by R.S. Bohn
A skull that fits entirely in her palm, with the downiest hair. He gasps, a single indrawn breath. Almost louder than the footsteps in the hall. Almost.
The closet door closes, and she counts.
*
Six elephants sway above the crib. He glances at the window – still nailed shut.
Son in crook of arm, he opens the closet door. Dust and extra blankets.
Just in case, he nails it shut too.
*
A decade for him, hundreds for her; she’s been carefully avoiding this thread, but today… She pulls.
Rusted nails plink to the floor; the door creaks open:
He’s still perfect.
Author bio: R.S. Bohn officially has no comment on allegations that Stephen Cosgrove based his 1978 book, "Misty Morgan," the story of a princess and her unicorn, on her. She can definitively say, however, that Scholastic book fairs at her school were, without a doubt, the best days of the school year.
Closet is part of 101 Fiction issue 25.
Showing posts with label R.S. Bohn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label R.S. Bohn. Show all posts
Sunday, 15 December 2019
Sunday, 4 March 2018
Scourge
by R.S. Bohn
Grinna Grumpmutt lifted a boot caked in iridescent muck.
She hated unicorn brains. Only thing worse was unicorn entrails after a recent meal. Dragonflies, hamsters, swallowed whole and writhing feebly, half digested, in that rainbow of guts.
The only orc in Parasite Removal meant she got the 'corns. Typically, a couple a year.
There'd been twelve this month already.
Vacation beckoned in fourteen hours – a swampy slice of heaven in Louisiana.
Her walkie screeched, "Got another one! Library!"
Grinna snarled. She had no time for a damned plague of the things.
Wiping her badge, she mounted her scooter.
Countdown on.
Author bio: R.S. Bohn officially has no comment on allegations that Stephen Cosgrove based his 1978 book, "Misty Morgan," the story of a princess and her unicorn, on her. She can definitively say, however, that Scholastic book fairs at her school were, without a doubt, the best days of the school year.
Grinna Grumpmutt lifted a boot caked in iridescent muck.
She hated unicorn brains. Only thing worse was unicorn entrails after a recent meal. Dragonflies, hamsters, swallowed whole and writhing feebly, half digested, in that rainbow of guts.
The only orc in Parasite Removal meant she got the 'corns. Typically, a couple a year.
There'd been twelve this month already.
Vacation beckoned in fourteen hours – a swampy slice of heaven in Louisiana.
Her walkie screeched, "Got another one! Library!"
Grinna snarled. She had no time for a damned plague of the things.
Wiping her badge, she mounted her scooter.
Countdown on.
Author bio: R.S. Bohn officially has no comment on allegations that Stephen Cosgrove based his 1978 book, "Misty Morgan," the story of a princess and her unicorn, on her. She can definitively say, however, that Scholastic book fairs at her school were, without a doubt, the best days of the school year.
Scourge is part of 101 Fiction issue 18.
Canny
by R.S. Bohn
“If you see such a thing, find Gregory. At the Pious Goat.” The man bent, his coat falling open enough to reveal the glint of a silver dagger within, as he passed the coin. “Careful, little man. They're canny beasts. And they eat boys.”
When the man had passed the giant sycamore, Daniel whistled. A shape coalesced from the birch. It snorted, stomping a huge hoof into the deadfall and thwacking its single, spiraling ivory horn against a tree before changing again.
“Shame someone didn’t eat him when he was a boy.”
Daniel shrugged. “Never mind, momma. Let's go home.”
Author bio: R.S. Bohn officially has no comment on allegations that Stephen Cosgrove based his 1978 book, "Misty Morgan," the story of a princess and her unicorn, on her. She can definitively say, however, that Scholastic book fairs at her school were, without a doubt, the best days of the school year.
“If you see such a thing, find Gregory. At the Pious Goat.” The man bent, his coat falling open enough to reveal the glint of a silver dagger within, as he passed the coin. “Careful, little man. They're canny beasts. And they eat boys.”
When the man had passed the giant sycamore, Daniel whistled. A shape coalesced from the birch. It snorted, stomping a huge hoof into the deadfall and thwacking its single, spiraling ivory horn against a tree before changing again.
“Shame someone didn’t eat him when he was a boy.”
Daniel shrugged. “Never mind, momma. Let's go home.”
Author bio: R.S. Bohn officially has no comment on allegations that Stephen Cosgrove based his 1978 book, "Misty Morgan," the story of a princess and her unicorn, on her. She can definitively say, however, that Scholastic book fairs at her school were, without a doubt, the best days of the school year.
Canny is part of 101 Fiction issue 18.
Sunday, 11 June 2017
Tea
by R.S. Bohn
Crabapple soup: what demons are served when they slither through the Dream House portal. Dipping a splintered claw, Fifomene checks for poison. Two grams hemlock. Grinning, he tilts the plastic bowl, pouring hot liquor down his throat.
"My mother's milk was more toxic," he gloats.
She adjusts a slumping Elmo in his chair. "Check the bottom."
A fanged K scrawled in red.
She lifts a finger, where yesterday a doctor had poked her. Smoke billows up.
"Rune-brat! Pint-sized wh—" With a poof, he's gone.
Outside the door, her granny smiles. Demons always were suckers for a witch's tea party.
Author bio: R.S. Bohn lives on one side of a moat and talks to crocodiles. Carries a trident everywhere. Drinks navy-strength rum. Has failed 'Talk Like a Pirate Day' six years running.
Crabapple soup: what demons are served when they slither through the Dream House portal. Dipping a splintered claw, Fifomene checks for poison. Two grams hemlock. Grinning, he tilts the plastic bowl, pouring hot liquor down his throat.
"My mother's milk was more toxic," he gloats.
She adjusts a slumping Elmo in his chair. "Check the bottom."
A fanged K scrawled in red.
She lifts a finger, where yesterday a doctor had poked her. Smoke billows up.
"Rune-brat! Pint-sized wh—" With a poof, he's gone.
Outside the door, her granny smiles. Demons always were suckers for a witch's tea party.
Author bio: R.S. Bohn lives on one side of a moat and talks to crocodiles. Carries a trident everywhere. Drinks navy-strength rum. Has failed 'Talk Like a Pirate Day' six years running.
Tea is part of 101 Fiction issue 15.
Veiled
by R.S. Bohn
Pink eyed, the pigeon stares at me, head cocked. On the fountain edge, gray and black birds coo nervously, but this one is silent.
Next to me, a young woman in mourning dress says, "That one's the Devil. I saw it on the window ledge the day Stephen died."
Before I can tell her that albino pigeons aren't a rarity, that there are bound to be a hundred of them in the city, she darts forward, tossing her black veil over it. It flaps in a panic, as she pummels it with her bare hands.
She leaves, triumphant and bloody-handed.
Author bio: R.S. Bohn lives on one side of a moat and talks to crocodiles. Carries a trident everywhere. Drinks navy-strength rum. Has failed 'Talk Like a Pirate Day' six years running.
Pink eyed, the pigeon stares at me, head cocked. On the fountain edge, gray and black birds coo nervously, but this one is silent.
Next to me, a young woman in mourning dress says, "That one's the Devil. I saw it on the window ledge the day Stephen died."
Before I can tell her that albino pigeons aren't a rarity, that there are bound to be a hundred of them in the city, she darts forward, tossing her black veil over it. It flaps in a panic, as she pummels it with her bare hands.
She leaves, triumphant and bloody-handed.
Author bio: R.S. Bohn lives on one side of a moat and talks to crocodiles. Carries a trident everywhere. Drinks navy-strength rum. Has failed 'Talk Like a Pirate Day' six years running.
Veiled is part of 101 Fiction issue 15.
Sunday, 5 June 2016
Regeneration
by R.S. Bohn
Toes hunted through muck, finding a sharp curve and lifting the shell to the basket slung from her neck.
No arms don't mean no work, her dad said. Clams need digging. If her eyes fell out and got ate up by fish, he'd probably say she don’t need eyes, neither.
Her toes rubbed something rough, like a cat's tongue. She jerked when it moved, wrapping around her foot. She lifted her knee.
A starfish.
Sharp pain tore up her spine, exploding from her shoulders. The starfish dropped away. She slapped at it with a perfect, coral-coloured pair of pointed arms.
Author bio: R.S. Bohn lives on one side of a moat and talks to crocodiles. Carries a trident everywhere. Drinks navy-strength rum. Has failed 'Talk Like a Pirate Day' six years running.
Toes hunted through muck, finding a sharp curve and lifting the shell to the basket slung from her neck.
No arms don't mean no work, her dad said. Clams need digging. If her eyes fell out and got ate up by fish, he'd probably say she don’t need eyes, neither.
Her toes rubbed something rough, like a cat's tongue. She jerked when it moved, wrapping around her foot. She lifted her knee.
A starfish.
Sharp pain tore up her spine, exploding from her shoulders. The starfish dropped away. She slapped at it with a perfect, coral-coloured pair of pointed arms.
Author bio: R.S. Bohn lives on one side of a moat and talks to crocodiles. Carries a trident everywhere. Drinks navy-strength rum. Has failed 'Talk Like a Pirate Day' six years running.
Regeneration is part of 101 fiction issue 12.
Unlucky
by R.S. Bohn
For twelve hours, Celia stood underwater in the frozen veggies aisle at Kroger. That's what happens when you die during a great flood, the whole world washed away, and you didn't make it to the ship on time. Celia wouldn't have won the last-minute lottery, anyway, she tells herself as a door opens and bagged peas go floating out, two by two.
A hundred other souls haunt this place, but none seem to notice their drowned bodies. They're still shopping for soup and chips. Leaving her own body behind, tethered to its trolley, she drifts upwards into a new sea.
Author bio: R.S. Bohn lives on one side of a moat and talks to crocodiles. Carries a trident everywhere. Drinks navy-strength rum. Has failed 'Talk Like a Pirate Day' six years running.
Unlucky is part of 101 Fiction issue 12.
For twelve hours, Celia stood underwater in the frozen veggies aisle at Kroger. That's what happens when you die during a great flood, the whole world washed away, and you didn't make it to the ship on time. Celia wouldn't have won the last-minute lottery, anyway, she tells herself as a door opens and bagged peas go floating out, two by two.
A hundred other souls haunt this place, but none seem to notice their drowned bodies. They're still shopping for soup and chips. Leaving her own body behind, tethered to its trolley, she drifts upwards into a new sea.
Author bio: R.S. Bohn lives on one side of a moat and talks to crocodiles. Carries a trident everywhere. Drinks navy-strength rum. Has failed 'Talk Like a Pirate Day' six years running.
Unlucky is part of 101 Fiction issue 12.
Wednesday, 10 December 2014
'Aumakua
by R.S. Bohn
Bare feet clinging to black rock, Fritzi wonders if any god will come to her rescue after she leaves the island.
Watching the girl on the basalt shelf saying goodbye amidst salt spray, one of them smiles.
"Not goodbye, little troublemaker." Reaching into the sea, it seizes a wriggling white fish. With a kiss, it is set free again – and goes streaking across the ocean.
A hundred island gods will breathe a sigh of relief when Fritzi steps onto that plane, but this one will close its eyes, and open them again as a white fish speeding towards new land.
Author bio: R.S. Bohn has no family gods to keep her out of trouble, so if any wish to volunteer, she promises lots of tea and windmill cookies.
'Aumakua is part of 101 Fiction issue 6.
Bare feet clinging to black rock, Fritzi wonders if any god will come to her rescue after she leaves the island.
Watching the girl on the basalt shelf saying goodbye amidst salt spray, one of them smiles.
"Not goodbye, little troublemaker." Reaching into the sea, it seizes a wriggling white fish. With a kiss, it is set free again – and goes streaking across the ocean.
A hundred island gods will breathe a sigh of relief when Fritzi steps onto that plane, but this one will close its eyes, and open them again as a white fish speeding towards new land.
Author bio: R.S. Bohn has no family gods to keep her out of trouble, so if any wish to volunteer, she promises lots of tea and windmill cookies.
'Aumakua is part of 101 Fiction issue 6.
Sunday, 1 June 2014
Flight
by R.S. Bohn
Unicorns prefer a maiden's touch, and suffer no other. The villagers tie young women to a tree in the forest on the night before their wedding, and some mornings find them slumped against their binds, gored through. They pat the young men's shoulders sympathetically.
The dragon prefers his unicorns roasted rare, and his young men crispy, with blackened skulls. A young woman clever enough to escape her ropes, however, he'll allow to climb a leathery wing – maiden or not.
Then, with a furnace beneath their legs, the women ride into the dawn sky, their village nothing but shadows behind them.
Author bio: RS lives in Detroit, where they aim for a zombie theme park. She thinks one already exists in her head. Admission is free:
http://rsbohn.blogspot.com
Unicorns prefer a maiden's touch, and suffer no other. The villagers tie young women to a tree in the forest on the night before their wedding, and some mornings find them slumped against their binds, gored through. They pat the young men's shoulders sympathetically.
The dragon prefers his unicorns roasted rare, and his young men crispy, with blackened skulls. A young woman clever enough to escape her ropes, however, he'll allow to climb a leathery wing – maiden or not.
Then, with a furnace beneath their legs, the women ride into the dawn sky, their village nothing but shadows behind them.
Author bio: RS lives in Detroit, where they aim for a zombie theme park. She thinks one already exists in her head. Admission is free:
http://rsbohn.blogspot.com
Flight is part of 101 Fiction issue 4.
Jump
by R.S. Bohn
They'll be jumping the broom this July, all the couples who survived the spring. There's been a bit of rearrangement; Courtney'll be jumping with Marc, Tom with Rachel. Always happens after spring, this reshuffling of hearts.
As if hearts have anything to do with it! It's fire and claw, and the bone-deep need to procreate, that's what tenders change.
Mountain dragons descend in March, April. They come hungry, go back up sated. And the broom-jumpers wait for July to divvy themselves anew.
November? That's when we go up, and we go there hungry.
And slake our grief on dragon hide.
Author bio: RS lives in Detroit, where they aim for a zombie theme park. She thinks one already exists in her head. Admission is free:
http://rsbohn.blogspot.com
They'll be jumping the broom this July, all the couples who survived the spring. There's been a bit of rearrangement; Courtney'll be jumping with Marc, Tom with Rachel. Always happens after spring, this reshuffling of hearts.
As if hearts have anything to do with it! It's fire and claw, and the bone-deep need to procreate, that's what tenders change.
Mountain dragons descend in March, April. They come hungry, go back up sated. And the broom-jumpers wait for July to divvy themselves anew.
November? That's when we go up, and we go there hungry.
And slake our grief on dragon hide.
Author bio: RS lives in Detroit, where they aim for a zombie theme park. She thinks one already exists in her head. Admission is free:
http://rsbohn.blogspot.com
Jump is part of 101 Fiction issue 4.
Saturday, 1 March 2014
Interlude
by R.S. Bohn
The lady's slipper bulged, drooped, and out he fell, damp and curled.
He ended his hibernation always thus, in pink petals newly emerged from curving green stems, themselves freshly pushed out of the dark earth.
Standing, he brushed specks of snow from his knees. The cobwebs of Winter's soul surrounded him: melting ice and patches of white.
Spring stepped from shadows into the sun and banished them.
Behind him, a cold sigh on his neck.
"Not another minute? Or three?"
Spring smiled. "Half a minute, no more."
Winter slipped cool hands beneath Spring's tunic.
Spring shivered, and counted the seconds.
Author bio: RS lives in Detroit, where they aim for a zombie theme park. She thinks one already exists in her head. Admission is free:
http://rsbohn.blogspot.com
Interlude is part of 101 Fiction issue 3.
The lady's slipper bulged, drooped, and out he fell, damp and curled.
He ended his hibernation always thus, in pink petals newly emerged from curving green stems, themselves freshly pushed out of the dark earth.
Standing, he brushed specks of snow from his knees. The cobwebs of Winter's soul surrounded him: melting ice and patches of white.
Spring stepped from shadows into the sun and banished them.
Behind him, a cold sigh on his neck.
"Not another minute? Or three?"
Spring smiled. "Half a minute, no more."
Winter slipped cool hands beneath Spring's tunic.
Spring shivered, and counted the seconds.
Author bio: RS lives in Detroit, where they aim for a zombie theme park. She thinks one already exists in her head. Admission is free:
http://rsbohn.blogspot.com
Interlude is part of 101 Fiction issue 3.
Sunday, 1 December 2013
Stages
by R.S. Bohn
He dribbles a Moravian red on the boards, an old gesture for luck, he tells her.
Tonight they open, she and her benefactor, a man whose name she can never remember. He has yellow teeth and dyed black hair. Her play is about young lovers, tragedy, and rivers that flow the wrong way. She wrote it, and now she stands on stage, imagining the house in a few hours, if the seats are filled.
"Don't worry, they will be," he whispers.
His kiss on her neck is dry, unexpected, and he's gone.
And so is the wine on the boards.
Author bio: RS lives in Detroit, where they aim for a zombie theme park. She thinks one already exists in her head. Admission is free: http://rsbohn.blogspot.com
Stages is part of 101 Fiction issue 2.
He dribbles a Moravian red on the boards, an old gesture for luck, he tells her.
Tonight they open, she and her benefactor, a man whose name she can never remember. He has yellow teeth and dyed black hair. Her play is about young lovers, tragedy, and rivers that flow the wrong way. She wrote it, and now she stands on stage, imagining the house in a few hours, if the seats are filled.
"Don't worry, they will be," he whispers.
His kiss on her neck is dry, unexpected, and he's gone.
And so is the wine on the boards.
Author bio: RS lives in Detroit, where they aim for a zombie theme park. She thinks one already exists in her head. Admission is free: http://rsbohn.blogspot.com
Stages is part of 101 Fiction issue 2.
Hijo
by R.S. Bohn
This year, the Dia de los Angelitos fell on a Friday, and Dia de los Muertos on Saturday. Which would he come? He had been fourteen, but could drive, had worked at the bridge with his uncle, unloading crates. Had made a bebé with Keisha, still in her belly.
Estrella set a sugar skull on the altar on Friday, beside the marigolds and white candles.
Tommy came home late, beer staining his jacket.
"This ain't Mexico," he said, swatting at the altar.
The sugar skull rolled onto the floor.
A pale hand reached for it.
"Miguel," she breathed. "Mi hijo."
Author bio: RS lives in Detroit, where they aim for a zombie theme park. She thinks one already exists in her head. Admission is free: http://rsbohn.blogspot.com
Hijo is part of 101 Fiction issue 2.
This year, the Dia de los Angelitos fell on a Friday, and Dia de los Muertos on Saturday. Which would he come? He had been fourteen, but could drive, had worked at the bridge with his uncle, unloading crates. Had made a bebé with Keisha, still in her belly.
Estrella set a sugar skull on the altar on Friday, beside the marigolds and white candles.
Tommy came home late, beer staining his jacket.
"This ain't Mexico," he said, swatting at the altar.
The sugar skull rolled onto the floor.
A pale hand reached for it.
"Miguel," she breathed. "Mi hijo."
Author bio: RS lives in Detroit, where they aim for a zombie theme park. She thinks one already exists in her head. Admission is free: http://rsbohn.blogspot.com
Hijo is part of 101 Fiction issue 2.
Sunday, 1 September 2013
Chicken
by R.S. Bohn
In '46, my great-grandmother poured herself some tea. Out the spout came a phoenix, damp and bedraggled, like a kaleidoscope of coloured paper. That evening, great-grandpa changed the dial on the Silvertone and dropped to the floor. The entire block was out a week.
In '91, my mom married. Her salesman husband lasted a week before showing a Dart with an ignition problem to a prospective buyer.
A day after my first kiss, my science-geek boyfriend made a mistake in chemistry. They say the phoenix is lucky, but I wouldn't care if I saw another one for a thousand years.
Author bio: RS lives in Detroit, where they aim for a zombie theme park. She thinks one already exists in her head. Admission is free: http://rsbohn.blogspot.com
In '46, my great-grandmother poured herself some tea. Out the spout came a phoenix, damp and bedraggled, like a kaleidoscope of coloured paper. That evening, great-grandpa changed the dial on the Silvertone and dropped to the floor. The entire block was out a week.
In '91, my mom married. Her salesman husband lasted a week before showing a Dart with an ignition problem to a prospective buyer.
A day after my first kiss, my science-geek boyfriend made a mistake in chemistry. They say the phoenix is lucky, but I wouldn't care if I saw another one for a thousand years.
Author bio: RS lives in Detroit, where they aim for a zombie theme park. She thinks one already exists in her head. Admission is free: http://rsbohn.blogspot.com
Friday, 12 April 2013
Renaissance
by R.S. Bohn
Welcome! Welcome to the Theatre of the Soul! Onstage tonight, filling every seat in the house – up there, in the scaffolds! Hanging from the curtains! In the make-up chair, inhaling the scent of greasepaint, letting it fill the pores with gray, slick decoration.
Lost your ticket? No, that could never happen. You've had it for so long. Check your pockets, dear.
There. Now let Miranda show you inside; we've all been waiting. Why, we're just breathless about it!
Breathless.
We love you so much. It's so good to see you again.
The boards await. The lights are up.
It's time.
Welcome! Welcome to the Theatre of the Soul! Onstage tonight, filling every seat in the house – up there, in the scaffolds! Hanging from the curtains! In the make-up chair, inhaling the scent of greasepaint, letting it fill the pores with gray, slick decoration.
Lost your ticket? No, that could never happen. You've had it for so long. Check your pockets, dear.
There. Now let Miranda show you inside; we've all been waiting. Why, we're just breathless about it!
Breathless.
We love you so much. It's so good to see you again.
The boards await. The lights are up.
It's time.
Author bio: RS lives in Detroit, where they aim for a zombie theme park. She thinks one already exists in her head. Admission is free: http://rsbohn.blogspot.com
Friday, 28 September 2012
Only
by R.S. Bohn
A billion stars spread like marbles across his lap. He flicks one off; it scares the cat and crashes into the radiator. A terrible metal pinging: my heart loosening its hold in my chest.
I ask him why as he fingers another marble.
"Because you were never here when I wanted you," he says.
It's true. And as each marble marks its awful trajectory, I long to fly over them, away from my god, to another. Over a hundred glittering glass stars that mean nothing to me anymore, to a place where I'm alone, and I am my only god.
Author bio: RS lives in Detroit, where they aim for a zombie theme park. She thinks one already exists in her head. Admission is free: http://rsbohn.blogspot.com
A billion stars spread like marbles across his lap. He flicks one off; it scares the cat and crashes into the radiator. A terrible metal pinging: my heart loosening its hold in my chest.
I ask him why as he fingers another marble.
"Because you were never here when I wanted you," he says.
It's true. And as each marble marks its awful trajectory, I long to fly over them, away from my god, to another. Over a hundred glittering glass stars that mean nothing to me anymore, to a place where I'm alone, and I am my only god.
Author bio: RS lives in Detroit, where they aim for a zombie theme park. She thinks one already exists in her head. Admission is free: http://rsbohn.blogspot.com
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