Lamont Renzo Bracy
Bio
Lamont Curtis Bracy, better known as Renzo or LB, is an American author, songwriter, record executive, entrepreneur, and director.
Instagram: @lamontrenzobracy
Stories (4)
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Victoria's Pass
Every year, the second weekend of October marks our adventurous trip up the Tennessee Smokies. Nestled just 30 feet from Lake Victoria Pass, the cabins in the mountains of West Virginia has been our go to family destination for the past ten years. My wife, Equinda, and the kids consider all the amenities and scenic sites to be just a small slice of heaven and look forward to the week-long excursion; however, I’ve grown complacent of the trip and feel a bit defeated that my vacation idea was shot down by the family committee. Nevertheless, the truck is packed, the gps is set, and I've taken my position behind the cockpit. The venture starts as planned for the most part, you know, stopping every five minutes to let the kids go to the restroom, or playing the usual game of follow the leader in every convenience store on I-75. What do they call it; “Deja vu” every action of the trip seems routine and a replica of years past. I glance up at the upcoming sign and it reads, Lake Victoria Pass 75 miles, exit 1 mile. This is the part of the journey where I clinch up and put on my reading glasses. The next 75 miles is what I’ve nicknamed the Devil’s Pass. The terrain switches from a four lane US highway, to a 2 lane road wrapped around a serpentine of mountainous wooded forest covered with snow and cliff hangers. The time is now 4pm and I know I’ve only got about an hour of daylight ahead of me.
By Lamont Renzo Bracy4 years ago in Horror
Alabama Reign
“There is no place like Alabama,'' I exclaimed as I walked into the tavern at the corner of Mill and Dockery road. The dreary eyed patrons canceled all conversation and began to stare. I’m totally drenched from head to toe as I made my way to the bar. With every step, my galoshes leave a puddle of disfigured footprints on the wooden boards supporting the 90 year old structure. The bar seemed to move further from me as I approached. I can hear the snickering and whispering from the old men who reaped aged beer and cheap whiskey. Finally, I secured my corner seat at the end of the bar and yelled, “Butch, the usual.” As Butch slid the cold IPA my direction, I gestured for him to come closer, so I could unload the woe’s of my day. “Wow! Mack, it looks like you’ve been to hell and back”, Butch shouted with a devilish smirk. I hesitantly responded, “Shut up Jerk, and listen to what I’ve been through, my friend’. By this time, the patrons had drawn seats and were pushing to grab a position to listen in.
By Lamont Renzo Bracy4 years ago in Horror
BoWenkle
The wintry breeze whistles from the crack beneath the window seal in the aged two bedroom log cabin. For me and my cousin Dylan, we prefer the amenities of the way things used to be, long before technology and cellular devices. I’m paralyzed between a measly blanket and the freezing sheet which has me squirming to find a nestle of warmth. The time is exactly 4:07 am; I know because for the past hour, I’ve been fixated on the candescent glow from the casio alarm clock which seems to be in sync with my heartbeat. With every passing moment, my anticipation about today’s challenge grows stronger and stronger in my belly as a raging stew attempting to boil over. The months of training, praying, and hoping I can live up to the legendary father is about to become reality. See, In the small Alabama town of Fort Deposit, there are only two choices for a young man, the steel mills or the professional Bull riding circuit. I, for one realized at age 9, that any man worth his salt was destined to become a wrangler. My father George, was known across the continent for his glory days of taking on the biggest and baddest bulls bread from championship lines. As a matter of fact, my father still holds the record for the most rides without being ejected from the beast. Please keep in perspective, this was in 1979 before the sport was recognized as it is today. My father was state champ in 1980, 1981, and went on to claim the title as The World’s Bull Riding Champion in 1982. The championship circuit accumulates the first week of January in New Hampshire every year. Wranglers from all over the World embark on the sleepy town of Skalawagaugh to prove their dominance in the field of Bull Wrangling. Talking about pressure!
By Lamont Renzo Bracy4 years ago in Fiction
