rolled to the edge of the bed; his foot slapped the side of a few cheap, plastic bottles, sending them rolling across the stained carpet. He stood and stretched; the room spun a bit, a mixture of only three hours of sleep combined with what he assumed was the remaining alcohol he had in his system. He caught himself on his dresser and shook the cobwebs off. Unlocking the clasp on the knob, he opened his bedroom door and looked down the apartment hallway, only to see the passed out bodies of the numerous revelers from the party the night before, strewn across living room furniture, the floor, and one lovely party-goer peacefully snoring across the dining room table.
By Bryan Buffkin2 years ago in Fiction
Through Your Eyes, Chapter One
My story starts in high school. Senior year. Graduation day. The happiest day of a teenager’s life. I’d already walked. No pranks or anything, as I was not the type to draw much attention to myself. One kid did go naked underneath his cap and gown, but he didn’t have the guts to flash the crowd or anything. His grandparents flew in from London by surprise to see him walk, so those plans were off. Altogether, it was pretty uneventful. It was an outside graduation, early Saturday morning. No ironic rain; just a beautiful day. We were the Haven Highlanders, class of who cares, marching in unison in tacky lightning yellow gowns. Everybody had white tassels, but I went with black. I’m not emo or anything, but I do appreciate meager acts of rebellion, and this was good enough. At the end of the alma mater, all the kids threw their caps in the air like a scene out of an eighties teenage dramedy. I took mine off instead and handed it to Mom, since I know she’d want to frame it and hang it in the house somewhere with my graduation photos. She’s sentimental enough for both of us.
By Bryan Buffkin2 years ago in Fiction
Hal
Today is the end of a chapter in Bryan’s life, as he is putting the last coat of paint on the far wall of the house he grew up in. It’s the wall that separates the master bedroom from the room Bryan grew up in. Bryan always begrudged how inconvenient it was being right next door to his parents’ room, especially having to share a wall with them. But it’s been a good long time since Bryan’s been a teenager. He’s in the master bedroom now with his wife, Anna, painting over the wood paneling in a stylish steel gray with white trim. Very modern. Today will be the last day Bryan will spend in his house, as he and Anna have spent the last few weeks refurbishing, modernizing, and prepping 948 Betsy to sell. It’s time; he knows. And it took a while to get here.
By Bryan Buffkin3 years ago in Families
Jamari
He was smiling, and that’s all I needed. I saw him sprinting down the street, passing the neighborhood blocks and yards with local neighbors mowing the mid-summer grass, and I admired his energy. It was far too early that Saturday morning; I had just woken up an hour before, and I’d gone to sleep only four hours before that. I was clearing the sleep from my eyes and the sweat from my brow when I saw him coming up, and we’d be starting the meeting soon.
By Bryan Buffkin3 years ago in Fiction
