Entries By RS Bohn
Displaying 91 To 120 Of 120 Entries
In the warehouse, Fal became ill and sat on boxes, then reposed, until late in the day, when Cas packed him with the rest and sent him to Yemen. The box was quiet for most of its trip, when upon opening, a certain businessman remarked on the badly packed box and its contents, rattled and shaken and pooling at the bottom. He could never resell it.Posted By RS Bohn On 07.24.2011 @ 4:27 pm
Little corkscrew tail attached to a white-washed skeleton, Piggy danced through the streets to the tap-tap-tap of autumn’s crackling branches. The bonfire for his mother and father was nearly out; come morning, Piggy would fall among the ashes til only his corkscrew tail was left to roll among the weeds and bushes.Posted By RS Bohn On 07.23.2011 @ 5:17 pm
Ticket in hand, I throw myself at the bouncing carnival. Lights shine on my candy-coated face, a black prospect among all these jubilant children. My smile sheds cancer in the dust, their tiny feet tramping through, bringing it with them to pop balloons, ride the ferris wheel, and at last, at last, home to bed.Posted By RS Bohn On 07.22.2011 @ 5:32 pm
The Plague hit hardest in our coastal village, with babes tossed in the water alongside old men for months. When finally we survivors stood on the beach, ragged and starved but free of disease, we watched as the waves coughed up our dead, one by one. They were happy to see us.Posted By RS Bohn On 07.13.2011 @ 5:10 am
A melancholy bird at the window. It’s raining. I unbraid my hair and stare the bird down, until he takes a little plunge from the sill and I am left to wonder, with my unbound hair, if he has really reached his supreme day, his own inevitable hour, or simply flown to another window.Posted By RS Bohn On 07.01.2011 @ 5:56 pm
His lust was unmatched by mine. Day by day, our collection grew. Is this yours? he’d ask, and I would say, eyelashes lowered, Yes, it is mine. Soon our apartment filled with our collection, and he stepped onto the tiny balcony and said over his shoulder, I cannot live like this any longer, and he tipped over the railing and was gone. The collections are mine, both. I inhale the sweet aroma and tell the children, No, your mama, your papa are not coming back, no. The collections cry and I fall asleep on the daybed, my lust still demanding more.Posted By RS Bohn On 06.28.2011 @ 6:58 am
You’ve got no morals, she said. None at all.
Does it matter? I asked, licking her ankle.
Yes, she said.
I moved to her knee.
On second consideration…
I licked the inside of her thigh.
No, I suppose it doesn’t matter.
Darling sister, I murmured, we are so alike…Posted By RS Bohn On 06.26.2011 @ 11:12 am
He was the last of the singing barbers. As I sat in his chair, he crooned in my ear: grief and love in four-part harmony, though when I looked in the mirror, he was alone. It was the saddest song, and tears rolled down my face, mingling with snips of damp hair. When he was done, he took off the apron and left the shop under the tinkle of a little bell. I’ve never had a haircut since; it grows in silence.Posted By RS Bohn On 02.25.2011 @ 6:46 am
It was the endless chatter. I had no choice. I’d never wanted an office job anyway. I’m not tie and shined shoes material. I’m not social. I hate small talk. So, yes, I had no choice.
Three ounces of arsenic, carefully portioned out. We’ve got a new secretary. Her name is Melissa. She’s quiet as a mouse.Posted By RS Bohn On 10.09.2010 @ 1:24 pm
There was a tale of a bunny in old Norwich, whose tail had been bitten off by a dog. The dog grew ears as long as a rabbit’s, and could hear all the sounds he’d missed before: the fox in the brush, the hawk high overhead. The man with the gun. These sounds terrified him now, and he ran deep into the woods, until he found a hole beneath a tree in which to hide. The bunny found him there, still trembling, and offered him this: a nip on his nose. The bunny’s teeth went deep, and the dog lie there, bleeding and howling, but the bunny had gone, the dog’s nose in his mouth, and now he could see the tracks of all the wild things in the leaves. In seven days’ time, they both arose into the night sky, and now they are bunny and dog, chasing each other across the midnight fields forever.Posted By RS Bohn On 10.04.2010 @ 7:17 am
The waiter asked if I would like to order. “No,” I said, “someone will be here shortly.” His smile was sympathetic, which I ignored. And so I looked out the window at the park and imagined what we would do when he arrived, our conversation, how he would hold his water goblet, and what he would say about my new glasses.
When they informed me the restaurant was about to close, I delicately took money from my purse to give to the waiter and prepared to make my exit. He gave it back to me. “Your glasses suit your face. The red is very bold.” In blushing apology (and what had I to apologize for?), I left, and now I imagine conversations with this waiter, and how he would hold the door for me everywhere we went.Posted By RS Bohn On 09.27.2010 @ 10:46 am
Luke had secretly spiked the punch — if by secretly, you mean that everyone knew. The purple concoction was popular, until everyone woke the next morning in a big naked pile with the hangover of the century.
There was still punch left. We had it with scrambled eggs and toast.Posted By RS Bohn On 09.15.2010 @ 4:54 am
Upstairs was grandma, too ill to come down. I played in the kitchen all the time, or stood at the bottom of the stairs, holding onto the banister, afraid to go up. It smelled like old lady, and old perfume, and I was afraid she would call me to come to her if she saw me.Posted By RS Bohn On 09.12.2010 @ 5:42 am
The hats she knitted were all the same: blue and brown and tasseled on top. He didn’t want to wear them, but knew she’d want him to anyway. He thought they made his head look more like an egg than ever.
This, he thought, is love. Wearing ugly hats because she made them for you.
He put them under the car seat when she wasn’t around.Posted By RS Bohn On 09.09.2010 @ 2:37 pm
Along the Pont’s rocky barrier, a stroller stops and checks his shoes for a pebble. I’m watching from afar, my shouts lost in the sea winds, the ocean laughs, and there it is, finally, what I’ve always wanted to see: the merman of Pont Cros, in all his slimy, clawed sleekness. The pebble in his shoe is no longer the man’s problem. The problem is his dismembered body, rendered on the rocks, a bloody sheet down to the foam.Posted By RS Bohn On 09.07.2010 @ 2:47 pm
I had to raise my standards if I wanted to play with him. He was no boy with a shirt open too far, jeans slung too low. He smelled, in fact, like ginger, like expensive restaurants, like my last glass of champagne nine years ago.
I decided I couldn’t play. Sometimes, one must be content with what finds in the alley behind the apartment that is home to a woman who calls this type of man “husband.” Sometimes, one forgets the other dream and licks tuna from a can.Posted By RS Bohn On 09.04.2010 @ 3:50 pm
Piano-playing trees from down in the ghetto blocked the garage for a week. We danced and sang until we were so tired, we fell on their roots and slept. When we woke, the trees were gone, just whispers through the garage windows, branches tickling the panes. I loved the songs, but only the rats know what they mean.Posted By RS Bohn On 09.01.2010 @ 4:51 pm
He had the cheek to tell me that my new haircut suited me. How dare he say such a thing, when he is quite aware that I find him perfectly hideous. With his blushing lips, so red, his blue eyes, and that adorably geeky haircut of his own, so messy and…
Oh dear.Posted By RS Bohn On 08.30.2010 @ 6:36 pm
Through an indistinct haze of rum and ginger ale, I managed to see Robert making his way over to me. “Hey,” he said, “It’s time you stopped drinking.”
I downed the rest of my drink and joined him in the pool. He held my head under until I puked. He said, “I saved your life. You owe me,” and he got out. I’m still wondering what he meant.Posted By RS Bohn On 08.28.2010 @ 11:49 am
It was understood that I’d not be around after the first month. Not that it was in writing, but it was implicit in my words, my behaviors. How could she blame me, then? I asked her, and all she said was death and love and love. I understood none of it. None.Posted By RS Bohn On 08.21.2010 @ 5:19 pm
Under a bridge by my house lived a troll. He ate small children, or so I heard. One day, I brought my little brother, Marvin, down to meet the troll.
They are still looking for Marvin. I could tell them, but I won’t. Mother is pregnant again, and enough is enough.Posted By RS Bohn On 08.20.2010 @ 2:09 pm
She stood in line at the grocery store of death. In her basket were the requisite pomegranates and a bone knife. She also had mascara (waterproof) and jelly beans. When it was her turn to be rung up, the cashier looked at her sadly. “You have too many items.” She put back the pomegranates and paid. No one helped her to her car.Posted By RS Bohn On 08.19.2010 @ 1:09 pm
She had probable cause to believe her husband was the murderer.
After all, she lay in the basement pit, covered in tarps and disintegrating beneath the oily weight of chemicals he’d stored for months, just for this moment.
She wished she’d noticed the signs before the knife hit.Posted By RS Bohn On 08.13.2010 @ 5:12 am