tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35882866187020799462024-02-19T09:10:51.091-08:00R.S. BohnR.S. Bohn -- WriterR.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.comBlogger378125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-62489884089919588872019-11-20T08:42:00.001-08:002019-11-20T08:42:37.610-08:00Random Access Memories<br />
I wrote a poem years ago, about a dead boy whose bones are found by a dog on some gloomy fall day. It's an image that still stays with me, that hound dog nosing at a ribcage, the dead boy happy to see a dog again.<br />
<br />
Some things stay with us all through the years, and I don't know why. Sometimes, in the moment, I think, will this be one of those moments? It can be the most mundane thing, a wet sidewalk I've walked a thousand times, and years later I can see that patch of cement as if I was standing over it right then. The pockmarks and leaves stuck to it, an earthworm writhing sightlessly.<br />
<br />
If I had a way to control it, would I? Which moments would I choose to recall with perfect clarity? I remember my feet out of my Keds, on top of them, squishing them down as I stood by a lake. But I can't recall the last name of the guy who was with there with me, or what he wore or smelled like. Why wouldn't I want to remember that?<br />
<br />
A patch of corn by the side of a trail in a state forest, with two crabapple trees at one end, and yellowing grass as high as my waist in between them. It was strange to see that corn and the apple trees, and I realized the forest management people had planted it there for deer. I don't remember anything else of that hike, but close my eyes and I can be back on the trail, looking at that corn. I could almost reach out and touch a stalk.<br />
<br />
That small cornfield was, oh, twenty-five years ago.<br />
<br />
I worry that I will get Alzheimer's, like my grandfather. All my other grandparents were lucid until the end. But I have one grandfather who got Alzheimer's and couldn't remember hardly anything, or anyone. And no little bit of fear shadows me, that I will get it, too. I hope that if I do, these weird, bright moments are the ones that will stay. Maybe my brain knows what's coming down the tracks, and it's been snatching moments at random throughout my life, so that when I start to lose the memories of all my dogs, when I can't remember my sister's name, I'll remember that patch of corn, brown and yellow in an October long past. I'll think of dead boys with a smile, and not know if I made him up or if it really happened. Maybe I'll marvel at things I did long before, glad I did them, without knowing the consequences of them--I'll be young and barefoot beside a lake, the sunlight glinting through tall reeds a few feet away, and I won't remember at all that it was the last time we had sex, both of us a little desperate to recapture something that wasn't so much diminished as completely cold ash.<br />
<br />
Maybe I won't remember the mistakes or the lessons learned, but those bright moments when I was alive. I think that's good. Those are better to remember, the beauty I witnessed, the air I breathed.<br />
<br />
Wish me luck.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
PS Yes, I totally stole the title from Daft Punk. Hopefully I remember that whole album, too!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-84212590570923329912019-10-29T12:52:00.000-07:002019-10-29T12:52:06.092-07:00School Salad<br />
I've only just heard of the Waldorf School, and if you've got a kid and loads of money, you probably already know about it. If you're rich and have a kid, your education choices are Montessori, private (day and boarding), and Waldorf. If there's another one for rich parents to send their kids to, I haven't heard of yet, having never had more money than Jeff Bezos leaves for a tip at lunch at a fancy bistro (I assume he tips; even the Devil tips, he assures me, so Bezos probably does too) (god, am I going to have to quit my Amazon habit someday? not right now, please, not yet) and also, never having had kids.<br />
<br />
Today a toddler spoke to me several times in the library while I worked. They asked for paints and a paintboard first (a paintboard? canvas, I assume), then Legos, then to play with them on the color and shapes toy, then to help them move the giant checkers around. At all times I was seriously invested in these exchanges, which I showed by continually telling them they were doing a "Great job!" and "Look at you! Wow!" So there you go. Not even the cool Auntie. Just a nerd in the library thinking about the coffee she left upstairs which is now probably cold. Also, the kid's mom came over and I said, "I think she wants paints, but we don't have paints," to which I received a dirty look, and I felt bad about not having paints for toddlers, but belatedly I realized the kid was in a blue shirt and grey pants and black sneakers, so is probably a boy, and I wanted to go up to her and say, "Oh hey, I use she/her pronouns for everybody because The Imperial Radch Trilogy." I'm sure that would've got me an even dirtier look, because then I would've been just a crazy person, right? Like, maybe I don't even work at the library. Maybe I just walk around spouting gender-nonconformity stuff randomly, and what all this really means is: Example 2,185,467 of why I can't be trusted to interact with other humans in a way that doesn't make them back away slowly.<br />
<br />
I don't, by the way. Use she/her for everybody. Official RS policy is: Whatever pronoun you want, babe. Let me know, and I will use it.<br />
<br />
I wish the Waldorf school and the rest of these high price schools had been available to lower-middle-class RS as a child. I've often thought about how my life could have been different if I'd started out differently, with a different education. Don't get me wrong, I did well in school. National Honor Society, Gifted (I think they don't do that anymore? which is sad because I enjoyed the outlet and hanging out with other weirdos), that kind of thing. But I always wished for more art, more going at my own pace, more self-directed stuff.<br />
<br />
There's an $80 recorder that those Waldorf parents have to buy. Like, in first grade. In first grade, my mom took us to the Salvation Army and made us help her look through the tables piled high with kids' gloves, to find matching pairs. My bell-bottom corduroys were floods. Why I continued to beg for a horse every single year for birthday and Christmas is beyond me; how blithely indifferent I was to our financial circumstances. Although, I honestly did think it would just eat grass, so it could've been less expensive than the dog.<br />
<br />
Maybe if I had a time machine, I'd go back and send myself to one of those fancy schools. There's a lot of mistakes I've made, some regrets, but those might have been avoided if I'd had a different education. Am I saying I still would've slept with four guys at the same Olive Garden when I was 23 if I'd just had a Montessori background? Maybe it would've been six and one girl, and they would all have been at the same Textile Artists' Retreat in upstate New York, and I could've accomplished it all in one summer. That's a remarkable difference, and it deserves to be explored further.<br />
<br />
Give your kids art if they want it. And for fucks sake, rich people, let poor kids go to the same school as your own. Make it available. Please.R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-52627564769907251552019-10-24T11:19:00.001-07:002019-10-24T11:19:29.512-07:00Itch<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cold
crumbs of humiliation fill my socks<br />An itch
from heel to ankle, between guilty toes,<br />Creeps up
my calves. Jeans and thermals, armor<br />Against
the shame. Bind me with toasted seeds and<br />Roast the
delicate arch of a left foot gone wrong<br />My mouth
is gaping, I’m koi, tightly spinning circles in a pond<br />The size
of a manhole cover, choking on air<br />It all
scratches too much.<br />“Oh yes,
I saw it yesterday and was going to ask—“<br />Done,
already. How mighty are you? Socks sagging with crumbs, spill over<br />I crunch
on self-pity, roll my shoulder in dust made<br />From a
thousand-thousand crumbs<br />And still
the tip of my tongue wants to lift each one,<br />Withdraw,
retreat, eat, swallow<br />Itch.</div>
<br />R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-6632336053604151442019-10-23T08:26:00.002-07:002019-10-23T08:26:49.651-07:00Conversations<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
am not a conversationalist<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s
been one long lie<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Both
here and outside my ribcage<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At
a special witching hour, I can pluck and jitter<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Until
I’m blue in the face<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Which
you’d recognize<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">If
you looked from underneath your own bones<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Once
in a while.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">How
darling it is, how pervasive<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
thought of myself as perched on <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Your
arm<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Shoulder<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Top
of a sofa, feet on the cushions<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Windowsill<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Scarred
butcher block of a kitchen counter<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Where
thyme and orange peels were chopped<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And
made into syrup<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Leaving
stains in the wood<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For
no one to notice but me, eyes down<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Searching
for the next line in my throat<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ready
to shout<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Hoping
shards of bone, the pointed ends of ribs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Will
stop stinging my lungs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After
this custom cocktail confection:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">An
Old Fashioned for the unfashioned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m
not your conversationalist, I’m not<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Your
friends’ friend <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m
not even mine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s
been the longest lie, and I can’t put it on the block now<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Some
things stain without ever having been cut.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Californian FB","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Drink
this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-4136635882744154512018-03-14T10:13:00.002-07:002018-03-14T10:13:40.743-07:00Unicorns!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
101 Fiction is at it again, and I've got two pieces of micro-fic:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.101fiction.com/2018/03/scourge.html">Scourge</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.101fiction.com/2018/03/canny.html">Canny</a><br />
<br />
The theme this time around was "unicorns." Not a single fluffy, pure and innocent creature in the lot, can you believe it? The theme did bring me back to my childhood, when the best time of the school year was the Scholastic Book Festival, held in our little basement cafeteria (I went to a very small elementary school), which was also where the PTA held meetings. I loved the little bookshelves and stacks of books, and my mom was always great about letting me pick a bunch. She also brought us to the library every week, and read a boatload of romance novels herself. Tote bags full. At any rate, my favorite were the Stephen Cosgrove books. Remember those?<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img height="320" 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" 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I loved Serendipity and Flutterby and oh my gosh, Morgan and Me! I had all of them, I think. </div>
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At any rate, the unicorns I wrote about it weren't pure and virtuous, either. Adulthood, bleh! </div>
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Happy day, everyone!</div>
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xx</div>
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RSB</div>
R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-15718724740833181672017-07-12T07:02:00.000-07:002017-07-12T07:02:32.242-07:00In the Valley of the Devils, a Deviant Art Daily Deviation!Completely chuffed to find my werewolf short, <a href="http://rsbohn.deviantart.com/art/In-the-Valley-of-the-Devils-470389820">In the Valley of the Devils,</a> is a featured Lit Daily Deviation for today on Deviant Art. This joins my other three DDs, including <a href="http://rsbohn.deviantart.com/art/An-October-Birth-388131745">An October Birth</a>, which you may enjoy if you like horror.<br />
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It's kind of funny that this happened today, as I was just sitting down to rework a story I started a few months ago, a space werewolves in Walt Disney World short. LOL, yes. Because, Why not? And also because I love all those things: WDW, space, and werewolves. So we'll see how that turns out. I have this idea for a series of interrelated books and short stories, all set in WDW but involving crazy stuff. For instance, each book would be set in a particular resort, and maybe aliens are living under the bridge at the Carribbean Beach Resort. Etc etc etc--cue wide-eyed skepticism and people backing slowly away :) I have most of the first book written, but it's a hot mess. I can say that it takes place at Fort Wilderness, and involves the Illuminati, or more precisely, the Disney Illuminati.<br />
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Make of that what you will. X-Files in WDW? YES PLEASE, I say.<br />
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Anyway, moving on, I just started a new job yesterday, working at my public library as a page! Yes! To say it's a whole new world for me would be an understatement. I'm slightly overwhelmed, but I'll sure I'll manage. It's exciting and nerve-wracking, both.<br />
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I hope everyone is having a good day, or has a good book in which to lose themselves if it's not :)<br />
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xo<br />
RS<br />
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<a href="http://www.deviantart.com/art/Werewolves-175179541">Werewolves by astaiir</a></div>
R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-45923915296794464562017-06-16T07:26:00.001-07:002017-06-16T07:26:44.267-07:00Demons!<div>
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Summer's here, and so is another beautiful issue of 101 Fiction. "Demons" was the theme this time around. </div>
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A little girl's tea party: <a href="http://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://t.co/49Eaxb3BGc">Tea</a></div>
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And a bit of revenge on the devil: <a href="http://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://t.co/iNOfcW9HRS">Veiled</a></div>
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The Devil and his demons fascinate me. </div>
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<a href="http://www.americas-most-haunted.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/Lucifer-FOX-TV-series-artwork.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.americas-most-haunted.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/Lucifer-FOX-TV-series-artwork.jpg" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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Yeah, I'm a huge "Lucifer" fan, too :) A total guilty pleasure. Every episode, my partner says it's "jumped the shark," and I'm like, Nope! Not yet! My favorite character is Maze, of course, but I *adore* Trixie! I can't wait for Trixie to grow up and be a badass, demon-fighting cop. </div>
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R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-36037198145131173142016-08-07T17:42:00.000-07:002016-08-07T17:42:02.007-07:00AWOL<br />
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Motherfucker I'll be back from the dead soon<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/i2PsXT88UeU" width="560"></iframe>R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-86612904586412660002016-06-13T08:16:00.001-07:002016-06-13T08:16:59.997-07:00New Pearls to Swallow at 101 Fiction<span style="background-color: #fffffa; color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The summer issue of 101 Fiction has arrived, and includes two of my own:</span><br style="color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><a class="external" href="http://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?http://www.101fiction.com/2016/06/regeneration.html" style="color: #337287; display: inline-block; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-decoration: none; zoom: 1;">Regeneration</a><br style="color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><a class="external" href="http://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?http://www.101fiction.com/2016/06/unlucky.html" style="color: #337287; display: inline-block; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-decoration: none; zoom: 1;">Unlucky</a><br style="color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: #fffffa; color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The theme this time around was "underwater." Lovely, ethereal, evocative offerings from all the authors; fourteen little jewels of micro-fic for your pleasure. </span><br style="color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="background-color: #fffffa; color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Back to other things now. Witches and time-traveling swordsmen, the last wardens in villages in an another world, and robot nurses. Of course.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fffffa; color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-27648234454739903332016-05-19T06:50:00.001-07:002016-05-19T06:50:07.458-07:00Luck and Cynicism <br />
I used to enjoy the occasional crappy day. No, really. I had this sense that my life was "lucky," that I was a lucky person. I had no evidence of this whatsoever. I had passable looks--I mean, no one was stopping on the street to stare at my monstrousness, nor at my blinding beauty--and I was taking a couple of college courses here and there while getting up every morning at 5 a.m. to go to a bleak waitressing job where I got yelled at for five or six hours, then I'd take some leftovers home in a styrofoam box and rent a movie or maybe go for a hike in the woods, and for some reason, sitting in that tiny apartment with its tiny oven so small that it couldn't even fit a whole chicken, I felt lucky.<br />
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Nothing really got me down. Maybe I was confused. Maybe I didn't understand that I was being shit on all the time. But hey, all that matters is that I felt lucky. So once in a while, I'd have a truly, epically bad day. We're talking, getting a plate thrown at me by an irate short-order cook, smacking a fly on the window with a piece of mail and smashing that window (fly still in the apartment), and going to the hardware store but not making it because a tire exploded and I ran off the road into a Chinese restaurant parking lot. Now that would be pretty bad, right? By anyone's standards. And there I'd be, in the rain next to my busted car in the days of no cell phones, and the whole thing felt like a thrilling ride.<br />
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I was up for a challenge in those days. I had energy to spare. And hey, it was the least the universe could do to me, considering how great my life was, after all.<br />
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When relationships ended badly--as all of mine have, up to this point, except the current one, which goes on doggedly pleasantly, as if it's too dumb to realize that I fuck everything up, eventually--I bawled my eyes out onto the side of the stuffed donkey I've had since I was nine, and at some point, I'd pick myself up and get ready for the next adventure in love. I had broken hearts, and I mended them. The thrill of "what's next" was got me--what's around the next corner? Maybe the love of my life. Or maybe the hot dog that will change my entire perception of hot dogs (that, fyi, has not happened; hot dogs are still finely minced assholes boiled for our consumption, and exceedingly disgusting). Hey, whatever was next, I was ready! The future was a shining city! With monorails and <i>Logan's Run</i> attire!<br />
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So what happened. That's your question, right? Mine, too. At some point, bitterness replaced joy. Cynicism replaced hope. And then the worst--passivity. Eh. Meh.<br />
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I think I forgot how to be alive. Maybe that happens after the train wreck that's our twenties. I once felt like a conqueror, a warrior, an explorer. And now I feel... meh.<br />
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It can't be money, or things, because I didn't have them back then. It's got to be something inside.<br />
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If I dig it out, scrape off the moldering rot of depression, what will I find? Will I be me again? Or--oh, jesus, is this me? Now and forever?<br />
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Well, hell. I suppose I could go for a walk, see what the day brings. I could attempt...something. I could have a drink at quarter to ten in the morning.<br />
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This isn't meant to be an inspirational bullshit kind of thing, nor is it a cry for help. It's just rambling. I'm gonna hang in there, have another cup of tea, and maybe later, understanding will creep in. Or not.<br />
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xx<br />
R<br />
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P.S. Book 1's at 93,000 words. It's a mess. But holy crap, I wrote 93,000 words that almost make sense. Books 2-4 however... Well. Well.R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-58495905201974535972015-03-02T07:54:00.000-08:002015-03-02T07:54:01.037-08:00"Minotaur" now at Luna Station QuarterlyMy short story, <a href="http://lunastationquarterly.com/">Minotaur</a>, is the featured story of the week at Luna Station Quarterly.<br />
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During an archaeological dig on the Russian taiga, prickly Noani uncovers something stunning, something unbelievable... If only she survives long enough to show the world.<br />
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LSQ is a quarterly zine filled with speculative fiction written by women. And while you can read all of the stories in issue 21 for free online, LSQ has their first-ever <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Luna-Station-Quarterly-Issue-021/dp/193869757X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1425148956&sr=8-1&keywords=luna+station+quarterly">print issue</a> available. Please support female writers!<br />
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xx<br />
RSR.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-77839556346182037242015-01-12T11:00:00.000-08:002015-01-12T11:00:20.084-08:00Making An Actual HoboShakes72 recently tweeted a photo of a hobo fire he made. I thought it would be more impressive if he'd made an actual hobo. Which thinking led me to this:<br />
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<a href="http://rsbohn.deviantart.com/art/How-a-Hobo-is-Not-Like-You-and-Me-506639019">How a Hobo is Not Like You and Me</a><br />
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You can see Shakes's original photo <a href="https://twitter.com/TheShakes72/status/554391481763758081">here</a>. Also, Shakes is more of a writer guy and not really a tiny fires guy. His stories are *excellent* and you should check them all out. All of them. All.<br />
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If you have hobo poetry, please share. It appears to be a sadly under-filled poetic category.R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-82524356419486134272014-12-11T07:52:00.000-08:002014-12-11T07:52:13.116-08:00New Stories: Hawaiian gods, cigarette smoking, and werewolves<br />
Another issue of 101 Fiction is out! This time, I've got one tiny tale in the black-and-white-themed issue, <a href="http://www.101fiction.com/2014/12/aumakua.html">'Aumakua</a>. Hawaiian gods and troublesome little girls!<br />
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The other stories are really wonderful, especially W.M. Lewis's <a href="http://www.101fiction.com/2014/12/celebrity.html">Celebrity</a>. Gobsmacked by this one. Read it!<br />
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<a href="http://rsbohn.deviantart.com/art/The-Husband-499063840">The Husband</a> is posted at my DA account, since it's original home, The Corner Club Press, appears to be defunct. "The Husband": <i>I took a nap, and when I woke up, the dog on my chest had become a husband</i>. Speculative fiction about Sudoko, drumming, and, er, friendliness. ;)<br />
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Exclamation points and emoticons! Have I been body-snatched by a teenage pod alien?<br />
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And one more, if you're in the mood for a bit more reading today: the November issue of <a href="http://store.albanlake.com/product/bloodbond-november-2014/">Bloodbond</a> is out, with short stories and poetry about shape shifters, and it includes my story, "In the Northern Territories." Werewolves, my friends. Werewolves. They can be great neighbors, as long as you abide peacefully.<br />
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xx<br />
RSR.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-22808616280825339842014-11-17T12:00:00.000-08:002014-11-17T12:00:57.381-08:00"Bloodbond" Now Out! Werewolves and vampires and shape shifters...<br />
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<span style="background-color: #fffffa; color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.194443702697754px; line-height: 19.5px;">And shapeshifters, oh my! </span><br style="color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.194443702697754px; line-height: 19.5px;" /><br style="color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.194443702697754px; line-height: 19.5px;" /><span style="background-color: #fffffa; color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.194443702697754px; line-height: 19.5px;">Alban Lake Publishing, home of Aoife's Kiss, a magazine of specfic, and publishers of stand-alone horror and SF novels, has just released "Bloodbond," an anthology of werewolf, vampire and shapeshifter fiction and poetry. Included is my short story, "In the Northern Territories":</span><br style="color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.194443702697754px; line-height: 19.5px;" /><br style="color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.194443702697754px; line-height: 19.5px;" /><span style="background-color: #fffffa; color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.194443702697754px; line-height: 19.5px;">Calvin Kilfoil shot the wolf that had been coming around his farm--but come morning, it is not a wolf, but his wife's body laid atop the kitchen table. Faila's father had never been fond of his daughter's husband, but is this murder? He watches Calvin--watches, and waits, along with the rest of the small, isolated town deep in the northern woods. Because blood will *always* tell...</span><br style="color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.194443702697754px; line-height: 19.5px;" /><br style="color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.194443702697754px; line-height: 19.5px;" /><span style="background-color: #fffffa; color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.194443702697754px; line-height: 19.5px;">GREAT selection of stories! I just finished reading, and I was really blown away by a couple of them. If you want some good, shiver-inducing fiction, and you want to support a small, independent press, there's no better way to do it than by buying a copy of <b><a href="http://store.albanlake.com/product/bloodbond-november-2014/">Bloodbond</a></b> today!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO0P-yg7_oWfzl-NXQbcyXirgEMZRRsjXF2L_xxoxZ6X6XaDvxJiZWSu18oYUourQ0KiBv_QwtuzEW9L2PXLSk2OwKCJ44PkEeEIfg0nRR9KQCNq-JqnFwjWqy99nr3mwoDOfY90kcZ3A/s1600/Bloodbond+3+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO0P-yg7_oWfzl-NXQbcyXirgEMZRRsjXF2L_xxoxZ6X6XaDvxJiZWSu18oYUourQ0KiBv_QwtuzEW9L2PXLSk2OwKCJ44PkEeEIfg0nRR9KQCNq-JqnFwjWqy99nr3mwoDOfY90kcZ3A/s1600/Bloodbond+3+Cover.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: #fffffa;"><br style="color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.194443702697754px; line-height: 19.5px;" /></span><br style="color: #2c3635; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.194443702697754px; line-height: 19.5px;" />R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-62605945461512505232014-11-05T07:29:00.001-08:002014-11-05T07:30:09.149-08:00On Want<br />
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I'm trying to cultivate an awareness of privilege. It's like
cultivating an attitude of gratitude, a very overused and trite phrase (or has
it become trite due to overuse?). At any rate, it occurred to me recently how
privileged I am. Sometimes, I think we associate that word with Beverly Hills
housewives, or wealthy white men in suits looking down their old noses at us
from the cover of Forbes. But really, if you look at the world in general, I
have a very privileged life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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If I want to download a book to read on my ipad, <b>click</b>,
I have it. I stopped working one day a week because it stressed me out, so now
I work four days. I can turn up the thermostat if I want, although if B is
home, he might complain about being too hot—but not about the money it costs to
keep me cozy. I have a cabinet with three shelves, loaded with tea and coffee
products. I have a table that has no use except to hold my seasonal decorations
and—another sign of privilege—our Bose sound dock. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We have a brand new kitchen. And not a cheap one—it's got
quartz countertops and a pull-down faucet and soft-close drawers and sliding
drawers and a heavy-duty lazy Susan, which we use for all of our pots. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Still, I complain about what I haven't got, what I want and
can't have right now, and about other things: I'm lucky to have a job, when so
many don't, and yet the clients irritate the shit out of me. I adore my
animals, but sometimes, I just don't want to deal with them. I have sneakers
without holes in the bottom, but I want new ones.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Buddhism is letting go of "want." Maybe not at its
core, but that's a tenet. In some ways, so is Christianity—let go of
"want," and the Lord provides. A financial counselor on Oprah used to
advise that we cultivate a mindset in which we already have everything we need.
Which we do, on a fundamental level (many don't, I realize, but for the
majority, and certainly myself, we do). <o:p></o:p></div>
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It seems small, this writing of things I have, and even
smaller, the list of things I want. Not the lists themselves, for they are
almost endless. But what do I really want? Would I like a childhood do-over, in
which my mother never dies? Do I want my beloved grandparents, her parents, to
still be here? It's only been a few years since losing them, and I think of
them often, and miss them. Do I wish for my favorite dog back, the one creature
so devoted to me that I found that I had never understood the word
"devotion" before—and probably have already lost its meaning, lost to
the tide of "want." <o:p></o:p></div>
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Our souls are so small. Some say they are vast, that they
are the universe itself. I feel that that is correct, and yet, the universe is
so small. Everything is so tiny, it fits in a marble in my hand—that's how it
feels. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And perhaps this is depression talking now, reducing things,
because joy and the largeness of that joy are its opposite. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I cannot understand the size of my want or the solidity of
my soul, and I cannot tell sometimes sadness and grief from love and love and
more love. So this is all I can do today: make a list of what I have, and try
not to think of what I want and do not have. And I have two hands to write
this, and a computer to write it on, and dogs snoring next to me, and hot tea
(although, bleh, I bought it and this one's not so good—see how I go, all the
time? with the complaining?). It's an exercise, much like just living every day
is. And exercise. At which I will, apparently, never become proficient. I'll
drown the want of my desire to be a great writer in another document, and
today, in just this minute, I will try to be satisfied. And grateful.<o:p></o:p></div>
R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-80460192880255509232014-09-03T06:45:00.000-07:002014-09-03T06:45:18.546-07:00Flash fic: Butter<br />
<u>Butter</u><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The doors slid shut behind him, and the sounds of the
casino—the jangling slot machines, the piped-in music of nineties
superdivas—disappeared, muted by mahogany paneling and plush burgundy carpet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The room was long, no chairs, with a desk at the end, tall
and narrow. A woman stood behind it, black hair hanging down her back and
catching the glow of the wall sconces.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She turned as he approached, and smiled. Jack paused, steps
from the desk. She was two women. Or rather, one woman with two heads. No, that
wasn't right either.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Each woman wore a blouse, ivory, sheer, with a lace collar
and three tiny buttons, the blouses stitched together at the chest. The women
faced each other, the distance of an eyelash between them. He could not see
below the desk. He felt uncomfortable wanting to. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Mr. Gray?" said one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack nodded. So as not to stare, he watched their hands; each
used a hand to rifle through a stack of unmarked envelopes, fingers dancing along
white creases, plucking one from the rest. The one who had spoken used her left
hand to open the envelope, and the other used her right hand to remove a key.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Here you are," said the one on the right.
"Good luck, Mr. Gray."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He took the key with unease. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She gestured to a door on the left; her twin echoed the
gesture.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The door opened onto an elevator. Jack stepped inside, and
an attendant dressed in livery, as if he were a chauffeur, smiled and nodded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Mr. Gray," said the man, tanned and wrinkled
beneath a black cap.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The door shut on his last glimpse of the women.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Beautiful," said Jack, not knowing what else to
say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Beautiful, yes. But only one heart." The man
shook his head. "Two people cannot have one heart."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The door opened.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"We're here?" said Jack. "I didn't feel it
move."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man smiled. "You have your key?"<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack nodded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Good luck, Mr. Gray."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He stepped into a narrow hallway, with another attendant,
this one dressed less elegantly: the bulge of guns beneath his cheap suit was
excessive, comic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"That's a lot of firepower, considering you can only
fire one at a time," said Jack.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The man shook his head. "Two." He withdrew two of
the pieces, both hands turning the guns simultaneously.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Impressive," said Jack, and the man smiled,
replacing his guns. Jack sniffed. "Is that... chocolate I smell?"<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Good luck, Mr. Gray," the man said, and opened
the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack had possessed a terrible sweet tooth once. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Once. Now he'd much rather have a nice, medium-rare chateaubriand,
steaming on the plate, meant for two but all to himself. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The sight of her, however, dressed in cream-colored silk
behind a sleek, ebony desk, caused in him a pang, a longing for something warm,
and soft, and sweet on his tongue.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A chef in a white coat stood beside a small cart, a glass
bowl of chocolate before him. He unwrapped a stick of butter. She motioned to
the chef, and before he dropped the butter into the chocolate, he presented it
to her. She drew a finger across the top and tasted it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The door shut behind him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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"Mr. Gray," said the woman. "Won't you sit?"<o:p></o:p></div>
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"You can call me Jack, Charlotte," he said, and
took the chair in front of the desk. "I promise, I won't think you're anything
but business." <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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"Why would you?" she said. Her gaze was cool; her
hair, not nearly as black as the women's in the lobby but still dark, dark like
the chocolate in the bowl, was tucked in a neat twist at the nape of her neck.
There was a tattoo there, he knew, an ostrich feather.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As she twisted her head to pull a file from a drawer, he saw
it then, except it wasn't a feather any longer, but two swords, one up, one
down.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She drew a single sheet of paper from the file. Without
looking at it, she said, "My. This is quite a bit of money you owe
us."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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He shrugged. "I'll pay it back soon. Tables have been
bad, that's all."<o:p></o:p></div>
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"Are you saying that the casino has rigged tables? Or
that they are somehow sub-standard?"<o:p></o:p></div>
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"No, of course not. It's just... things haven't exactly
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coin always flips</i>. "Your father let me run a house tab."<o:p></o:p></div>
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"We've extended your tab eight times this month
already. And my father no longer owns this casino."<o:p></o:p></div>
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Beside them, the chef lifted the spatula, inspecting the silky
fall of chocolate. Satisfied, he removed the bowl from the flame.<o:p></o:p></div>
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"A little more time, Charlotte. That's all I'm asking. Things
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"When your luck changes?" She stared at the bowl.
"Chocolate, sugar, butter. It's not just the ingredients, you know. It's timing
and skill." <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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He swallowed, turning the key in his palm. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The chef cracked two eggs, and added a sprinkle of salt. He
stirred and poured the batter into a silver pan. The bowl scraped clean, he set
it down and took up the pan, presenting it to Jack.<o:p></o:p></div>
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"Your key," she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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"We used to have crepes every morning, and scones.
Lemon, blueberry... And your cakes... Caramel. Coconut..." <o:p></o:p></div>
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He implored her with his eyes, willing her to remember when
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his winnings, and her apartment smelling like cinnamon, her skin tasting like
vanilla. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The elevator attendant's words came to him: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Two people cannot have one heart</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He dropped the key atop the batter. It sank, vanishing from
view.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The chef took the pan with Jack's cake to a door that slid
open, revealing a room with an oven at the center, and all around, on every
wall, shelves, and those shelves laden with cakes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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"Seven days, Jack. The casino gets what's owed."
She closed her eyes. "I can taste it already." <o:p></o:p></div>
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*</div>
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Well, that was strange.</div>
R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-43376387629396774412014-07-09T07:42:00.002-07:002014-07-09T07:42:42.840-07:00Fic: Midnight Swim <br />
My short story, <a href="http://www.deviantart.com/journal/July-s-Theme-Challenge-Winter-is-Coming-466771630">Midnight Swim</a>, won the monthly challenge over at WerewolvesAtHeart. June's theme was "Escape the Heat!"<br />
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"Midnight Swim": In the basement of a safe house, Finn struggles to keep cool as summer temperatures rise outside. When the full moon comes and he decides to slip out for a late night stroll to a nearby beach for a swim, he finds that he might not have made the best decision, for his own personal hunter has found him, and she never goes anywhere without her weapon...<br />
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Werewolves, mild horror (at best), and naked ocean swimming ;)R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-33712949093901220452014-07-01T04:26:00.000-07:002014-07-01T04:26:14.908-07:00Disney Mania<br />
I thought I was a serious Disney fan. Turns out, I'm just a pixie duster with mildly naughty aspirations.<br />
<br />
That's okay, though, especially since I landed in the world of warped Disney fic--that is, stories set around WDW, often involving rather adult themes, such as drug use, trespassing, physical violence, and assorted mayhem. My portal to the chaos was Leonard Kinsey's <i>The Dark Side of Disney</i>, a non-fiction, sort of Alice-down-the-rabbit-hole look at the World:<br />
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Now, I've been to WDW six or seven times in the last twenty years, and I must admit that while I love it, I do often wonder about what I'm not seeing, or not knowing, if you will. What other dimensions am I missing?<br />
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Apparently, a lot. Utilidors, ticket scams, the truth behind the cast members' (what Disney calls its employees) cheery, semi-permanent smiling faces. Aaaand more. <i>Dark Side</i> is essentially a tourist guide to WDW, though many of "tips" aren't for the vast majority of travelers, but for those seeking a... different perspective on the happiest place on earth.<br />
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Kinsey wrote <i>Dark Side</i> after having spent a good part of his misspent youth at WDW; he grew up nearby, and when other teens are sneaking into movie theaters, he was attempting to sneak into DisneyWorld. Kinsey can tell you the best rides to go on while stoned, where to attempt a furtive grope--and more--and how to save money on food. Yeah, how did I not know you could get groceries delivered to your frickin' room?<br />
<br />
I loved it, not just the tips and advice, but the endlessly entertaining misadventures of Kinsey and his friends. He's got great "voice," as they say, but be forewarned: the man drops f-bombs like my neighbor's oak drops helicopters all over my lawn. Yo.<br />
<br />
Wow, I did say I was a pixie duster with aspirations, right? Or maybe just one who likes to live vicariously through far more daring, and interesting, people, people like Leonard Kinsey.<br />
<br />
Uh, it should go without saying that the entire book <i>The</i> <i>Dark Side of Disney</i> is NSFW. Language, subject matter, pics, you name it. And a couple of those included links, whew! I have been educated, yes, sir, I have.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
After <i>Dark Side</i>, Kinsey wrote an entirely fictional book called <i>Our Kingdom of Dust</i>. Blaine McKinnon is disillusioned, depressed, and filthy rich. He decides to return to Walt Disney World, a place where his happiest childhood memories were made.<br />
<br />
And here, I relate. Personal story: my entire childhood, I wanted to go to Walt Disney World, but my parents couldn't afford it. When I got my first job at age 14, washing dishes in a restaurant, I knew that I wanted to save up for a trip. At 18, newly graduated from high school, I was able to do just that.<br />
<br />
And it was everything I expected and more. I fell in love, hard, and I will never forget that trip. It was 1990, the era of Horizons at WDW, and it spoke to me and filled my heart to bursting.<br />
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I've been back a number of times since, but I will say this: I will never recapture that initial overwhelming joy. Yes, it is my favorite place to vacation, and yes, I adore it as much as ever, but as they say...<br />
<br />
You can never go home again.<br />
<br />
Someone tell that to Blaine McKinnon.<br />
<br />
Blaine sets up camp at one of the Epcot resorts in a swanky suite, and immediately makes a few acquaintances of dubious character. In fact, the book is filled with colorful characters, all of whom are making vastly poorer choices than Blaine. Not the least of those choices is their drug use, a designer drug called "Pixie Dust," which recreates the feeling of being in the parks, that incredible joy, when one cannot be there. He becomes intricately involved with this group, and very quickly, things reel out of hand.<br />
<br />
OKOD is a fast read, and capitalizes on Kinsey's unique voice. Exciting, it never fails to hold the reader's attention. And of course, it's loaded with atmosphere--WDW is as much a character as any of the humans in this book.<br />
<br />
I'm a bit on the fence with this one due to some editing issues, which honestly, seem like first-time author issues. It's stuff I can grant a pass on. Kinsey has talent and voice, and you can tell he's really learning to hone his craft.<br />
<br />
Where he's strongest, though, is in the unwritten lessons he's imparting, about learning to accept your past, and more than that, to accept each day as it is. Not all of them are going to be pixie dust. Some are going to be Tinkerbell's asshole after a Taco Bell run. And whether it's drugs or, in my case, yearning to be in DisneyWorld because that's "where I'm happiest," you need to realize that it's all in you. Nothing can fill that void.<br />
<br />
My own reflections sometimes made this an uncomfortable read. So, hey, the guy swears a lot. And the writing is sometimes a tad rough. It's rare that a book really makes you think and feel. This one did.<br />
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Kinsey does have a new book out, <i>Habst and the Disney Saboteurs</i>. You can listen to the <b><a href="http://youtu.be/pYZGTEJ4RjY">Creepy Kingdom podcast</a></b> with guest, Leonard Kinsey, and hear him read some of it. I wanted to keep listening! Yes, I've got the book, so I'll be reading that soon. And Kinsey's a great guest; sometimes, podcasts make me cringe, and I have to turn them off, but this one was intelligent and interesting and, well, made me want to buy the guy a tequila some night and keep him talking.<br />
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By the way, there's a whole universe of "Dark Siders," as I call them. You start with Dark Side, and you're going down the rabbit hole too. See you there.<br />
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<br />R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-74076487922879596092014-06-13T15:48:00.003-07:002014-06-13T15:48:29.174-07:00New fic: The Ranch--Werewolves!<br />
Vampires are incredibly romantic to some. I get it, but I often find the werewolf more fascinating. I've got a werewolf short story in an anthology arriving this fall, and in the meantime, I've got "The Ranch," a short story posted now:<br />
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<b><a href="http://rsbohn.deviantart.com/art/The-Ranch-460627050">The Ranch</a></b><br />
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<i>Five pups born to the werewolves in the last six weeks. Of course they
should be returned to their mothers. They would have a better chance for
survival. But then they would never learn to be human, and it is a great risk
to have five more of the adult creatures, as ferocious as they are, in the
compound. Efforts at rehabilitating adults, even juveniles, have been largely
unsuccessful, to judge by Robertson's torn-out windpipe...</i><br />
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Enjoy!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPdbO75NV3g7YvG9A56uvuR4FY47PQ6eS_VGs_-5KdWVCQ3OEbPxiglbCRvkwYl7VbSFzAr0XlxhFDYihmdJwNf6kLMj3-4UnzC4iCXbb3JrRSX5fZ7D-lUsBJrS7lVNxGzj5kuHwdg0I/s1600/newborn_werewolf_pup_by_werepups-d5g3n2w.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPdbO75NV3g7YvG9A56uvuR4FY47PQ6eS_VGs_-5KdWVCQ3OEbPxiglbCRvkwYl7VbSFzAr0XlxhFDYihmdJwNf6kLMj3-4UnzC4iCXbb3JrRSX5fZ7D-lUsBJrS7lVNxGzj5kuHwdg0I/s1600/newborn_werewolf_pup_by_werepups-d5g3n2w.jpg" height="225" width="320" /></a></div>
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Newborn werewolf pup by <a href="http://werepups.deviantart.com/">Were-pups</a> on DeviantArt. Her whole gallery of handmade dolls is astounding! </div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-62732184659060745352014-06-02T06:29:00.000-07:002014-06-02T06:29:16.151-07:00Here be Dragons! New fic, new issue of 101 Fiction!<br />
Summer's come, and so have the dragons.<br />
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The Summer issue of <b><a href="http://www.101fiction.com/">101 Fiction</a></b> is out now. Two of mine are waiting for you to give them a nibble:<br />
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<a href="http://www.101fiction.com/2014/06/jump.html" style="font-weight: bold;">Jump</a>--"They'll be jumping the broom this July, all those couples who survived the spring..."<br />
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and<br />
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<a href="http://www.101fiction.com/2014/06/flight.html" style="font-weight: bold;">Flight</a>--Dragons, unicorns, and young men with blackened skulls, all in a hundred words.<br />
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<br />
The themes for this issue were <i>dragons</i> and/or <i>summer</i>. Sixteen tiny stories, with sixteen takes on the themes. Bravo. I think this is the best issue yet of <b>101 Fiction</b>.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The Trio escaping Gringott's on the dragon</i></span></div>
<br />R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-28282578511106163922014-05-29T08:17:00.002-07:002014-05-29T08:17:21.597-07:00Prompt-based Flash Fiction Contest: Scribble!<br />
I love prompt-based fiction exercises. Although I've sort of dropped many of the ones I used to do (such as <a href="http://www.threewordwednesday.com/">Three Word Wednesday</a> and the Friday Prediction) in the pursuit of hardcore writing a book*, that doesn't mean I don't still love them. What they can produce from a few simple words is amazing. And I typically go to <a href="http://oneword.com/">One Word</a> two or three times a week to get the juices flowing.<br />
<br />
Recently, I spotted a "wacky prompt" flash fiction contest, hosted by Diantha Jones. Checked out the prompts, let them ferment for a few days, and started working on something, which I just submitted. Why don't you give a swing, too? $50 Amazon gift card for the winner, and if you don't win, it's still fun. I loved working on mine this week. Broke me out of a little rut.<br />
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<a href="http://masqueradecrew.blogspot.com/2014/03/win-50-giftcard-by-entering-scribble.html">Scribble</a><br />
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Let me know if you do enter! Er, the deadline's fairly close. So get on it.<br />
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*By "hardcore writing a book," I mean a couple thousand words a week and equal that in cups of tea and minutes spent staring out the back window at the lavender coming in. And writing notes for said book and petting the kitty who sits on the keyboard. And whining about it over beer at the Trolley Stop to my love, who suffers living with a writer with grace.R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-41938415460092061572014-05-23T06:40:00.000-07:002014-05-23T06:40:02.386-07:00Review: Into That Forest by Louis NowraHannah and Becky are 6 and 7, respectively, when they go on a picnic with Hannah's parents in a rural area of Tasmania. A sudden storm causes the river to overflow, and the boat they rowed in on to capsize. Lost, half-drowned, and panicked, the girls are found on a riverbank by two Tasmanian tigers, who keep the girls safe and, ultimately, adopt them as if they were their own pups.<br />
<br />
"Into That Forest" by Louis Nowra is set in 1920/30s Tasmania, at a time when bounties on tiger hides were slowly causing the destruction of that species. Narrated by an elderly Hannah, the book has a strong sense of place and character, but it is the assimilation of Hannah and Becky into tiger culture (and their departure from human social "norms") that is <i>incredibly</i> fascinating. Hannah and Becky are two very different little girls; while Becky yearns for home and her father and doesn't want to lose her language or clothing, even memorizing the colors of the rainbow and counting as high as she can, Hannah adapts quickly, mimicking the tigers' vocalizations and body postures and pushing away thoughts of her parents' probable deaths.<br />
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Ultimately, in order to survive, both girls learn to hunt, eat and live with the tigers, becoming very nearly tigers themselves in the four years they spend in the wilderness.<br />
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Of course, they are eventually discovered, and their forced reintegration into human culture has inevitably tragic consequences.<br />
<br />
Filled with thrilling moments and brilliant descriptions, "Into That Forest" could be just another tale of orphaned children growing up with animals--see the Jungle Book or the eastern European "wild" children raised by packs of dogs or any number of such tales--but it is so much more. There is a meditational quality, as there must be, not just on what it means to be human or animal, but also on our impact on species. The last Tasmanian tiger died in captivity in 1936.<br />
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Despite being a fairly fast read, do not underestimate the book's emotional punch. Keep tissue handy.<br />
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As a side note, some readers find Hannah's dialect to be off-putting. I thought it was easy to understand, and enriched to the narrative.<br />
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R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-40426522022690222782014-05-05T06:38:00.001-07:002014-05-05T06:38:40.669-07:00Grimdark: "Chirp"<u>Chirp</u><br />
<br />
<br />
Chirp was down a bird. A sparrow, little gray-brown thing that looked like a hundred other gray-brown sparrows. Probably one of the squires, Chirp thought. They'd been fashioning thinner and shorter arrows, the better for taking out the small birds that clustered at Chirp's only window.<br />
<br />
"You should all go away," he said to the line of birds jostling each other on the sill. "Don't ever come back. Ever, ever."<br />
<br />
He said this in the chittering, whistling language that no one else understood. It was the reason they called him Chirp. He'd not spoken a single word in proper English his entire life; they said his mother had refused the babe her tit because all he would do was chirp at her. It was why he'd grown up stunted and pale, like string beans grown in shadow instead of the sun.<br />
<br />
Not true: his mother had taught him the language. She was dead now, hanged and burned for witchcraft. She could speak six languages, including bird and deer, and heal the pox, but she had been a poor peasant woman.<br />
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Queens who could do the same were called sorceresses. One of them stood now at the single door to his cell.<br />
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"Honestly, I think it's nonsense. A made-up language, like a little child babbling to its dolly." She cocked her head. "Why, if I could speak to the birds, I'd rule the sky as well as the land."<br />
<br />
Chirp didn't think that she didn't rule all the land; she had about a hundred miles in either direction from Morrowton. If anyone ruled the land, it was the worms and roaches. Not a king or sorceress yet had managed to evict them from where they crawled.<br />
<br />
She stared at him, her hands clasped in front her and covered in the fine gold mesh gloves of royalty exposed to the pox.<br />
<br />
Her magic was transformation, he'd heard. Changing one thing into another. He hadn't witnessed it, but it was clear she hadn't managed changing poxed flesh into healthy skin.<br />
<br />
"All that talk," she said, "and you won't tell me what I want. I'm sure you can. If you can make all that other noise, then you can speak English just as well. Maybe you do already. It's not nice, you know, to keep secrets from your Queen."<br />
<br />
Chirp watched the birds on the sill. They'd become silent when she'd arrived.<br />
<br />
"It's time for a bit more encouragement."<br />
<br />
Chirp looked down at his hands and feet, covered in "encouraging" streaks of red. He could barely walk, the soles of his feet were so flayed. He was starved and thirsty, having been in the cell for four days without food or water. Yet he would not tell her the cure for pox, nor make any signs.<br />
<br />
Let her start on his back. The flesh there was unmarked. Or his abdomen. He did not care. In a week, the Queen would begin to smell of rot.<br />
<br />
And when the Queen was well and truly rotted, maybe those outside the castle walls would at last be free. Maybe they would till fields for their own families, and not starve while handing over their harvest to those inside the castle. Maybe they would walk about without fear of random cruelty by minor royalty and the roaming guards. Perhaps a witch could tend to her orchard and brew her tisanes in peace, helping out her fellows.<br />
<br />
"Derrick," she said, and her captain of the gaol moved out of the shadows, a box draped in brown cloth in his hands.<br />
<br />
A new instrument of torture. Chirp tensed, took a breath, and willed himself to relax.<br />
<br />
She drew the cloth from the box, and he saw that it was a barred cage. Within, the missing sparrow.<br />
<br />
He sat straight up.<br />
<br />
The bird trembled, and when she lifted the iron top just enough to slip in a gloved hand, it fluttered and crashed about the cage.<br />
<br />
She snatched it and drew the frightened bird out, holding it in both hands.<br />
<br />
"Ugly," she said. "Not like the peacocks in my garden. Have you seen them? I have a white one. It's quite beautiful. I wonder if you could talk to it."<br />
<br />
She nodded, and Derrick took out a knife from his belt.<br />
<br />
"No," said Chirp, but it came out like a squeak.<br />
<br />
The captain sliced off the little bird's legs. It shrilled and peeped, thrashing within her hands. She tossed it through the bars of Chirp's cell, where it landed amidst dust and dirt and stones.<br />
<br />
He stared up at her, wide-eyed and shaking.<br />
<br />
"So many birds," she said, holding up a hand and looking at it. Tiny rivulets of blood spattered the gold mesh. "Why, there must be millions."<br />
<br />
She walked away, and Derrick peered into the cell.<br />
<br />
"Idiot," he said. "I told her you can't talk nothin' but that rubbish. But if I was you, I'd learn, real quick."<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
Thankfully, birds died fast from shock. He'd crawled over to it, held its body in his lap until, in a minute, it stopped shaking.<br />
<br />
Cradling the dead sparrow, he'd closed his eyes, imagining himself flying in the air high above the castle, away from it, among the clouds. Gradually, he'd calmed.<br />
<br />
The birds on the sill twittered their anxiousness, fretting and flapping.<br />
<br />
"Go away," he whispered. "Go. Go."<br />
<br />
But the next day, they were there again, as were the Queen and her captain of the gaol.<br />
<br />
And the cage.<br />
<br />
Another sparrow, this one young, only months old.<br />
<br />
A wing this time, tossed into the cell. Then the dying bird.<br />
<br />
Its mother came to the window, flew away, and he wished he could go with her.<br />
<br />
Still he would not tell her of the cure for pox.<br />
<br />
The third day, there was a gold mesh collar around her throat, draped over her chest. Soon, he thought.<br />
<br />
The birds in the cage started coming every hour.<br />
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Finches maimed, sparrows mutilated, beaks and wings and legs thrown into his cell, followed by little bodies.<br />
<br />
They lined up the birds shot through with the squires' special arrows, the birds' legs curled up into their bodies.<br />
<br />
So many eyes, open and black and perfectly round, staring at him.<br />
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A jay from his mother's orchard. They'd sheathed its beak so it could not peck them bloody, and the princess pulled feathers from its writhing, shrieking body, letting them float in a gentle, blue-gray shower into the cell.<br />
<br />
Another day, he told himself.<br />
<br />
Another hour, another bird.<br />
<br />
He wept, apologizing to the birds on the sill, who kept coming, kept coming, despite the obvious danger.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry," he sobbed. "Go away."<br />
<br />
On the sixth day, she came alone. He was too weak to stand when she entered his cell, the hem of her rose-pink gown trailing across dozens of small, feathered bodies. She stood in front of him.<br />
<br />
Her bald head was covered in a gold mesh cap. He could smell her.<br />
<br />
He almost smiled. So much death and horror, but it would be over soon. With her demise, the kingdom would be free. His mother would be proud.<br />
<br />
"We found another witch," she said. "She speaks to rabbits. More useful, she can cure pox. And she has two sons, who are more important to her than, I assume, your birds are to you. So we don't require your services any longer."<br />
<br />
Chirp froze. He looked up, to see if she was lying.<br />
<br />
"You wished for my death. Well, here is something you need to understand." She leaned down and caressed his cheek. "Just as there are other witches, there are other queens, and those hoping to be queen. Your foolish holdout was for naught. When we are both long dead, there will still be those in power, and those without any power at all."<br />
<br />
He bit the edge of his tongue, trying not to cry.<br />
<br />
"I may die soon after all, Chirp, but before I do, there is one more thing. I thought it sad that my magic was no help to me, but here, suddenly, I find it will give me a little happiness." She stroked the side of his face. "Have you heard what I can do? It's true, Chirp."<br />
<br />
She smiled, breath fetid.<br />
<br />
His heart stuttered. Was it true? Could she transform humans into the creature of her choice?<br />
<br />
But of course she would not—<br />
<br />
No, he already felt it. Growing smaller. Smaller still. The uncomfortable prickling of – of feathers! Feathers growing from his skin!<br />
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He opened his mouth, and out came the familiar chirps, but this time, they were real! He peeped and chirped, and fluttered in her hands when she gathered him up.<br />
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She stood, and held him up to the sill.<br />
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"Fly away, little bird."<br />
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He did not look back. He spread his wings and darted into the sunlight, into the open air.<br />
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And from far below, a squire's arrow flew, straight and fast and perfectly aimed at the bright, red bird.<br />
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***<br />
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Originally written for the Fantasy Faction monthly flashfiction contest. The theme was grimdark. Congratulations to pornokitsch, grimdarkest of them all. And I can reveal now that I voted for AC Smyth's The Deadly Game, which was clever and tense. Read all the entries <a href="http://fantasy-faction.com/forum/(mar-2014)/(mar-2014)-the-grimmest-and-darkest-grimdark-submission-thread/">here</a>.<br />
R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-27867559403507482442014-04-30T06:28:00.001-07:002014-04-30T06:28:18.951-07:00Grimdark Voting! And review: Chris Beckett's Dark EdenOnly two days left to vote in the Grimdark challenge over at Fantasy Faction! Thirteen flashfic stories of the grimmest, darkest horrors around. One of those is my own entry, <i>Chirp</i>.<br />
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<a href="http://fantasy-faction.com/forum/%28mar-2014%29/%28mar-2014%29-the-grimmest-and-darkest-grimdark-submission-thread/">Grimdark Stories Thread</a><br />
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No mention of party cake in any of the stories, I might add. An oversight, which I'll try to correct in future grimdark stories.<br />
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Finished Chris Beckett's <i>Dark Eden</i>, which won the Arthur C. Clarke award last year. It was not what I expected, and in fact, was so different from anything I've ever read, that I'm still having muddled feelings about it.<br />
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John Redlantern is one of 532 people in the Family, who are all descended from Tommy and Angela. Approximately two hundred years ago, Tommy and Angela, along with three others, crashed their spaceship on a planet after having, presumably, crossed through a wormhole from our galaxy. This new planet is nothing at all like Earth, although it is capable of sustaining life, and when their ship is unable to return, they send the three others in another ship that is also damaged but may be able to make the journey back. Tommy and Angela procreate while waiting for someone to rescue them, they live and die, and the family continues on, intermingling, increasing their numbers, and holding on tight to the stories Tommy and Angela told of a place called Earth, where the Sun shines and there is technology they can't begin to understand.<br />
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The Family lives in one valley, where the ship originally crashed, and is divided into groups. They hunt and fish and have sex indiscriminately with one another. If their culture is beyond imagining, then so too is their world, which has no sun but receives red and blue and yellow light from the trees and creatures, which all have light-emitting globes.<br />
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Eventually, as it has to happen, one person wonders what is beyond their valley, and what if no one from Earth ever comes for them, and how will they survive as resources dwindle. John Redlantern is only fifteen, but he has ideas and a restlessness that makes others in the Family uncomfortable. When he decides to speak his mind and then act on it, the Family begins to fragment, and real violence comes to them for the first time in their two hundred years.<br />
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Despite being fast-paced and eventful, <i>Dark Eden</i> is also thoughtful and questioning. The secondary characters are fleshed out well, and Beckett seems to have considered a multitude of issues that would arise in such a particular situation.<br />
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Most of those who did not like Dark Eden seem to have had a problem with the language, which has, naturally, degraded over time from the English that Tommy and Angela spoke. In addition, the entire concept of five hundred people descended from only two, and the incest (and all the genetic problems that come from such inbreeding) make for a very, very strange experience. However, John and the others are so incredibly human, and the storytelling so vivid, that the book ceased to give me a headache by about a quarter way through -- yes, I found this book so strange at first, so difficult to comprehend, that I had a headache trying to understand it. But once I grasped it, I was along for the ride, and read it very quickly.<br />
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It's a challenging read in many aspects, and worthy of praise and awards. The ending was sort of a letdown, and that's my main criticism of it. I understand, I think, why Becket wrote it that way, but I'm not pleased.<br />
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I do highly recommend<i> Dark Eden</i>. You absolutely won't read anything like it.<br />
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</iframe>R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3588286618702079946.post-86185253975784077662014-04-27T09:29:00.001-07:002014-04-27T09:29:49.108-07:00Party Cake ManiaPretty sure that before "party cake" flavoring arrived on the scene a few years ago, my life had a dreadful hole, a void of which I was unaware, and yet, I knew that something was missing. Something with buttercream and sprinkles.<br />
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Enter Turkey Hill's Party Cake ice cream, my introduction to the flavor and still the best use of the flavor anywhere:<br />
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TH's version has a soft vanilla ice cream with blue buttercream and colored cake chunks. I LOVE IT.</div>
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Lately, party cake has seen a proliferation of uses, beyond ice cream, and in the interest of science, I tried a few of them. Research, my friends. Research. (or, as Jesse Pinkman says, SCIENCE, bitch)</div>
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First up, M&Ms birthday cake:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie_6b8d-kIixPvD0RZOrCBzUpxki8wlY9ZXkTcQkQwEF5NzOts7VTg3BnWA2KFILlvD7ku27MDw7DfimcGbmHHGD_KcvnZB3z6SFc7AjVTT6e9O1DH3oXvx3pJ6NagCQ0NUsdqSnYynO4/s1600/birthdaycakemms-006.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie_6b8d-kIixPvD0RZOrCBzUpxki8wlY9ZXkTcQkQwEF5NzOts7VTg3BnWA2KFILlvD7ku27MDw7DfimcGbmHHGD_KcvnZB3z6SFc7AjVTT6e9O1DH3oXvx3pJ6NagCQ0NUsdqSnYynO4/s1600/birthdaycakemms-006.png" height="174" width="320" /></a></div>
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Supposed to taste like chocolate cake with vanilla frosting. Tastes like your basic M&Ms with a slight vanilla addition. Not worth it, IMO.</div>
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Next, DQ announced its confetti cake ice cream, which can be served in a waffle cone. I about had a heart attack when I saw that on t.v. Waffle cones, yes yes yes. So off to DQ we went. Over ten dollars later, we had two of these abominations:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3AIBVjqyuJDyk0mTe_EZRn2CppoIMZh88GRwiZGs0eqemvxJolmzZ-OZ2z04gn4yjtifb4Prb0lB54Tms2khdEBwmLymFupR668RXtoQxq82W8nfQDLmJa1zc7aDnhXpwxcOzNeTHV2U/s1600/BOM-ConfettiCakeWaffleCone-960x630trans.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3AIBVjqyuJDyk0mTe_EZRn2CppoIMZh88GRwiZGs0eqemvxJolmzZ-OZ2z04gn4yjtifb4Prb0lB54Tms2khdEBwmLymFupR668RXtoQxq82W8nfQDLmJa1zc7aDnhXpwxcOzNeTHV2U/s1600/BOM-ConfettiCakeWaffleCone-960x630trans.png" height="210" width="320" /></a></div>
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First, where's the icing? I want to taste some buttercream frosting in there, not just the basic DQ vanilla soft serve. Second, the chunks of cake were few and far between, unlike the goodies packed into TH's ice cream. Last, and the death note on this one, the confetti/sprinkles are itty-bitty pebbles of astounding hardness. Like crunching gravel in my soft serve. </div>
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Bleh. Save your money on that one. (my sister tells me that the strawberry cheesequake, however, is well worth every penny)</div>
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The final experiment was Party Cake Peeps, which also sent me into a tailspin when I saw them in CVS. Had to have them on the spot:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnPDCAAaiMfT77YdUlXma5xXMMZyPSXvvAjUD-qobVBa7ca6h9nXRwQaejJ6WldPbXhqG559rU-3jDSUrvs7hHsXJ4nICpszY3AxLa0Ldrrjsibad-HIm_Qn-804PQL_ay-NjRH9r9mB8/s1600/party+cake+peeps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnPDCAAaiMfT77YdUlXma5xXMMZyPSXvvAjUD-qobVBa7ca6h9nXRwQaejJ6WldPbXhqG559rU-3jDSUrvs7hHsXJ4nICpszY3AxLa0Ldrrjsibad-HIm_Qn-804PQL_ay-NjRH9r9mB8/s1600/party+cake+peeps.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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PCP (heh) are a rather frightening shade of bright blue on the outside, yellow on the inside, with bits of colored flecks that are, I gather, supposed to resemble sprinkles. How do they taste? LET ME TELL YOU. </div>
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I will eat them forever. I didn't think anything could be better than a regular peep (those chocolate covered ones, blech), but these are WONDERFUL. As you can see from the pic, people are already using them to top all kinds of baked desserts. In this case, it was funfetti cake cupcakes. Funfetti is itself an entire category, and useful in making all sorts of things, not the least of which is funfetti waffles, which are every bit as delightful as you might think:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDxKRn_gqqsk5C2NBPrvRu6RfAq3PVXsJtA-wU2Kc5uFEAHJ2SxaqMZQQTIo9iLcWvOwfGwLTPIl_41r8rQ1-3oLXshi7XJJiRamlRHpQbwjy57U_Uwhre2E0Kxoaq0-BBqH0kftJeIV0/s1600/Funfetti+Waffles-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDxKRn_gqqsk5C2NBPrvRu6RfAq3PVXsJtA-wU2Kc5uFEAHJ2SxaqMZQQTIo9iLcWvOwfGwLTPIl_41r8rQ1-3oLXshi7XJJiRamlRHpQbwjy57U_Uwhre2E0Kxoaq0-BBqH0kftJeIV0/s1600/Funfetti+Waffles-4.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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So here's the deal: Turkey Hill party cake ice cream and Party Cake Peeps, big thumbs up. So far, everything else... meh. </div>
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This is an on-going experiment. I shall endeavor to try any and all versions of birthday cake/party cake/confetti/funfetti foodstuffs as I find. Because SCIENCE, bitch.</div>
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R.S. Bohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09101260459422806220noreply@blogger.com2