Comments Posted By RS Bohn
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She made dough from bits of acorn flour and last fall’s mud from the edge of the small pond out by the apple orchard. Whipping it into a semblance of pie crust required quail eggs and two snails, lightly smushed. When it was finished, she filled the doughy crust with everything a young woman loved at fifteen: dog fur and paperback books with pencilled prices on the inside cover, all under a dollar. Sprinkled crimped notebook paper over the top, topped with Converse shoe laces. Bake under the ferns in April, when they are barely fiddleheads. Devour.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 04.04.2016 @ 7:45 am
White trails across the sky: seventeen comets. Black trails over the fence: raccoons, and more raccoons. Banking all these, a pocketful of images to eat one at a time when I am old.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 11.20.2014 @ 3:16 pm
Across the Zone of Avoidance lies another galaxy, slowly pulling us in. Passing through gas and debris and comet dust, we transform: a hundred million lifetimes from now, I will see you again, as through fractals, you and me split and mirrored, over and over.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 11.17.2014 @ 7:55 am
She wore dignity in scraps; the single petals of daisies, the bit of ragweed that made him sneeze. The flexing branch of a golden tree, behind her head.
And still it cloaked her, so that her steps made no sound in the forest. When Summer came upon him, yet sleeping, in the place he thought no one could find…
She left her dignity behind, and cast a longing look at his fragile form.
Winter would never know.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 09.21.2014 @ 2:28 pm
‘comes the mailman. He’s tapping his tambourine today. Up the walks, under trees, playing for squirrels. If he’s got a message, we’ll know. We’ll hear it in the way the tambourine shakes. But for now, nothing. Not a single thing the wind doesn’t already know.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 09.11.2014 @ 6:45 am
The coupling lasted no more than a handful of minutes; the last shooting stars of the night drowned in purple dawn. Heidi looked up, through branches bare of leaves, at the clouds and never-ending sky, and listened as he put his trousers back on.
“Breakfast?” he said, without reaching for her.
“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”
With a soft huff of relief, he was gone, tramping back through the woods to his house, to his wife.
Heidi turned and lay her forehead against rough bark. It strummed beneath her touch. Someday, she thought. Someday.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 08.21.2014 @ 8:03 am
The coarseness of his hair surprised. I had, I suppose, expected it to be silky. Still, I ran my palm across his shoulder, down his chest. He quivered.
“Beautiful beast,” I said. “Do you give yourself to me?”
He lowered his head, a noble nose touching the floor. He acquiesced. Agreed to be–
» Posted By RS Bohn On 07.30.2014 @ 6:30 am
The sunlight made everything blurry–or maybe it was the hangover. She shouldn’t have gone out last night with Greg. She was an agent now, expected to make critical, mature, intelligent decisions. Such as not getting wasted with a co-worker on a Tuesday night.
It had been, however, to celebrate her promotion. Stuffing her face back into the pillow, she burrowed her hands beneath it and pricked herself.
“Ouch,” she muttered, and withdrew the sharp item.
Her new badge. Silver and ornate, heavy and… hers. She was officially Agent Paulson, one of the Association. One of an elite group of werewolf-hunters. One of… the victims of the worst hangover she could ever remember.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 07.24.2014 @ 6:24 am
Pit bulls huddle beneath sky rockets fallen among the pick-ups and Toyotas. Vagrants gone, food gone, puddles of oil and rain water abound. Somewhere, in an asparagus-green sky, their masters rotate in silver star-condos. A rib cage expands and contracts. Far off, in an apartment building, a girl wakes, alone, in a pile of dirty laundry. She puts on shoes and coat and goes looking for them, with scraps in her pockets and lemon-scented hair.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 07.21.2014 @ 6:51 am
Werewolves playing billiards again at Sam’s. I hang back, watching. They’re pretty good; they’ll take you for a twenty or so. They’re not out for blood. Not like the kids in their hoodies, pretending to be sixteen. Now them, you need to watch out for. They’ll take you for everything you’ve got.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 06.18.2014 @ 6:11 am
All that decadence, and no one to ignore it. No one to treat it with indifference, no one to walk past, as if gilded vases filled with crystal lilies were in everyone’s houses.
Only me, and if I am the only one to see it, and no one sees me amidst it, does it even matter? Perhaps nothing matters anymore, or more likely, the things that matter now have always been important, but we treated them like dust upon our golden o’bjets: to be wiped away, quickly, before anyone sees.
I hoist the crossbow and take aim. One of them is at the French doors, coming in. It wears Armani, tattered. Perhaps it used to live here. Perhaps it is as appalled by the world outside now as it was then; or perhaps it merely scented me. The arrow flies, and the dead teeters back, back, into the half-empty pool. I shut the doors and lock them, and pretend it was I who used to live here.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 06.11.2014 @ 8:53 am
Deirdre stalled for time, brushing biscuit crumbs from her trousers. The dragon leaned its massive head closer and peered at her through one blood-red eye.
Deirdre gulped. The creature’s breath alone was like a furnace. What would its flame be like, should she answer wrong?
“I think, sir,” she said after a moment, “that yes, I should very much like a ride.”
» Posted By RS Bohn On 06.05.2014 @ 7:56 am
Sly poured himself another orange juice. It tasted like morning, curtains closed, and oatmeal on the stove, bubbling up. It tasted like Callie was still here, moving about the kitchen, telling him to drink his o.j.
It tasted like days that would never come again. He shoved it off the table and let the glass break.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 06.04.2014 @ 6:12 am
They’ve adapted. We’re on the run, now. All our defenses turning to dust–literally. Now that the plants have turned photosynthesis into a weapon of destruction, and they’ve mobilized, we’ve nowhere to go, except to the mountains.
Up the rocks, past deadly lichen. Avoiding murderous stunted pines. Up, up. It’s the only way to hide.
Closer to the sun, though…
» Posted By RS Bohn On 06.01.2014 @ 5:51 am
We the educated: we are few, we are
scissored in half by the world
If you need a friend, look to me, look elsewhere, look
inside. This book has arrived just in time
sport a passage or two upon your neck for
all the world to see
» Posted By RS Bohn On 05.26.2014 @ 5:22 am
Each day we pray the weathered barn will fall, of its own accord and not at anyone’s hand; certainly not by ours. We watch through curtains mildewed and thick, hoping for the vibration that will tell us the boards are giving way. Some afternoon, some sweet afternoon, the barn may fall. And on that day, Diana, and all of us, will shudder with relief at the abattoir of our elders having finally turned to dust.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 05.14.2014 @ 5:51 am
These are days of miracles, certainly. She thinks that every day since the night she met him has been full of amazement. Even the most mundane things are full of sparkle. It’s as if a miraculous treasure chest opened, and blinded her with its contents, and now all she can see are the glittering diamonds left in his wake.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 05.05.2014 @ 9:29 am
When the cutest of the little dragons was finished sneezing, we gathered them into a basket and apologized for all the pepper. They grinned toothy grins and spat sparks, and allowed us to carry them all the way to school. Matthew had an old bee hive; Julie had her grandma’s teeth. But we had a basket of dragons, all bright and vicious and adorable. Show and Tell Day was ours.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 04.28.2014 @ 5:44 am
Dragons lie across the valley, lethargic in the heat, bellies swollen and glistening green-yellow with the eggs they protected. Above, on the valley rim, two thousand soldiers circled, watching for something else, something worse than dragons.
At dusk, a comet blazed across the purple sky, trailing gold fire and turning from the stars to the dragon-filled valley. The soldiers raised their spears and lifted their cannons. A rumble started below, dozens of dragons with slitted eyes watching as the comet tore through the air, a ripple of black heat swelling into that something else.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 04.14.2014 @ 7:01 am
New terrain for us: a thousand porcelain doll arms, a hundred-million toes, cracked off like popcorn.
Bill takes the gun, holsters it. Takes out the flamethrower.
The smell of burning plastic hair and melting faces gags, but we’ve got to get through. She’s on the other side…
» Posted By RS Bohn On 03.12.2014 @ 9:04 am
She had witnessed more of them being put down than anyone should; the televisions played it constantly. They were everywhere; being so small, they could hide in sheds, behind rose bushes, inside of mailboxes. Exposed, they were caught on a billion camera phones, their last moments a blur of pink and red, of whistling screams, of the slightest punch that rendered them inert.
Like popping bubble wrap, Sheila said.
Joy shivered, and hoped she would never find one on her own.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 03.06.2014 @ 6:29 am
Pirates in bowties: A new thing. They swirl among us, apes at the party. We laugh, feed them speared salmon on silver forks, but really, at the end of the night, who wants them there? When the servants are cleaning up, and the last guests are leaving–only these “guests” stay. Don’t they realize they’re entertainment, not guests? I will tell them. Their captain. I will tell them and they will leave.
Here I go.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 02.28.2014 @ 7:30 am
The occupancy rate of Twoheart Towers is now eighty-three–eighty-one more than the building can bear.
Deep in the caverns of the seventh floor, a furnace sputters out. The residents all feel an immediate chill.
Within moments, it is too much to bear. The Towers spit them out, until only two remain. The doors click shut, lock, and they are they, in the lobby, behind enormous glass windows. He turns to her. Without waving goodbye, they take the stairs up, up, to the fortieth floor, where there is warmth and coffee and the slightest vibration of a happy, purring building.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 02.27.2014 @ 6:32 am
We’ve gone and plugged the meter again. Won’t happen after today–well, not likely, anyway. Wendy likes her coffee revved, you see, and after a few extra-strength jitterbugs, she can’t hold a dime to save her life. The officers are sorely tired of it, but me, I don’t mind. I like the way the meter grins, and the way she shimmies into the car, as we make our way into a four o’clock world.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 02.24.2014 @ 2:07 pm
She was striped, shoulders to thighs, white on black but for the tips of her wings: those were black-green, like spreading streaks of oil.
She put a finger to her lips.
Carrie closed her eyes tight and wrapped her arms around me. I stared back at the harpy.
She put a hand to the window, and tested the glass.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 02.20.2014 @ 6:36 am
A talon, then three–the harpy had landed. Her feathers rustled like dry paper. We shivered.
The shingles on the roof began to fall. Another talon, a feather drops, black as oil.
I shut the window slowly, quietly.
A lock of hair drips down. A face, homely, eyes two different colors. The harpy cocks her head.
“I see you.”
» Posted By RS Bohn On 02.19.2014 @ 6:55 am
A trifle more was all she needed. A smidge. A touch…
He moved into place against her. Breathed across her neck. Almost…
Her finger grazed his jaw, just enough to turn his face to hers. He opened his eyes.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 02.18.2014 @ 4:49 am
The demonstrators have reached Haig Street. We watch them from second story windows, radios in hand. What weapons do we possess? While they are replete with grenades and guns. In the morning, this will all be over, we tell ourselves. Whispers between radios in bedroom windows soothe: this will all be over soon.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 02.16.2014 @ 1:18 pm
Now that the vampires have stopped confiding in him, Stan is feeling somewhat bereft. Centuries of secrets–oh, little things, but still! He was almost party to them. Almost there at the moment Mina broke the vase and refused to admit it. Almost there when Count D forgot to tip a bellhop, and bathed in shame, cannot return to that hotel in Central Park. How mundane they’d seemed, how petty. But now they’ve told him all, and what more use does a vampire have for a small time bookie? They’ve lost a few coins, true, but more precisely: unburdened the place where their souls used to sit. Now there is room for something else, but what, they will not tell him.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 02.10.2014 @ 6:57 am
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And on another starlit night, she might’ve said yes. But not this one. Not when Kya still held the bell: glowing, golden, dust like dancing ferries falling from it. No. She couldn’t tell her yes, not when the bell was still missing from their mother’s cupboard. Not when their mother yet cried, waiting, waiting, for the return of the thing.
» Posted By RS Bohn On 02.06.2014 @ 8:45 am