Thomas Bryant
Bio
I write about my experiences fictionalized into short stories and poems.
Stories (11)
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My Branches Sag
my family’s tree is incongruous; its limbs sag off the side
By Thomas Bryantabout a month ago in Poets
What Remains of the Day
Before I knew about what remains of the day, I could hear the whistling of the forests’ songs linger; the presence of what was once a society now evanesced along the lapless hills before becoming a memory. My ears cringe with fear as the ringing blurs deep inside that memory, like a flashback, it eclipses my singeing flesh, raw with pink-white palette melting and contorting. I feel the fine blades of grass that used to dance with flurry, now choked in broken, arid earth. My soles sink, bringing up colorful bits beneath the soil. Just past, I watch the crooked streams flow with a prismatic film, left behind by the coughing plant upstream; its trails of smoke escape from the crimson high towers afar, away from the people, but unavoidable to the pleasant, pedestrian life that rummages through the crumpled leaves, or that which drinks from the stream.
By Thomas Bryant2 months ago in Fiction
From the Bamboo Shoots, She Bore
The debris scattered across the old paved road reminded me of pictures of the streets of Hiroshima, their crumbled Earth grinding under the pressure of patchwork taped rubber tires. My father pressed on the heavy pedal, lowering the gear as we heard the high clunk of the gearshift, pushing us up the untouched path wrapped in canopies of old pine and oak. Puffs of miasma spat from the exhaust; a plume of inky smoke escaped into the heavy summer air. As my head turned, I stared into the thickets surrounding us; the unfettered eyes had been masked by foliage as they watched from their shelter.
By Thomas Bryant2 months ago in Fiction
The Day Motherhood Arrived Too Soon
My lips fold like swaying waves over my tongue, tasting the dry air before returning to their den. Its pale gray flesh, almost colorless, crackles in my mouth as it grinds against my canines; the taste of iron swirling with spit and plaque.
By Thomas Bryant2 months ago in Fiction
A Town Where Blossom Petals Fall Ever So Slowly
This morning, I read an article in the paper about my hometown, Nikko. The author wrote about the weak state of the local economy; people fleeing to Tokyo, Yokohama, Gunma, etc. It all felt gothic, trying to recall what Nikko was like all those years ago. Had it really changed all that much since I transplanted to the city? They continued reflecting on the once-burgeoning tourist industry and its shortcomings, being nestled between two mountains with no access to a high-speed rail: a half-day’s train ride in and out of town.
By Thomas Bryant2 months ago in Fiction
