Sydney O Bryant

“The Queen And Her Bull” by Sydney O Bryant

She sits on her throne. An elegant, pale hand extends to stroke the fur of a beast laying at her feet. Jagged horns and honed snout. Dark eyes. It breathes and a dark curl tumbles off her shoulder, draping itself upon the air. That empty air, teeming with silence like a goblet, sides dripping from bit too much wine. Sun-stone balusters, gleaming frescoes offer relief from the tension. Images dancing upon the walls of wom...

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“Pulling Weeds” by Sydney O Bryant

Submitted to Contest #105

TW: mention of eating disorders, depression, self-harm and suicide.To feel like a stranger in your own home. Out of place, a Barbie among china dolls. Replaceable. When those bitter, nonsensical childhood memories begin to make sense. The epiphany that it is not a case of love, but fragility. Some require more glue to be held together than others.That time when you sang and she sang too, and you tittered in your unbroken voice a complaint about her stealing your spotlight. They dismissed you. Yet when you sang alo...

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“In the Town of Eyam” by Sydney O Bryant

Submitted to Contest #104

  Sitting on the banks of the River Caen, between the two peaks, there is a little town by the name of Eyam. In this town rapids slow and birds cease their chirping as the sun rises. Through the air floats petals: scarlet, cerulean or emerald. Once in an apricot moon may you find a lilac blossom, spreading its gift throughout the sky. Spirits drape themselves across the clouds, cushioning their lithe limbs and softly grazing their smooth skin. When they tilt their gaze to the earth, they gaze upon Eyam. For there, in those bl...

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“Take Me To Church” by Sydney O Bryant

Submitted to Contest #102

But the heel of my shoe raps against the politely polished tile, tap…tap…tap…it is incessant, a wave crashing time and time again against a shore, a bell striking three over and over…a bejewelled hand touches my knee so I stop. Mother knows best, if she thinks me a distraction then a distraction I am. So my gaze turns upwards, to the man in the black robes with the white-collar. The fat of his double chin erupts from its constraints, jiggling up and down as he moves his mouth. I tune into his words, they a...

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“A Man, His Memories and the Long Road Ahead” by Sydney O Bryant

Submitted to Contest #101

He walks the road alone. His cane clicks against the cobblestone, relieving his weary feet of the burden of his weight. Against the brightly burning mid-afternoon sun, his skin glistens, his chapped lips and crimson cheeks peeling off from the heat. They have been doing that for a long time now, the layers shedding off as if he is some sort of lizard, and he wonders if it will reach a point where he will no longer have ...

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“On the Doorstep” by Sydney O Bryant

Submitted to Contest #100

The shrill cry of the doorbell as I press. I hold my breath. My scuffed jogging shoes tap the pavement over and over, my nervous disposition is at fault. Never in my life have I been able to sit still. In high school, I fidgeted with the pencils, the desks, anything I could grab. When I got to college it didn’t get much better, especially during the times I would return home. Like now. I don’t blame my parents, my siblings or the rest of my family. How could I? It’s not as if they put the entire burden of their completely fucked up, wretc...

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“The Meadow” by Sydney O Bryant

Submitted to Contest #99

Bliss. The exact meaning of the word is, according to conventional society, “perfect happiness”. However simple definitions could never capture the feeling Iris holds, and she does not live in conventional society. In the Meadow, the rules do not apply and she is exempt. She can use as many or as few words as she likes to describe how she feels when her bare feet sink into the delicious mud, the sensation of the...

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“Tread Lightly” by Sydney O Bryant

Submitted to Contest #98

When they fell, I fell too. Like a stone swept up in the currents of a stream, a poor bird with wings not strong enough to resist the winds. I allowed my story to be woven into a narrative that was not my own, untrue in its illustrations. Now the fire flickers and my home is not my own. Chair creaks and I sigh and the wind whistles past the open windows, the sounds becoming one. My eyes flit upwards and he sits in the chair opposite me, watching. He is chained, yes, but his cool glare full of contempt and calculations is ever-present and ...

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“Witch on the Waters” by Sydney O Bryant

Submitted to Contest #98

Coincidentally, the day of my tenth birthday was also the day I first saw the witch. I awoke to the usual incessant droplets of water leaking from the weak ceiling and splattering onto my face, streaking across my cheeks like teardrops. I sat up. Neither my mother nor father had called me yet, which meant I had either woken too early or today was a special day. Luckily, soon I was to discover it was the latter. Moments later, my sister leapt through the doorway, her roughspun frock bouncing almost as enthusiastically as she was. She lunge...

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“Out” by Sydney O Bryant

Submitted to Contest #97

Out of the window, I hear a flurry of chattering suddenly pass by my house. Tonight, after waking up sweaty and red-faced, I had left it open to let in a cool breeze. Maybe now it is time to close it. Quietly, to not wake up my parents and brother, I pad across my room until I reach the windowsill. My slender, delicate hand reaches up, feeling for the handle to pull the window shut. But the noisy shadows distract me; I lean forward, peering into the darkness. They dance across the pavement. Although they are illuminated only by a single d...

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