Collaboration proved inevitable, the warring neighbors would have to succumb to the pressures of the circumstances and cease their century-old feud to rectify the situation. One of the children – of the family with the slightly larger family crest on their front gate – was stuck in the maple tree. But, not ‘stuck’ as in their foot was wedged between two branches, or their fear of heights rendered them motionless, no, they were ‘stuck’ to one of the children of the other family – the family with the more brightly colored silos; the larger silos.
The maple tree was off limits, had been for over a century. The trunk of the mighty maple lay on the dividing line of the properties of the two factions: The Maxons and the Supners. The feud began – it is told – sometime around a hundred years ago when the families agreed, during a period of drought, that neither would divert a nearby stream that runs along the back of their properties. But, for the last century that stream has caused innumerable skirmishes, and the occasional fistfight, between sons and wives, fathers and daughters.
But today, Martha Maxon and Stewart Supner were up in the tree, their braces locked together, tied to each other while trying to secretly settle the centuries old standoff. A rather large group of Maxons and Supners had gathered to see the scene. There were shouts of ‘treason’ and ‘traitor’, and even a murmur of a ‘hangin’.
Each family lined up along the property line, except for Martha and Stewart who were up in the tree, stretching their necks to see what would happen below. Then, just as is seemed like the battle to end all battles was to begin, Mark Maxon confessed his undying love for Sarah Supner. He told of their midnight rendezvous in the Supner silos. Mark and Sarah took each other’s hands and climbed into the tree to join Martha and Stewart. A hush fell over the crowd. There was hardly a sound, except for the breeze through the maple leaves and the slightest sound of lips smacking coming from the tree.
Martin Maxon was standing across the line from Samantha Supner - she had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. She had put her hair back – expecting a fight – and her cheeks glistened in the sun. Her boots were covered in manure and sweat ran down her neck. He remembered the time when they were eight that she called him a snot-nosed sow on the school bus. Or the time, twelve summers ago during the Solstice Skirmish when, at nine years old, they met in the Supner barn and wrestled in the hay for three hours until they were exhausted and fell asleep. Martin awoke with the sun at six a.m. and watched Sarah sleep for what seemed like an hour. He rose without waking her, blew a kiss to her cheek, and left dreaming of the day he would ask her to marry him.
As Martin looked into Samantha’s eyes and thought of all this, behind his back he was making a ring out a piece of hay. He knelt, one knee on the dividing line, and said, “Samantha Supner, I have always loved you. Will you marry me?”
Samantha put the shit covered sole of her boot on Martin’s shoulder, kicked him onto his back, jumped on top of him and said, “Hell yes, Martin! What took you so long? Ya damn fool!” They jumped to their feet, kissed, and scampered up the tree.
Two by two, the Maxons and the Supners confessed their taboo love, skipped off, and climbed up the tree. Even Great Grandma Supner and Great Grandpa Maxon – now both widowed and reaching a century in age themselves – finally divulged their deepest secrets: how they had always loved each other, how they could never tell their families, how, for years, they stood amongst the fields of shorn corn stalks in autumn, an acre apart, and looked into each other’s souls wondering if ever the day would come when they could be in each other’s arms. Never a word passed between them. Yet, every autumn for ninety-five years they met after the harvest and stared into each other’s eyes. They watched the maple grow from sapling, to shade tree, to the enormous, strong tree it is today. Grandma and Grandpa stepped to the base of the mighty maple and were helped up by all that had come after them; all that had gone before them, into the tree. They sat on the lowest branch, holding hands, remembering the first autumn they saw the other, feeling like it was just yesterday.
The great maple held four generations of Supners and Maxons it its boughs, and there were a few of the young ladies with the fifth generation growing inside them.
Mr. Maxon and Mr. Supner, the reluctant patriarchs whose duty it was to keep the feud fueled, looked at their wives is dismay, then looked back at each other and growled. Simultaneously, Mrs. Maxon and Mrs. Supner slapped their husbands across the cheek, then ran, hand in hand like giddy schoolgirls, to the base of the tree and disappeared up into the leaves.
The two men stood in awe of their blindness. The maple, usually amass with squawking crows, was now afire with smacking lips. The men shuffled over the trunk and looked to up, in disbelief, to see the most beautiful family tree.
By Christopher M. Bohan
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Charlie, the Crane Operator
Charlie, the crane operator, had two choices: the swinging metal ball, or the claw. Now, the claw is, of course, the more conservative choice considering the size of the job - a small brick home next for the site of the new office complex. Charlie figured he could get the job done in one day with the claw. The claw kept things neat and tidy, and there was a sense of control when you used the claw; it is a methodical tool.
But yesterday, Charlie's son came home from school with red eyes, scratched knuckles and a torn shirt. Ever since Vivian passed last summer, Junior has been very angry. Vivian had been sick since he was eight, but losing a mother at twelve can leave a young man, who is on the verge of manhood, feeling helpless and powerless. Charlie understood why his son was angry, but knew not what to do. He, too, felt helpless, powerless.
Charlie attached the swinging metal ball to the crane and began swinging at the helpless, powerless brick structure. The first swing crashed through the corner of the first floor and the second floor came crumbling down on top of it; only the chimney left standing. Charlie brought the ball back for a second swing as tears began to fill his eyes and his chest began to heave. He began to scream. The ball sailed toward the chimney and collided with the stack, sending bricks in all directions.
by Christopher M. Bohan
But yesterday, Charlie's son came home from school with red eyes, scratched knuckles and a torn shirt. Ever since Vivian passed last summer, Junior has been very angry. Vivian had been sick since he was eight, but losing a mother at twelve can leave a young man, who is on the verge of manhood, feeling helpless and powerless. Charlie understood why his son was angry, but knew not what to do. He, too, felt helpless, powerless.
Charlie attached the swinging metal ball to the crane and began swinging at the helpless, powerless brick structure. The first swing crashed through the corner of the first floor and the second floor came crumbling down on top of it; only the chimney left standing. Charlie brought the ball back for a second swing as tears began to fill his eyes and his chest began to heave. He began to scream. The ball sailed toward the chimney and collided with the stack, sending bricks in all directions.
by Christopher M. Bohan
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Sally’s Backyard
Fantastical ferries with fists of fancy descended upon Sally Studebaker’s backyard in a flurry of stardust and the aroma of lilac lollipops and honeydew gumdrops. Sally's imagination was hijacked by the renegade band of mystical marauders and magical mayhem ensued. Sally's rather stark surroundings - a veritable wasteland in the arid, sterile city - were transformed into a surreal wonderland that only Sally could see.
A half-dead tree missing a quarter of its branches became a majestic castle, a rusty Pinto its gate. A plastic milk jug, hanging on the highest branch, became an imprisoned Knight, a soldier in distress. The landing 747 – it's approach directly over the yard - became a fierce dragon guarding the castle. A discarded and embarrassed umbrella became her sword, and a broken branch from the tree, her horse. A grocery bag flew across the yard and was caught by one of the branches near the milk jug and became the waving scarf of the handsome Knight, whose scream sounded a lot like the whistle of the freight train passing behind the fence.
Sally scaled the castle wall, defeated the castle guards - a trash can and a clock radio - and rescued the Knight just as another fierce dragon breathed overhead, which caused Sally to lose her grip and fall from the castle.
Sally awoke, flat on her back, on top of the Pinto, with a milk jug in one hand and the faint taste of honeydew gumdrops in her mouth.
A half-dead tree missing a quarter of its branches became a majestic castle, a rusty Pinto its gate. A plastic milk jug, hanging on the highest branch, became an imprisoned Knight, a soldier in distress. The landing 747 – it's approach directly over the yard - became a fierce dragon guarding the castle. A discarded and embarrassed umbrella became her sword, and a broken branch from the tree, her horse. A grocery bag flew across the yard and was caught by one of the branches near the milk jug and became the waving scarf of the handsome Knight, whose scream sounded a lot like the whistle of the freight train passing behind the fence.
Sally scaled the castle wall, defeated the castle guards - a trash can and a clock radio - and rescued the Knight just as another fierce dragon breathed overhead, which caused Sally to lose her grip and fall from the castle.
Sally awoke, flat on her back, on top of the Pinto, with a milk jug in one hand and the faint taste of honeydew gumdrops in her mouth.
Highway
Truckers trucked by, chattin' on CBs and changing lanes with a careless suaveness, bullying hybrids for their green points so they could buy a Slushee at the next truck stop.
Signs remained motionless, decrying the civilization to appear miles ahead of their current, static position. Rocks on cliffs were poised and ready to fall at any moment and crash to the pavement across the eastbound lanes of I-76 like a death piñata. Hardees served food that lived up to its name.
A dashed, white line stretched as far as the eye could see, vaguely differentiating one side of the road from the other and the only charge for passage between the two high-speed areas is a small, blinking light - if you so choose.
The horizon swallowed up the sun and raised a purple curtain into the sky. And, as darkness ascended, the world collapsed to the size of the transport that the lovers shared and their future was only as far as the headlights could reach.
Signs remained motionless, decrying the civilization to appear miles ahead of their current, static position. Rocks on cliffs were poised and ready to fall at any moment and crash to the pavement across the eastbound lanes of I-76 like a death piñata. Hardees served food that lived up to its name.
A dashed, white line stretched as far as the eye could see, vaguely differentiating one side of the road from the other and the only charge for passage between the two high-speed areas is a small, blinking light - if you so choose.
The horizon swallowed up the sun and raised a purple curtain into the sky. And, as darkness ascended, the world collapsed to the size of the transport that the lovers shared and their future was only as far as the headlights could reach.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Atop Mount Eversplash
Atop Mount Eversplash by Christopher M. Bohan
The line to the top of the waterslide seemed endless: heads and inner tubes as far as the eyes could see. Every five seconds the blur of a human being would zip past and a second later their scream of delight would come chasing after them.
A little math, and some generous averages, told Chet it would be at least 40 minutes to the top of Mount Eversplash, but the shouts of glee emanating from the shoots indicated that the arduous ascent might just be worth it. Chet had no one to talk to, no cell phone to hide behind. He felt rather uneasy in groups, and therefore focused on the ride, envisioning the freedom he would soon enjoy.
Never the rebel, or even a rabble-rouser, Chet shed his docile coat today and called in sick - something he had never done before - and made his way to H2-Normous Water Park for a self-inflicted kick in the pants. Chet needed to add a little spice to his life, and this was just the ticket.
Finally at the top, he surveyed the snaking shoots and let out a primal scream that silenced the crowd, for a moment. Then, in a conscious echo, the entire crowd let out a howl. Chet hit the slide and never looked back, trusting that his excitement was following close behind.
The line to the top of the waterslide seemed endless: heads and inner tubes as far as the eyes could see. Every five seconds the blur of a human being would zip past and a second later their scream of delight would come chasing after them.
A little math, and some generous averages, told Chet it would be at least 40 minutes to the top of Mount Eversplash, but the shouts of glee emanating from the shoots indicated that the arduous ascent might just be worth it. Chet had no one to talk to, no cell phone to hide behind. He felt rather uneasy in groups, and therefore focused on the ride, envisioning the freedom he would soon enjoy.
Never the rebel, or even a rabble-rouser, Chet shed his docile coat today and called in sick - something he had never done before - and made his way to H2-Normous Water Park for a self-inflicted kick in the pants. Chet needed to add a little spice to his life, and this was just the ticket.
Finally at the top, he surveyed the snaking shoots and let out a primal scream that silenced the crowd, for a moment. Then, in a conscious echo, the entire crowd let out a howl. Chet hit the slide and never looked back, trusting that his excitement was following close behind.
Carl's Cheeseburger by Christopher M. Bohan
Carl's cheeseburger was rather dry and the cheese was not melted in the least bit. His French fries were cold and the milkshake had melted, and was now just mostly chocolate milk; warm, chocolate milk. He stared at his lunch for a long time. He had no idea why this had come to pass. Why had he waited so long to eat? Why did the ketchup packet sit unopened? Why was he in prison? Why did he not remember? Then, he remembered.
Carl never felt like eating after visitation day. His children - Cindy, 3 and Charles, 2 - were too much for his heart to take. They were growing up too fast, and not right in front of his very eyes. Their beauty strangled his appetite. Their gentleness burnt his soul. Their eyes forgave his shame.
Every Saturday they brought him lunch and sat in his lap and kissed his cheek. They did not know his past, they only loved him in the present. They did not see gates, nor guards, just a man who looked a little bit like a mirror.
Carl said his grace and ate his cold meal as his joy waved goodbye from the other side of the fence.
Carl never felt like eating after visitation day. His children - Cindy, 3 and Charles, 2 - were too much for his heart to take. They were growing up too fast, and not right in front of his very eyes. Their beauty strangled his appetite. Their gentleness burnt his soul. Their eyes forgave his shame.
Every Saturday they brought him lunch and sat in his lap and kissed his cheek. They did not know his past, they only loved him in the present. They did not see gates, nor guards, just a man who looked a little bit like a mirror.
Carl said his grace and ate his cold meal as his joy waved goodbye from the other side of the fence.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
You're Lucky You're Cute by Christopher M. Bohan
Corinne made a left turn onto Mulberry Street, put the car in neutral, turned the car off and drifted about 500 yards before coming to a stop in front of Cecilia's house.
"Shit!" she exclaimed, in a hushed breath, noticing she had forgotten to turn off the headlights. She saw Cecilia's bedroom lamp click on and off, twice, and knew that the coast was clear. She got out of the car and made her way around to Cecilia's backyard, where she found Cecilia's father sitting in a patio chair smoking a cigarette and laughing a little bit.
Corinne froze.
Mr. Turk spun around in the chair - like a super-villain would do in a James Bond film - and spoke with a cackle, "Hello, Corinne. One: If you are going to sneak up to my house, don't park out front. And two: Don't forget to turn off your headlights. You're lucky you’re cute. A little slow, but cute.”
Cecilia came out the back door and whispered, "Corinne?"
Mr. Turk, spinning around in his chair to face Cecilia, answered, "She's right here, honey. So, where you girls going tonight?"
Cecilia froze.
All was quiet, except for the sound of someone getting out of the pool; Corinne's father.
He spoke as he toweled off, "Come on sweetie, let's go. Thanks for the call, Turk.”
Corinne’s father took the keys from her shaking hand and said, “You didn't leave the headlights on again, did you? How many times I gotta tell ya ‘Turn off the headlights!’ You’re lucky you’re cute."
"Shit!" she exclaimed, in a hushed breath, noticing she had forgotten to turn off the headlights. She saw Cecilia's bedroom lamp click on and off, twice, and knew that the coast was clear. She got out of the car and made her way around to Cecilia's backyard, where she found Cecilia's father sitting in a patio chair smoking a cigarette and laughing a little bit.
Corinne froze.
Mr. Turk spun around in the chair - like a super-villain would do in a James Bond film - and spoke with a cackle, "Hello, Corinne. One: If you are going to sneak up to my house, don't park out front. And two: Don't forget to turn off your headlights. You're lucky you’re cute. A little slow, but cute.”
Cecilia came out the back door and whispered, "Corinne?"
Mr. Turk, spinning around in his chair to face Cecilia, answered, "She's right here, honey. So, where you girls going tonight?"
Cecilia froze.
All was quiet, except for the sound of someone getting out of the pool; Corinne's father.
He spoke as he toweled off, "Come on sweetie, let's go. Thanks for the call, Turk.”
Corinne’s father took the keys from her shaking hand and said, “You didn't leave the headlights on again, did you? How many times I gotta tell ya ‘Turn off the headlights!’ You’re lucky you’re cute."
Brand New Year by Christopher M. Bohan
"Hey, Jill. Hi. Yeah, so, I just purchased my Toy Story 3 IRA from Nike Bank and was thinking of picking up a 7-Eleven Big Gulp down at Bank of America Plaza. Wanna join me? Well, I was thinking of parking in the Nextel Parking Lot next to Frito-Lay Hospital. Well, yeah, I guess it would be quicker to just take the Subway Subway. Should I get off at JC Penney Junction, or AT&T Universe? Sure, yeah, that's right, I could just take the Taco Bell Trolley to Cabbage Patch Street, transfer to the Banana Boat Bus and get off at EZ Pass Plaza...They have a 7-Eleven there, yeah? That's right, it is on the upper level...So, I’ll just take the East Coast Pizza Elevator, or the Dunkin Donuts Escalator. But then I gotta get home, because my sister is going off to school tomorrow. She’s going to Pizza Hut Tech. Yeah, it used to be Penn State. She'll be studying in the GE College of Electrical Engineering. She was going to go to Pfizer, in California, but she thought she might get too homesick. Alright, I gotta run. See you at 7-Eleven. Say, you still want to go the Starbucks Shore this weekend?"
Written: July 31, 2010
Written: July 31, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Tom's Dream by Christopher M. Bohan
When Tom wanted to go shopping, he went shopping. When Tom wanted to sleep, he slept. And when Tom wanted to eat, he ate. But, Tom could never dream.
A day dream here and there, sure, no problem - if he saw a sporty car whiz by as he walked to work he was able to imagine himself behind the wheel, zipping through the side streets of an Italian village with a silk scarf snapping behind him. Yet, every morning Tom awoke with a lament that no cold shower could rinse away. He wished for dreams, but to no avail. He prayed for dreams but received no answer.
His mother used to dream. She would steal into his room in the middle of the night and wake him to share her dreams of floating mountains and birds that ate lollipops and caves of fire. Those were his dreams: waking dreams of a mother's fantasies.
Now, he lies awake in the middle of the night and imagines dreams his mother may have had. Or, he imagines the fantasy she now lives in a world of floating mountains and birds eating lollipops. That is Tom’s dream.
Written: July 30, 2010
A day dream here and there, sure, no problem - if he saw a sporty car whiz by as he walked to work he was able to imagine himself behind the wheel, zipping through the side streets of an Italian village with a silk scarf snapping behind him. Yet, every morning Tom awoke with a lament that no cold shower could rinse away. He wished for dreams, but to no avail. He prayed for dreams but received no answer.
His mother used to dream. She would steal into his room in the middle of the night and wake him to share her dreams of floating mountains and birds that ate lollipops and caves of fire. Those were his dreams: waking dreams of a mother's fantasies.
Now, he lies awake in the middle of the night and imagines dreams his mother may have had. Or, he imagines the fantasy she now lives in a world of floating mountains and birds eating lollipops. That is Tom’s dream.
Written: July 30, 2010
She by Christopher M. Bohan
She by Christopher M. Bohan
She ripped through the sky clawing at Mother Nature with the ferociousness of a tiger and the gentleness of a cashmere sweater. Behind her she dragged a consortium of stars and galaxies no longer undiscovered and set them at her feet with a 'humph' and a primal, silent scream that revealed a throat filled with wonder and love.
She stretched her consciousness and shielded her bust from the chill of the atmosphere. Gracefully, she unzipped her will and stepped out into her recently unknown world, punched delirium in the face and settled into an inquisitive state.
The fight was not over. Once she regained, or originated rather, her sense of self she began her horizontal ascent towards the treasure she sought slowed only by the stars and galaxies still attached to her heel. She set them free without regret as she latched onto life with a clenched fist, a wonder of beauty and the pleasure of a smile.
Written: July 29, 2010
She ripped through the sky clawing at Mother Nature with the ferociousness of a tiger and the gentleness of a cashmere sweater. Behind her she dragged a consortium of stars and galaxies no longer undiscovered and set them at her feet with a 'humph' and a primal, silent scream that revealed a throat filled with wonder and love.
She stretched her consciousness and shielded her bust from the chill of the atmosphere. Gracefully, she unzipped her will and stepped out into her recently unknown world, punched delirium in the face and settled into an inquisitive state.
The fight was not over. Once she regained, or originated rather, her sense of self she began her horizontal ascent towards the treasure she sought slowed only by the stars and galaxies still attached to her heel. She set them free without regret as she latched onto life with a clenched fist, a wonder of beauty and the pleasure of a smile.
Written: July 29, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Fancy Feast Freak Out by Christopher M. Bohan
Fancy Feast Freak Out by Christopher M. Bohan
He pushed the shopping cart down the aisle with regret and a deep sense that he had never been there before. He gingerly snatched a can of Fancy Feast from the shelf, sniffed it, smelled nothing then turned and whipped the can down the aisle where it passed over the Old Bay display and then lodged itself into a rump roast that lay peacefully in the subliminally violent red meat case.
In a fit of rage he had never felt before he began hurling tins of cat food in every direction. At 3am on a Tuesday the 24-hour Grocery Bag became a war zone, of sorts. A lady shopping in frozen foods took one to the cheek, fell to the ground and was aided by a stock boy who pressed a bag of frozen cauliflower to her swollen, bleeding face.
He was picking up a can of dog food just as the Taser stung him in the back. The current caused his hand to clench and the dog food can burst open sending Alpo all over the display for flea collars as a plea gasped from his mouth, "I don't know. I don't know. Do you hear Mozart?"
Written: July 28, 2010
He pushed the shopping cart down the aisle with regret and a deep sense that he had never been there before. He gingerly snatched a can of Fancy Feast from the shelf, sniffed it, smelled nothing then turned and whipped the can down the aisle where it passed over the Old Bay display and then lodged itself into a rump roast that lay peacefully in the subliminally violent red meat case.
In a fit of rage he had never felt before he began hurling tins of cat food in every direction. At 3am on a Tuesday the 24-hour Grocery Bag became a war zone, of sorts. A lady shopping in frozen foods took one to the cheek, fell to the ground and was aided by a stock boy who pressed a bag of frozen cauliflower to her swollen, bleeding face.
He was picking up a can of dog food just as the Taser stung him in the back. The current caused his hand to clench and the dog food can burst open sending Alpo all over the display for flea collars as a plea gasped from his mouth, "I don't know. I don't know. Do you hear Mozart?"
Written: July 28, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Money Fan by Christopher M. Bohan
Money Fan by Christopher M. Bohan
Turk turned the fan on high and the money flew everywhere. Hundreds stuck to the screen door like a swarm of insects looking for a way out. A twenty sliced Kurt across the cheek and gave him a paper cut right above his tattoo of the backside of a penny and right below his tattoo of a teardrop. Two hundred thousand scattered across the Midway Inn second floor executive suite complete with Jacuzzi tub and free HBO and ESPN in a matter of seconds. The complimentary ice bucket held about seven hundred dollars in refugee bills.
Turk attempted to shut off the fan, but succeeded only in setting the fan speed higher and another layer of bills was swept into the oscillating breeze. And, just as a bill was to settle the fan would pan back and set it adrift, aloft, toward the island, or counter rather, that held free soaps, a very small coffee maker and an ever-richening ice bucket.
Kurt really had wanted to jump on he bed and frolic in the money, but now, thanks to Turk, the moment was gone. Kurt sat staring at the nomadic money and said, "Thanks, Turk. Thanks, you idiot!"
Written: July 27, 2010
Turk turned the fan on high and the money flew everywhere. Hundreds stuck to the screen door like a swarm of insects looking for a way out. A twenty sliced Kurt across the cheek and gave him a paper cut right above his tattoo of the backside of a penny and right below his tattoo of a teardrop. Two hundred thousand scattered across the Midway Inn second floor executive suite complete with Jacuzzi tub and free HBO and ESPN in a matter of seconds. The complimentary ice bucket held about seven hundred dollars in refugee bills.
Turk attempted to shut off the fan, but succeeded only in setting the fan speed higher and another layer of bills was swept into the oscillating breeze. And, just as a bill was to settle the fan would pan back and set it adrift, aloft, toward the island, or counter rather, that held free soaps, a very small coffee maker and an ever-richening ice bucket.
Kurt really had wanted to jump on he bed and frolic in the money, but now, thanks to Turk, the moment was gone. Kurt sat staring at the nomadic money and said, "Thanks, Turk. Thanks, you idiot!"
Written: July 27, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
One Size Fits All by Christopher M. Bohan
Striped shirts and briefcases. Titanium pencils and pens and lunches on terraces with non-native trees and cloth napkins. Silver watch bands, platinum wedding bands and sterling silver belt loops. Crushed ice bathed in imported spring water and priceless menus. BMWs and Porshes blanket the blacktop. Leather shoes kiss the carpet and linen sport coats pet the seatbacks. Holidays in remote locations reserved for the elite and proper. Obscure yachting magazines which detail, in detail, the meaning of the obscurity of the spelling of the word yacht. Homes with three kitchens and a television monitor showing the location of all the other televisions in the home. Bank accounts in secret locations and tax shelters the size of Jupiter.
Or…
Skinny jeans, mustaches, hip bikes with trendy messenger shoulder bags, flannel shirts and railing against ‘the man’.
Pretention: one size fits all.
Written: July 25, 2010
Or…
Skinny jeans, mustaches, hip bikes with trendy messenger shoulder bags, flannel shirts and railing against ‘the man’.
Pretention: one size fits all.
Written: July 25, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
My apologies for the hiatus
Dear all,
This actually is me and not a work a fiction.
Thanks for reading my short stories. Sorry for the hiatus. There are no good excuses so I will just say that my dog ate my computer. I don't have a dog, but it is a better excuse than anything else. The truth is that I was rehearsing and acting in a show and preparing for our new baby - due to arrive sometime in December of 2010.
But, I was writing the whole time I was away and will begin posting again. I did miss a few days and have been trying to catch up by writing two a day.
Hope you enjoy the new posts and please feel free to share with friends and invite them to read my little ramblings.
Cheers,
Chris Bohan
This actually is me and not a work a fiction.
Thanks for reading my short stories. Sorry for the hiatus. There are no good excuses so I will just say that my dog ate my computer. I don't have a dog, but it is a better excuse than anything else. The truth is that I was rehearsing and acting in a show and preparing for our new baby - due to arrive sometime in December of 2010.
But, I was writing the whole time I was away and will begin posting again. I did miss a few days and have been trying to catch up by writing two a day.
Hope you enjoy the new posts and please feel free to share with friends and invite them to read my little ramblings.
Cheers,
Chris Bohan
Autumnal Transition by Christopher M. Bohan
Bells rang out, pealing with happiness and joy. Autumn had come and harvest festivals were preparing to bring deliciousness and smiles to the faces of all the weary summer travelers.
But this year, it was decided that apple cider would be served chilled and pumpkins would remain unlit. Instead, pumpkins would be set out during the day and filled with ice cubes to be used in the apple cider. It was not that the autumn was to be abnormally warm, it was just that the summer had been so abominably hot that everyone needed a lengthier transition – or make that a more abrupt transition – into winter. After weeks and weeks of heat waves no one was interested in HOT apple cider or warm pumpkin pie. The enormous summer heat waves had an undertow that kept pulling you back into its relentlessness.
So, this year, autumn will forgo being a transitional season and will instead serve as a direct conduit to winter and all the coolness it brings.
Written: July 23, 2010
But this year, it was decided that apple cider would be served chilled and pumpkins would remain unlit. Instead, pumpkins would be set out during the day and filled with ice cubes to be used in the apple cider. It was not that the autumn was to be abnormally warm, it was just that the summer had been so abominably hot that everyone needed a lengthier transition – or make that a more abrupt transition – into winter. After weeks and weeks of heat waves no one was interested in HOT apple cider or warm pumpkin pie. The enormous summer heat waves had an undertow that kept pulling you back into its relentlessness.
So, this year, autumn will forgo being a transitional season and will instead serve as a direct conduit to winter and all the coolness it brings.
Written: July 23, 2010
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Cold Ones by Christopher M. Bohan
Written: July 22, 2010
Cold Ones by Christopher M. Bohan
A day spent tanning hides left Stan’s arms sore and rubbery. His back didn’t feel that great, either. He had remnants of hide under his fingernails, in his hair and some had even settled in the cuffs of his Wranglers. The temperature outside was hotter than hell and the relief of shade only decreased the temperature to hot as hell.
Stan plopped down into the swing on the front porch with a cold glass of ice water and a cold beer. He took a sip from the ice water and then poured the remainder on his crotch. He cracked open the beer and drained its contents in one thirsty gulp. He wanted another beer, but decided to wait till the ice cubes on his crotch had fully melted before he rose to make his way to the kitchen.
After a few seconds, he rose and went though the front door towards the kitchen. In the den, Auntie Rose was watching “Hollywood Tonight” on the television. Stan overheard the story of a millionaire movie star whose wife had left him for another woman. Auntie Rose was astonished and let out a dramatic gasp.
Stan decided to take two beers and went back out to the front porch, sat on the swing, and looked forward to another day of tanning hides.
Cold Ones by Christopher M. Bohan
A day spent tanning hides left Stan’s arms sore and rubbery. His back didn’t feel that great, either. He had remnants of hide under his fingernails, in his hair and some had even settled in the cuffs of his Wranglers. The temperature outside was hotter than hell and the relief of shade only decreased the temperature to hot as hell.
Stan plopped down into the swing on the front porch with a cold glass of ice water and a cold beer. He took a sip from the ice water and then poured the remainder on his crotch. He cracked open the beer and drained its contents in one thirsty gulp. He wanted another beer, but decided to wait till the ice cubes on his crotch had fully melted before he rose to make his way to the kitchen.
After a few seconds, he rose and went though the front door towards the kitchen. In the den, Auntie Rose was watching “Hollywood Tonight” on the television. Stan overheard the story of a millionaire movie star whose wife had left him for another woman. Auntie Rose was astonished and let out a dramatic gasp.
Stan decided to take two beers and went back out to the front porch, sat on the swing, and looked forward to another day of tanning hides.
Like in the Movies by Christopher M. Bohan
Written: July 21, 2010
Like in the Movies by Christopher M. Bohan
“Some things are better left unsaid!” She said as she walked out the back door. But, she quickly changed her mind and walked around the side of the house and made a dramatic entrance through the front door. She wished it were raining, like in the movies, so the entrance would be even more dramatic, but it would do. It had to.
“I slept with your brother the night before the wedding!” She tried to cry, like in the movies, but she couldn’t. It came out rather stale and flat. She began to wonder why the screen door hadn’t slammed as she went out the back earlier, like in the movies. In the movies, the screen door always slammed.
Her husband just stood there with this blank look on his face and said, “Yeah, I know. I slept with your sister. So what?” Then he went out back to flip the steaks on the grill and, wouldn’t you know it, the damn screen door slammed behind him.
She stood in awe of irony.
“Hey babe? When ya quit being crazy would you bring out the Lawry’s?”
It was the best steak she ever had, and well, you can’t taste the steak in the movies.
Like in the Movies by Christopher M. Bohan
“Some things are better left unsaid!” She said as she walked out the back door. But, she quickly changed her mind and walked around the side of the house and made a dramatic entrance through the front door. She wished it were raining, like in the movies, so the entrance would be even more dramatic, but it would do. It had to.
“I slept with your brother the night before the wedding!” She tried to cry, like in the movies, but she couldn’t. It came out rather stale and flat. She began to wonder why the screen door hadn’t slammed as she went out the back earlier, like in the movies. In the movies, the screen door always slammed.
Her husband just stood there with this blank look on his face and said, “Yeah, I know. I slept with your sister. So what?” Then he went out back to flip the steaks on the grill and, wouldn’t you know it, the damn screen door slammed behind him.
She stood in awe of irony.
“Hey babe? When ya quit being crazy would you bring out the Lawry’s?”
It was the best steak she ever had, and well, you can’t taste the steak in the movies.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Artifacts in Waiting by Christopher M. Bohan
Written: July 20, 2010
Artifacts in Waiting by Christopher M. Bohan
Calm waters. Forever is tomorrow. Cool breezes.
Time moves along as it pleases with no apologies rendered. The sun is wearing a hat. The ocean is taking a bath. The sky isn’t taking any calls and has put the moon in its pocket.
A clam struggles to open, afraid what it might not see.
A rock. A shell.
A meteor streaks across the sky and cautiously descends before burning a trail across a plateau of unremarkable height.
A blade of grass. A dead now. A cat.
Rust sticks a napkin under its chin and begins to gnaw away at Detroit.
A bridge. A sewer pipe. A television.
Drips of water rejoice as their years of persistence have finally been justified as they finally penetrate the roof of the store that ceased to sell anything, something, sometime long ago.
A rat. An upturned cockroach. A dollar bill.
A crane, on its side, spans a putrid stream as it feeds it with its seeping, ancient oil.
A column.
Artifacts in Waiting by Christopher M. Bohan
Calm waters. Forever is tomorrow. Cool breezes.
Time moves along as it pleases with no apologies rendered. The sun is wearing a hat. The ocean is taking a bath. The sky isn’t taking any calls and has put the moon in its pocket.
A clam struggles to open, afraid what it might not see.
A rock. A shell.
A meteor streaks across the sky and cautiously descends before burning a trail across a plateau of unremarkable height.
A blade of grass. A dead now. A cat.
Rust sticks a napkin under its chin and begins to gnaw away at Detroit.
A bridge. A sewer pipe. A television.
Drips of water rejoice as their years of persistence have finally been justified as they finally penetrate the roof of the store that ceased to sell anything, something, sometime long ago.
A rat. An upturned cockroach. A dollar bill.
A crane, on its side, spans a putrid stream as it feeds it with its seeping, ancient oil.
A column.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
The Cartographer by Christopher M. Bohan
Written: July 19, 2010
The Cartographer by Christopher M. Bohan
“The cartographer has fallen down the hill!” Sergio was overcome with a mixed- breed of emotions as the words tumbled from his mouth.
The wind was sweeping through the valley at a considerable rate, apparently riding a rush it must have inhaled passing through the grove of coffee bushes further down the valley, and apparently knocked the cartographer, Graham Peabody, off his feet. Peabody was charting the territory for the Madewell Trading Company and often lacked a sense of balance, even in the calmest of weather patterns.
Peabody was still rolling down the grassy hillside as a small group of hysterical children heeded Sergio’s call and were gathering to watch the mapping man fall head over heels. Their laughter pushed them to the ground and almost succeeded in sending them into the same foray that coerced their exuberance.
The children could not hear, over their laughter, Peabody shout in pain as one of his pencils stabbed him in the right butt cheek and sank two inches into his flesh. The next tumble broke the pencil in two leaving the two-inch piece submerged inside Peabody. Had the children seen the pencil protruding from Peabody’s posterior they would have peed their pants with pleasure.
The Cartographer by Christopher M. Bohan
“The cartographer has fallen down the hill!” Sergio was overcome with a mixed- breed of emotions as the words tumbled from his mouth.
The wind was sweeping through the valley at a considerable rate, apparently riding a rush it must have inhaled passing through the grove of coffee bushes further down the valley, and apparently knocked the cartographer, Graham Peabody, off his feet. Peabody was charting the territory for the Madewell Trading Company and often lacked a sense of balance, even in the calmest of weather patterns.
Peabody was still rolling down the grassy hillside as a small group of hysterical children heeded Sergio’s call and were gathering to watch the mapping man fall head over heels. Their laughter pushed them to the ground and almost succeeded in sending them into the same foray that coerced their exuberance.
The children could not hear, over their laughter, Peabody shout in pain as one of his pencils stabbed him in the right butt cheek and sank two inches into his flesh. The next tumble broke the pencil in two leaving the two-inch piece submerged inside Peabody. Had the children seen the pencil protruding from Peabody’s posterior they would have peed their pants with pleasure.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Fish and Crab by Christopher M. Bohan
Written: July 13, 2010
Fish and Crab by Christopher M. Bohan
Gargantuan rocks rained from the sky and littered the pristine stillness of the lake with colliding ripples that reached from shore to shore. Waves from the ripples clawed at the shore pulling small rocks, shells and dried timbers back into the shallow waters at the edge of the formerly sanguine bath.
Fish and crab clamored about, fleeing for safety only to find new fears where there were none before. Or, for as long as a fish and crab could remember.
As quick as the cascading projectiles had begun, sprung from seemingly nowhere, they ceased. The fish and the crab continued their frantic fray unawares of the calmed seas surrounding them. Then, all at once, they ceased their scattering and raised their gazes to the ceiling of the sea in anticipation of another shower of portly projectiles.
Silence surrounded them in an anxious hush. One fish blinked. One crab pinched his pincher. Then, a small pebble broke the surface and pushed its way to the bottom and all the while the fish and the crab remained perfectly still.
Fish and Crab by Christopher M. Bohan
Gargantuan rocks rained from the sky and littered the pristine stillness of the lake with colliding ripples that reached from shore to shore. Waves from the ripples clawed at the shore pulling small rocks, shells and dried timbers back into the shallow waters at the edge of the formerly sanguine bath.
Fish and crab clamored about, fleeing for safety only to find new fears where there were none before. Or, for as long as a fish and crab could remember.
As quick as the cascading projectiles had begun, sprung from seemingly nowhere, they ceased. The fish and the crab continued their frantic fray unawares of the calmed seas surrounding them. Then, all at once, they ceased their scattering and raised their gazes to the ceiling of the sea in anticipation of another shower of portly projectiles.
Silence surrounded them in an anxious hush. One fish blinked. One crab pinched his pincher. Then, a small pebble broke the surface and pushed its way to the bottom and all the while the fish and the crab remained perfectly still.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Sagacious Bass by Christopher M. Bohan
Written: July 8, 2010
Sagacious Bass by Christopher M. Bohan
‘Fresh water fish’? Sounds a bit fishy to me. Are you saying fish from the ocean aren’t ‘fresh’? Ocean water is somehow backwash from somewhere? Is that what you are saying?
‘Fresh’ – from Webster’s Dictionary: 1: newly made or obtained. 2: recently arrived; just come. What? It doesn’t rain in the ocean? Oh, like the Great Lakes are the newest thing in the world. Read the papers – you can’t even swim in Lake Erie due to the ‘fresh’ run-off of pesticides and hypodermic needles.
I think the ocean needs a new PR person. It’s a new century folks! Time to jazz it up a bit. Those ‘fresh water’ people have even infiltrated the dictionary with their slanted propaganda. As evidence, I cite Webster’s – fresh: 5: not salty; like water. That is just dirty semantics if you ask me.
Maybe the ocean is just ‘old school’. Maybe we could bottle it and call it ‘wise water’ or possibly, ‘sagacious’. Webster’s Dictionary – sagacious: wise and sophisticated. Would you order the ‘fresh water bass’ or the ‘sagacious bass’? That is a no-brainer. I’ll take wise and sophisticated over not salty any day. ‘Fresh’ can also imply sassy. And, I ain’t eatin’ no ‘sassy bass’.
Sagacious Bass by Christopher M. Bohan
‘Fresh water fish’? Sounds a bit fishy to me. Are you saying fish from the ocean aren’t ‘fresh’? Ocean water is somehow backwash from somewhere? Is that what you are saying?
‘Fresh’ – from Webster’s Dictionary: 1: newly made or obtained. 2: recently arrived; just come. What? It doesn’t rain in the ocean? Oh, like the Great Lakes are the newest thing in the world. Read the papers – you can’t even swim in Lake Erie due to the ‘fresh’ run-off of pesticides and hypodermic needles.
I think the ocean needs a new PR person. It’s a new century folks! Time to jazz it up a bit. Those ‘fresh water’ people have even infiltrated the dictionary with their slanted propaganda. As evidence, I cite Webster’s – fresh: 5: not salty; like water. That is just dirty semantics if you ask me.
Maybe the ocean is just ‘old school’. Maybe we could bottle it and call it ‘wise water’ or possibly, ‘sagacious’. Webster’s Dictionary – sagacious: wise and sophisticated. Would you order the ‘fresh water bass’ or the ‘sagacious bass’? That is a no-brainer. I’ll take wise and sophisticated over not salty any day. ‘Fresh’ can also imply sassy. And, I ain’t eatin’ no ‘sassy bass’.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
The Fox
Written: Wednesday, July 7, 2010
The Fox by Christopher M. Bohan
“Friday is a good day. Let’s make it Friday. My bridge club usually wraps up around 3:30. So, can we meet around 4? Great. I’ll see you there. Oh, wait! Sorry, one more thing. Should I bring the chicken? Okay. No? I’m sorry. I forgot. The chicken stays at home. Ugh! This is so confusing. I am so sorry. I bring the ferret…fox, yes, fox, I’m sorry. And, it’s forty? Yes?
Please don’t get so angry with me, young man. This is my first time. My husband used to take care of all of this, but since his stroke and triple bypass he can only nod his head a little and blink his left eye and the signals tend to get a little mixed up. So, give an old lady a break, eh?
Excuse me? Is that how you want to play the game little boy?
Now, the fox will cost you fifty G’s. I may be new at this but I have been listening to my husband push you poodle for thirty years and I picked up a thing or two. And, you talk back to me again and I say your name and address on this here phone call.
You think I’m joking? Now it’s sixty for the fox. Cash. This fox is Peruvian and it is sly. You cool with that, Ricky? Oops. Yeah, I thought you’d be cool with that. See you at the fox den. And don’t forget to bring the alligator.”
The Fox by Christopher M. Bohan
“Friday is a good day. Let’s make it Friday. My bridge club usually wraps up around 3:30. So, can we meet around 4? Great. I’ll see you there. Oh, wait! Sorry, one more thing. Should I bring the chicken? Okay. No? I’m sorry. I forgot. The chicken stays at home. Ugh! This is so confusing. I am so sorry. I bring the ferret…fox, yes, fox, I’m sorry. And, it’s forty? Yes?
Please don’t get so angry with me, young man. This is my first time. My husband used to take care of all of this, but since his stroke and triple bypass he can only nod his head a little and blink his left eye and the signals tend to get a little mixed up. So, give an old lady a break, eh?
Excuse me? Is that how you want to play the game little boy?
Now, the fox will cost you fifty G’s. I may be new at this but I have been listening to my husband push you poodle for thirty years and I picked up a thing or two. And, you talk back to me again and I say your name and address on this here phone call.
You think I’m joking? Now it’s sixty for the fox. Cash. This fox is Peruvian and it is sly. You cool with that, Ricky? Oops. Yeah, I thought you’d be cool with that. See you at the fox den. And don’t forget to bring the alligator.”
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
The Old, White Carpet
Written: Tuesday, July 6, 2010
The Old, White Carpet by Christopher M. Bohan
The new, white carpet never stood a chance against the four year old’s birthday party.
It all started when the flash thunderstorm sent the throng of screaming four year olds with muddied sneakers into the living room just after they had been handed their cups of pro-biotic, high in antioxidants, calcium fortified, high in Omega 3 grape juice. Safe inside and sipping their juice, the screaming from the four year olds started to subside.
Just then Cheeks the Clown, having just suffered a massive heart attack as he was pulling up his pants, fell from the bathroom with his pants around his ankles and a large shoe in each hand. This sent the children into hysterics and small cups of grape juice into the air. There was absolutely zero crescendo as the screaming went from a low whimper to an ear-piercing shrill in a nanosecond. One of the champagne glasses in the hutch suffered a hairline crack.
Stanley Steamer was able to remove almost all traces of mud from the carpet as well as the white pancake make-up from where Cheeks had landed. But, the grape juice? The grape juice stain - on the now old, white carpet - will serve as a constant reminder to hold the next party at a rental facility.
The Old, White Carpet by Christopher M. Bohan
The new, white carpet never stood a chance against the four year old’s birthday party.
It all started when the flash thunderstorm sent the throng of screaming four year olds with muddied sneakers into the living room just after they had been handed their cups of pro-biotic, high in antioxidants, calcium fortified, high in Omega 3 grape juice. Safe inside and sipping their juice, the screaming from the four year olds started to subside.
Just then Cheeks the Clown, having just suffered a massive heart attack as he was pulling up his pants, fell from the bathroom with his pants around his ankles and a large shoe in each hand. This sent the children into hysterics and small cups of grape juice into the air. There was absolutely zero crescendo as the screaming went from a low whimper to an ear-piercing shrill in a nanosecond. One of the champagne glasses in the hutch suffered a hairline crack.
Stanley Steamer was able to remove almost all traces of mud from the carpet as well as the white pancake make-up from where Cheeks had landed. But, the grape juice? The grape juice stain - on the now old, white carpet - will serve as a constant reminder to hold the next party at a rental facility.
Like, it’s over
Written: Sunday, July 4, 2010
Like, it’s over by Christopher M. Bohan
Please believe me when I say that I, like, no longer want to date you. I am beginning to suspect that you still believe that we are, like, an ‘item’ or that we are ‘going steady’. Or maybe it’s because, like, from the fact that you just introduced me as your ‘boyfriend’. Maybe this is, like, my fault. Maybe I wasn’t clear last week when I said ‘I just wanted to be friends’. I can see how that could be misconstrued, thus the introduction as ‘boy-friend’. I will give you the benefit of the doubt on that one. But it’s, like, totally over Trudy. I, like, totally don't, like, like you anymore. Like that. You know? Like?
So, for one, please stop holding my hand. And two, if you are going to insist on wearing that ‘with boyfriend’ t-shirt with the arrow pointing in my direction then I totally won’t, like, hang out with you any more.
Look, I am going to be in the ninth grade next year and I don’t want to be tied down to, like, a seventh grader. You are, like, totally cool and totally mature but I am thinking I might want to date someone, like, my own age. Don’t take it too hard. There are more fish in, like, the ocean. I will totally miss you hard. I totally liked holding you hand.
Like, it’s over by Christopher M. Bohan
Please believe me when I say that I, like, no longer want to date you. I am beginning to suspect that you still believe that we are, like, an ‘item’ or that we are ‘going steady’. Or maybe it’s because, like, from the fact that you just introduced me as your ‘boyfriend’. Maybe this is, like, my fault. Maybe I wasn’t clear last week when I said ‘I just wanted to be friends’. I can see how that could be misconstrued, thus the introduction as ‘boy-friend’. I will give you the benefit of the doubt on that one. But it’s, like, totally over Trudy. I, like, totally don't, like, like you anymore. Like that. You know? Like?
So, for one, please stop holding my hand. And two, if you are going to insist on wearing that ‘with boyfriend’ t-shirt with the arrow pointing in my direction then I totally won’t, like, hang out with you any more.
Look, I am going to be in the ninth grade next year and I don’t want to be tied down to, like, a seventh grader. You are, like, totally cool and totally mature but I am thinking I might want to date someone, like, my own age. Don’t take it too hard. There are more fish in, like, the ocean. I will totally miss you hard. I totally liked holding you hand.
Jefferson and Sons
Written: Friday, July 2, 2010
Jefferson and Sons by Christopher M. Bohan
Severe cuts to the work staff at Jefferson and Sons Lawn Care have left it pared down to only Jefferson and Son. Times are tough in this time of mild post-recovery re-recession. When the first wave of the recession was at its lowest it was down to just Jefferson. But then, a few months back when the recession was making a mild post-recession recovery Jefferson was able to add two sons back onto the staff, thus making the name, Jefferson and Sons, legit.
But now, with the mild post-recovery re-recession recovery in relapse Jefferson has had to re-fire his youngest son, Reginald. His middle son, Regan, decided to return to the IRS where he audits tax returns on a full time basis, and therefore, no longer requires employment from his father. Rupert, the eldest son and consequently the only son still employed by Jefferson and Sons Lawn Care, is happy for the work.
Reginald collects unemployment and hopes one day to return to Jefferson and Son(s). But, there are fears the mild post-recovery re-recession might take a turn for the worse and could possibly become a double-dip post-post re-recovery recession, or possibly, the dreaded triple-scoop deep depression.
Jefferson and Sons by Christopher M. Bohan
Severe cuts to the work staff at Jefferson and Sons Lawn Care have left it pared down to only Jefferson and Son. Times are tough in this time of mild post-recovery re-recession. When the first wave of the recession was at its lowest it was down to just Jefferson. But then, a few months back when the recession was making a mild post-recession recovery Jefferson was able to add two sons back onto the staff, thus making the name, Jefferson and Sons, legit.
But now, with the mild post-recovery re-recession recovery in relapse Jefferson has had to re-fire his youngest son, Reginald. His middle son, Regan, decided to return to the IRS where he audits tax returns on a full time basis, and therefore, no longer requires employment from his father. Rupert, the eldest son and consequently the only son still employed by Jefferson and Sons Lawn Care, is happy for the work.
Reginald collects unemployment and hopes one day to return to Jefferson and Son(s). But, there are fears the mild post-recovery re-recession might take a turn for the worse and could possibly become a double-dip post-post re-recovery recession, or possibly, the dreaded triple-scoop deep depression.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Literally
Written: Thursday, July 1, 2010
Literally by Christopher M. Bohan
“We have the place surrounded!” rang from the bullhorn, which gave it a deep and authoritative tone. “Come out with your hands up and no one gets hurt!” The police did, indeed, have the place surrounded and were poised to move in at the drop of a hat, literally.
Johnny Whitherspoon, the mole on the inside, was wearing a brown pork-pie hat and if anything felt off to him he was to remove the hat and drop it on the floor. The hidden camera would relay the signal to the captain and he would give the order to storm the castle, literally.
The drug deal was going down in an abandoned Medieval Times restaurant. Doug “the Rooster” Koch had been doing his deals here for years and never saw this day coming. He was furious. “When I find out who ratted me out the shit is going to hit the fan, literally. I am going to cut you up and throw your pieces and shit at a fucking fan. I’m looking at you Pork-Pie!”
Whitherspoon was freaking out. He took his hat from his head and let it fall to the ground. Within seconds, Medieval Times came back to life, literally. A mob of policeman used an old telephone pole to bash through the wooden gate allowing a throng of mounted policeman to descend upon the arena. An epic battle of courtly proportions ensued.
Literally by Christopher M. Bohan
“We have the place surrounded!” rang from the bullhorn, which gave it a deep and authoritative tone. “Come out with your hands up and no one gets hurt!” The police did, indeed, have the place surrounded and were poised to move in at the drop of a hat, literally.
Johnny Whitherspoon, the mole on the inside, was wearing a brown pork-pie hat and if anything felt off to him he was to remove the hat and drop it on the floor. The hidden camera would relay the signal to the captain and he would give the order to storm the castle, literally.
The drug deal was going down in an abandoned Medieval Times restaurant. Doug “the Rooster” Koch had been doing his deals here for years and never saw this day coming. He was furious. “When I find out who ratted me out the shit is going to hit the fan, literally. I am going to cut you up and throw your pieces and shit at a fucking fan. I’m looking at you Pork-Pie!”
Whitherspoon was freaking out. He took his hat from his head and let it fall to the ground. Within seconds, Medieval Times came back to life, literally. A mob of policeman used an old telephone pole to bash through the wooden gate allowing a throng of mounted policeman to descend upon the arena. An epic battle of courtly proportions ensued.
TIC-TAC
Written: Wednesday, June 30, 2010
TIC-TAC by Christopher M. Bohan
“Stop it. Stop that!” Sarah was fiercely concentrating on the road ahead while attempting to discourage her infantile boyfriend. Ralph, the descendant of two apparently normal and hardworking humans, was attempting to retrieve an orange Tic-Tac from the vent between the dashboard and the windshield.
“It’s my last one!” He said in a muffled tone: he was attempting to retrieve said Tic-Tac with his tongue. He had removed his seat belt and was pressing his head in as far as it could go. The cummerbund on his tuxedo was restricting his movement, so he reached back with his right hand to unhook it.
“We are almost there. Give it a rest. Please don’t embarrass me at the dance. This will be my only senior prom. Please don’t make it suck!” Sarah finally began to understand the true meaning of the word ‘dejected’.
Sarah took her eyes off the road for one second to see the tragedy that was her date and when she looked back it was too late to stop and she rear-ended the Pontiac in front of her. The collision threw Ralph back into his seat. And, with a bright orange Tic-Tac in his mouth, he exclaimed, “Got it!”
TIC-TAC by Christopher M. Bohan
“Stop it. Stop that!” Sarah was fiercely concentrating on the road ahead while attempting to discourage her infantile boyfriend. Ralph, the descendant of two apparently normal and hardworking humans, was attempting to retrieve an orange Tic-Tac from the vent between the dashboard and the windshield.
“It’s my last one!” He said in a muffled tone: he was attempting to retrieve said Tic-Tac with his tongue. He had removed his seat belt and was pressing his head in as far as it could go. The cummerbund on his tuxedo was restricting his movement, so he reached back with his right hand to unhook it.
“We are almost there. Give it a rest. Please don’t embarrass me at the dance. This will be my only senior prom. Please don’t make it suck!” Sarah finally began to understand the true meaning of the word ‘dejected’.
Sarah took her eyes off the road for one second to see the tragedy that was her date and when she looked back it was too late to stop and she rear-ended the Pontiac in front of her. The collision threw Ralph back into his seat. And, with a bright orange Tic-Tac in his mouth, he exclaimed, “Got it!”
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Operation Dessert
Written: Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Operation Dessert by Christopher M. Bohan
The grilled cheese sat idling on the plate next to a half eaten baby carrot and a virgin stalk of string cheese. The straw in the juice box seemed as if it were cocked and ready to fire at any moment.
Little Jimmy had a sneer on his puss the size of Texas and he wasn’t backing down. Months of experiments had taught him that tantrums never work, a sweet grin is only 3% effective, but an old fashioned stare-down will get you dessert before dinner 15% of the time. The odds weren’t great, but Little Jimmy was feeling lucky tonight and the chocolate cake on the counter was calling his name.
His focus was deep. He imagined himself eating the cake. No sudden movements. No screaming. No whimpering. Keep the mouth sealed shut to disallow any food entry other that the desired dessert. At select moments, he would shift his gaze to the cake - in essence, directing his mother’s attention toward the object in question. When she looked back, he would focus in on her real hard and send strong signals of ‘cake’.
After five minutes of intense focus, Jimmy’s mom broke the silence, “No cake. You haven’t eaten your dinner yet.”
In a flash, Jimmy squeezed the juice box and sent a stream of apple juice right into his mother’s eye. Before he knew it, he was on his back in his crib with the lights out.
“Damn it. Back to the drawing board.”
Operation Dessert by Christopher M. Bohan
The grilled cheese sat idling on the plate next to a half eaten baby carrot and a virgin stalk of string cheese. The straw in the juice box seemed as if it were cocked and ready to fire at any moment.
Little Jimmy had a sneer on his puss the size of Texas and he wasn’t backing down. Months of experiments had taught him that tantrums never work, a sweet grin is only 3% effective, but an old fashioned stare-down will get you dessert before dinner 15% of the time. The odds weren’t great, but Little Jimmy was feeling lucky tonight and the chocolate cake on the counter was calling his name.
His focus was deep. He imagined himself eating the cake. No sudden movements. No screaming. No whimpering. Keep the mouth sealed shut to disallow any food entry other that the desired dessert. At select moments, he would shift his gaze to the cake - in essence, directing his mother’s attention toward the object in question. When she looked back, he would focus in on her real hard and send strong signals of ‘cake’.
After five minutes of intense focus, Jimmy’s mom broke the silence, “No cake. You haven’t eaten your dinner yet.”
In a flash, Jimmy squeezed the juice box and sent a stream of apple juice right into his mother’s eye. Before he knew it, he was on his back in his crib with the lights out.
“Damn it. Back to the drawing board.”
500 SUVs
Written: Monday, June 28, 2010
500 SUVs by Christopher M. Bohan
500 SUVs sit idling, air conditioners running, in the parking lot of the hot new mega-store - Store Store. In just three short hours, Store Store would be opening.
Inside Store Store is a massive display for Eartha – the first in a line of Eco-Friendly dolls made by the company 3Rs (Recycle, Reuse, Replenish). Eartha is comprised of all recycled materials and is assembled on machines made of recycled steel that are powered by a fuel developed by 3R Founder and CEO, Ken Starwell. The fuel is a combination of human waste and cigarette butts. Disgusting? Yes. Efficient? Double yes. Made in the USA? Triple yes and a ‘You Bet!’
Each Eartha is unique due to its recycled nature. Her eyes are buttons swept from the floor of a clothing factory. Her patchwork body is made from scraps of clothing that Goodwill couldn’t sell. The workers who assemble the dolls used to work in China for a company that makes dolls out of non Eco-Friendly materials.
500 SUVs are dripping wet with condensation just waiting to save the earth – one Eartha at a time.
500 SUVs by Christopher M. Bohan
500 SUVs sit idling, air conditioners running, in the parking lot of the hot new mega-store - Store Store. In just three short hours, Store Store would be opening.
Inside Store Store is a massive display for Eartha – the first in a line of Eco-Friendly dolls made by the company 3Rs (Recycle, Reuse, Replenish). Eartha is comprised of all recycled materials and is assembled on machines made of recycled steel that are powered by a fuel developed by 3R Founder and CEO, Ken Starwell. The fuel is a combination of human waste and cigarette butts. Disgusting? Yes. Efficient? Double yes. Made in the USA? Triple yes and a ‘You Bet!’
Each Eartha is unique due to its recycled nature. Her eyes are buttons swept from the floor of a clothing factory. Her patchwork body is made from scraps of clothing that Goodwill couldn’t sell. The workers who assemble the dolls used to work in China for a company that makes dolls out of non Eco-Friendly materials.
500 SUVs are dripping wet with condensation just waiting to save the earth – one Eartha at a time.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Torch for Tomorrow
Written: Sunday, June 27th
Torch for Tomorrow by Christopher M. Bohan
Travis was taking a walk down memory lane with his high school yearbook. He was cleaning out the attic and the dusty hardcover was just begging to be opened. His wife and kids decided to take a break and headed outside for an Icey Pop on the back porch. Travis was determined to get the attic all packed up before dinner – the movers were coming in three days. But, the yearbook was too enticing.
‘Torch for Tomorrow’ was the title of the 1979 Valencia High School yearbook. Travis flipped to the index to find the pages on which he would find his former self – 31 years younger than he is today.
Instantly, he heard his footsteps in the corridor of the main building. He could smell the locker room. He could feel the rush of students between classes. He felt young and hopeful. Then, he found himself on page 42 – “Most Likely to Succeed – Travis Trammell.”
He never knew what that meant – until today. He heard his wife and kids playing in the backyard and he was happy. He was moving to a new town to start a new teaching assignment and he was excited. He had forgotten all about the ‘most likely to succeed’ moniker, probably because he was 'successful'. Whatever that means.
Torch for Tomorrow by Christopher M. Bohan
Travis was taking a walk down memory lane with his high school yearbook. He was cleaning out the attic and the dusty hardcover was just begging to be opened. His wife and kids decided to take a break and headed outside for an Icey Pop on the back porch. Travis was determined to get the attic all packed up before dinner – the movers were coming in three days. But, the yearbook was too enticing.
‘Torch for Tomorrow’ was the title of the 1979 Valencia High School yearbook. Travis flipped to the index to find the pages on which he would find his former self – 31 years younger than he is today.
Instantly, he heard his footsteps in the corridor of the main building. He could smell the locker room. He could feel the rush of students between classes. He felt young and hopeful. Then, he found himself on page 42 – “Most Likely to Succeed – Travis Trammell.”
He never knew what that meant – until today. He heard his wife and kids playing in the backyard and he was happy. He was moving to a new town to start a new teaching assignment and he was excited. He had forgotten all about the ‘most likely to succeed’ moniker, probably because he was 'successful'. Whatever that means.
A Boastful Breeze
Written: Monday, February 8, 2010
A Boastful Breeze by Christopher M. Bohan
A boastful breeze shook the Hot Dog Shack sending a puff of chalk dust into the air from where it quietly laid on the ridge of the menu board. Frank held his finger to his nose to suppress the inevitable sneeze that silently approached. Indeed, he hid sneeze, making sure to turn away from the relish tray which he just finished stocking with fresh chopped onions and his famous homemade relish.
Another boastful breeze threatened to send his napkin stack afloat, if not for the carefully placed heavy, metallic hot dog replica which lay upon them.
Another boastful breeze, this time from the opposite direction, sent the aroma of Frank’s hot dogs down along the beach and across the nostrils of one Betty Tornsmith. She was overcome with the craving for one of Frank’s famous franks.
Two weeks of dieting and exercising deserved some sort of reward, yes? Twelve pounds in two weeks! Surely, one hot dog would not hurt. Two extra push-ups a day would be a good trade. So, she slipped on her flip-flops and flip flapped over to Franks.
A Boastful Breeze by Christopher M. Bohan
A boastful breeze shook the Hot Dog Shack sending a puff of chalk dust into the air from where it quietly laid on the ridge of the menu board. Frank held his finger to his nose to suppress the inevitable sneeze that silently approached. Indeed, he hid sneeze, making sure to turn away from the relish tray which he just finished stocking with fresh chopped onions and his famous homemade relish.
Another boastful breeze threatened to send his napkin stack afloat, if not for the carefully placed heavy, metallic hot dog replica which lay upon them.
Another boastful breeze, this time from the opposite direction, sent the aroma of Frank’s hot dogs down along the beach and across the nostrils of one Betty Tornsmith. She was overcome with the craving for one of Frank’s famous franks.
Two weeks of dieting and exercising deserved some sort of reward, yes? Twelve pounds in two weeks! Surely, one hot dog would not hurt. Two extra push-ups a day would be a good trade. So, she slipped on her flip-flops and flip flapped over to Franks.
Please press ‘One’
Written: Sunday, February 7, 2010
Please press ‘One’ by Christopher M. Bohan
“Please press ‘One’ if you would like to speak to a Customer Service Representative.”
Bob presses one.
“Thank you. One moment, please.”
Bob yells at his dog to get off the couch.
“Please be patient. We will be right with you.”
Bob opens a can of coke and it explodes all over the living room rug. Bob swears.
“We do not appreciate vulgar language and reserve the right to terminate the call if you become hostile in any way.”
Bob begins to rub the carpet where the Coke spilled.
“You should pat with a damp cloth. Don’t rub, it will get into the fibers.”
Bob looks up to search for a camera but cannot locate one.
“There are no cameras, Bob. You are just very predictable.”
Bob responds, “Who are you? Why did you call me?”
“You called us, Bob! Paranoid Anonymous. Remember?”
Bob responds, “No.”
“We didn’t think so. Don’t worry, Bob. Everything is going to be okay.”
Please press ‘One’ by Christopher M. Bohan
“Please press ‘One’ if you would like to speak to a Customer Service Representative.”
Bob presses one.
“Thank you. One moment, please.”
Bob yells at his dog to get off the couch.
“Please be patient. We will be right with you.”
Bob opens a can of coke and it explodes all over the living room rug. Bob swears.
“We do not appreciate vulgar language and reserve the right to terminate the call if you become hostile in any way.”
Bob begins to rub the carpet where the Coke spilled.
“You should pat with a damp cloth. Don’t rub, it will get into the fibers.”
Bob looks up to search for a camera but cannot locate one.
“There are no cameras, Bob. You are just very predictable.”
Bob responds, “Who are you? Why did you call me?”
“You called us, Bob! Paranoid Anonymous. Remember?”
Bob responds, “No.”
“We didn’t think so. Don’t worry, Bob. Everything is going to be okay.”
Cartoon Stars
Written: Thursday, June 24, 2010
Cartoon Stars by Christopher M. Bohan
Colin came flying though the plate glass window. His left hand pierced the glass coffee table as his right foot sent the potted palm crashing to the floor. He came to rest with his head touching the cool linoleum of the kitchen floor and the rest of his body lounging on the floor of the den.
Stars were floating above his head. They were dangling from the ceiling of the den. For a moment, only for one moment, did Colin think they were cartoon stars – like Sylvester would see when hit in the head. But soon, he realized they were, indeed, actually actual stars. He grabbed one of the stars and yanked it down – its grasp on the ceiling was rather tenuous.
As he made his way to his feet he heard a child yell and the approach of a screaming siren. He maneuvered his way back to the window from which he made his entrance – careful not to touch any of the furniture with his now bleeding right hand.
His motorcycle was lodged between an enormous ornamental rock and a Buddha statue. Somehow, the throttle was still engaged and the rear wheel was spinning with delight. The child, now standing in the center of the lawn, said, “Cool!”
Cartoon Stars by Christopher M. Bohan
Colin came flying though the plate glass window. His left hand pierced the glass coffee table as his right foot sent the potted palm crashing to the floor. He came to rest with his head touching the cool linoleum of the kitchen floor and the rest of his body lounging on the floor of the den.
Stars were floating above his head. They were dangling from the ceiling of the den. For a moment, only for one moment, did Colin think they were cartoon stars – like Sylvester would see when hit in the head. But soon, he realized they were, indeed, actually actual stars. He grabbed one of the stars and yanked it down – its grasp on the ceiling was rather tenuous.
As he made his way to his feet he heard a child yell and the approach of a screaming siren. He maneuvered his way back to the window from which he made his entrance – careful not to touch any of the furniture with his now bleeding right hand.
His motorcycle was lodged between an enormous ornamental rock and a Buddha statue. Somehow, the throttle was still engaged and the rear wheel was spinning with delight. The child, now standing in the center of the lawn, said, “Cool!”
Swing Away
Written: Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Swing Away by Christopher M .Bohan
The anxiety was causing his tunnel vision to reappear. Deep breaths only made his heart beat faster and he could feel his pulse throbbing in his hands as he gripped the bat. He raised his left arm slowly, the ump called ‘time’, he took a step back out of the batter’s box with his right foot.
The “boo” from the hometown crowd was deafening. Fritz Cornbloom hated playing on the road. The hotels. The buses. Everything went by so quickly. Some days he longed to be an accountant.
He shook his head, adjusted his helmet and stepped back into the box. His vision seemed to be restored – he could see the whole field. His heart, however, still wanted to leap out of his chest. Fritz looked down to the first base coach for the sign – ‘swing away’. The distance to first base seemed insurmountable.
‘Swing away’. Okay, no pressure. He focused in on the ball. He quickly lost it in the unorthodox wind up of Tommy Stonewater, but found it again just as it was released toward him at 98 miles per hour. Fritz raised his right leg to begin his swing. Just then, the ball took a hard right turn and collided with Fritz’s right temple. He could hear the cheer of the crowd, but couldn’t see a thing.
Swing Away by Christopher M .Bohan
The anxiety was causing his tunnel vision to reappear. Deep breaths only made his heart beat faster and he could feel his pulse throbbing in his hands as he gripped the bat. He raised his left arm slowly, the ump called ‘time’, he took a step back out of the batter’s box with his right foot.
The “boo” from the hometown crowd was deafening. Fritz Cornbloom hated playing on the road. The hotels. The buses. Everything went by so quickly. Some days he longed to be an accountant.
He shook his head, adjusted his helmet and stepped back into the box. His vision seemed to be restored – he could see the whole field. His heart, however, still wanted to leap out of his chest. Fritz looked down to the first base coach for the sign – ‘swing away’. The distance to first base seemed insurmountable.
‘Swing away’. Okay, no pressure. He focused in on the ball. He quickly lost it in the unorthodox wind up of Tommy Stonewater, but found it again just as it was released toward him at 98 miles per hour. Fritz raised his right leg to begin his swing. Just then, the ball took a hard right turn and collided with Fritz’s right temple. He could hear the cheer of the crowd, but couldn’t see a thing.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Carnation Crossings
Written: Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Carnation Crossings by Christopher M. Bohan
“Oh, look at Gladys with her new hip. Thinks she’s the queen of the dining room!” Marge’s bitterness was fueled by the severe edema in her calves that has plagued her for a week now. “Saul, get up there and get me a piece of that chocolate cake. And, if I see you say one word to Gladys you’re sleeping in the bathtub!” And, with a pleasant “yes, dear”, Saul sauntered off to the dessert table – taking particular care to steer clear of Gladys.
“I heard that it’s a hyena’s hip,” Marge was on fire, “ she is so poor she couldn’t afford the artificial one. So, they told her that she was a perfect candidate to receive a hyena hip – seeing as her cackle of a laugh is quite similar to that of a hyena and, well, hyenas are promiscuous sluts!”
“Marge?!” Suzanne Carpenter was taken aback by Marge’s tawdry language. At the dinner table, even.
“Oh, lighten up Suzy!” Marge couldn’t control herself, “She is the concubine of Carnation Crossings. The only thing not crossing around here is Gladys’ legs – especially with the new hyena hip. Ha Ha.” Marge was quite pleased by her acerbic wit.
“I believe I will be finding a new dining table. You should be ashamed of yourself Marge.” Suzanne gathered her plate of Swedish meatballs and noodles and relocated to a more respectable table.
“Oh, to hell with you…Loosey Suzy! Saul? Saul? Where’s my cake?” The pain from Marge’s edema was excruciating.
Carnation Crossings by Christopher M. Bohan
“Oh, look at Gladys with her new hip. Thinks she’s the queen of the dining room!” Marge’s bitterness was fueled by the severe edema in her calves that has plagued her for a week now. “Saul, get up there and get me a piece of that chocolate cake. And, if I see you say one word to Gladys you’re sleeping in the bathtub!” And, with a pleasant “yes, dear”, Saul sauntered off to the dessert table – taking particular care to steer clear of Gladys.
“I heard that it’s a hyena’s hip,” Marge was on fire, “ she is so poor she couldn’t afford the artificial one. So, they told her that she was a perfect candidate to receive a hyena hip – seeing as her cackle of a laugh is quite similar to that of a hyena and, well, hyenas are promiscuous sluts!”
“Marge?!” Suzanne Carpenter was taken aback by Marge’s tawdry language. At the dinner table, even.
“Oh, lighten up Suzy!” Marge couldn’t control herself, “She is the concubine of Carnation Crossings. The only thing not crossing around here is Gladys’ legs – especially with the new hyena hip. Ha Ha.” Marge was quite pleased by her acerbic wit.
“I believe I will be finding a new dining table. You should be ashamed of yourself Marge.” Suzanne gathered her plate of Swedish meatballs and noodles and relocated to a more respectable table.
“Oh, to hell with you…Loosey Suzy! Saul? Saul? Where’s my cake?” The pain from Marge’s edema was excruciating.
The Adventures of Jim and Tom: Bottled Water
Written: Monday, June 21, 2010
The Adventures of Jim and Tom: Bottled Water
Tom: Bottled water can taste so refreshing from time to time, if it’s free. When I have to pay for bottled water I just feel like a sucker – like PT Barnum had me in mind – paying for something I could just get out of a tap. Every time I buy bottled water I expect it to taste like, I don’t know, better than water. But then, I just feel like an ass paying three dollars for water and it just tastes the same as free water.”
Jim: Yeah, it’s like when you get a prostitute.
Tom: Excuse me?
Jim: What?
Tom: What did you just say?
Jim: I said…it’s like when you jump out of a plane without a parachute?
Tom: And how is bottled water like jumping without a parachute?
Jim: Well, cause then you…
Tom: Because you think a prostitute is going to be more exciting because you paid for it, but it’s just the same thing only now you are out $350 bucks and you have to go to court.
Jim: How did you know that?
Tom: Police blotter.
Jim: What?
Tom: Police blotter. It’s in the newspaper.
Jim: Do you think my wife reads that?
The Adventures of Jim and Tom: Bottled Water
Tom: Bottled water can taste so refreshing from time to time, if it’s free. When I have to pay for bottled water I just feel like a sucker – like PT Barnum had me in mind – paying for something I could just get out of a tap. Every time I buy bottled water I expect it to taste like, I don’t know, better than water. But then, I just feel like an ass paying three dollars for water and it just tastes the same as free water.”
Jim: Yeah, it’s like when you get a prostitute.
Tom: Excuse me?
Jim: What?
Tom: What did you just say?
Jim: I said…it’s like when you jump out of a plane without a parachute?
Tom: And how is bottled water like jumping without a parachute?
Jim: Well, cause then you…
Tom: Because you think a prostitute is going to be more exciting because you paid for it, but it’s just the same thing only now you are out $350 bucks and you have to go to court.
Jim: How did you know that?
Tom: Police blotter.
Jim: What?
Tom: Police blotter. It’s in the newspaper.
Jim: Do you think my wife reads that?
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Microwave Dings
Written: Sunday, June 20, 2010
The Microwave Dings by Christopher M. Bohan
A Canada Dry Ginger Ale can is on the counter. A bloody knife is in the kitchen sink. The refrigerator is open wide. The second shelf of the refrigerator holds a cucumber and a .38 revolver. The air smells of burnt popcorn. The microwave dings; periodically. The basement door is open. The dehumidifier hums and the dryer buzzes. The bloody corpse of Carlton lay in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. The cell phone in his pocket rings. The central air conditioning unit hums to life. The cell phone stops ringing.
The microwave dings.
There is a grapefruit in Carlton’s hand. There is a load of towels in the dryer. There is a pool of blood next to Carlton’s head. The thermostat is in pieces on the living room floor. There is a motorcycle in the garage. The keys are in Kelly’s hand. Kelly is at the top of the basement stairs. There is a bowling ball in Kelly’s other hand. The bowling ball hits Carlton in the head. The garage door opens. The motorcycle starts. Kelly drives off on the motorcycle.
The microwave dings.
The Microwave Dings by Christopher M. Bohan
A Canada Dry Ginger Ale can is on the counter. A bloody knife is in the kitchen sink. The refrigerator is open wide. The second shelf of the refrigerator holds a cucumber and a .38 revolver. The air smells of burnt popcorn. The microwave dings; periodically. The basement door is open. The dehumidifier hums and the dryer buzzes. The bloody corpse of Carlton lay in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. The cell phone in his pocket rings. The central air conditioning unit hums to life. The cell phone stops ringing.
The microwave dings.
There is a grapefruit in Carlton’s hand. There is a load of towels in the dryer. There is a pool of blood next to Carlton’s head. The thermostat is in pieces on the living room floor. There is a motorcycle in the garage. The keys are in Kelly’s hand. Kelly is at the top of the basement stairs. There is a bowling ball in Kelly’s other hand. The bowling ball hits Carlton in the head. The garage door opens. The motorcycle starts. Kelly drives off on the motorcycle.
The microwave dings.
Wrappers
Written: Saturday, June 19, 2010
Wrappers by Christopher M. Bohan
He stepped outside to find his stoop littered with Klondike wrappers. His sigh was deep and long and sank to his toes. Armed with a garbage bag and a set of extra long tongs, he cleared his stoop of any evidence of the disgraceful disrespect exhibited by his youthful neighbors.
He has always kept his frustration to himself. No need to waste his breath yelling at the perpetrators; they would only laugh. And, more than likely, the trash would only then increase in volume.
Instead, he has attempted to curb the steady stream of litter by setting an example: a quiet revolution. And not just in his front yard, but along the whole street. He starts at 7:30am and moves south down to Hawkins and then back up the west side of the street until his bag is full.
Over the past year, flowers have learned how to breathe again. The paint on the abandoned cars seems brighter, crooked address numbers seem to have straightened up and smiles have returned to faces.
A few kids, with nothing better to do, still attempt to break his spirit with infantile piles of wrappers, but he simply snaps them up with a smile.
Wrappers by Christopher M. Bohan
He stepped outside to find his stoop littered with Klondike wrappers. His sigh was deep and long and sank to his toes. Armed with a garbage bag and a set of extra long tongs, he cleared his stoop of any evidence of the disgraceful disrespect exhibited by his youthful neighbors.
He has always kept his frustration to himself. No need to waste his breath yelling at the perpetrators; they would only laugh. And, more than likely, the trash would only then increase in volume.
Instead, he has attempted to curb the steady stream of litter by setting an example: a quiet revolution. And not just in his front yard, but along the whole street. He starts at 7:30am and moves south down to Hawkins and then back up the west side of the street until his bag is full.
Over the past year, flowers have learned how to breathe again. The paint on the abandoned cars seems brighter, crooked address numbers seem to have straightened up and smiles have returned to faces.
A few kids, with nothing better to do, still attempt to break his spirit with infantile piles of wrappers, but he simply snaps them up with a smile.
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Best Hair in Radio
Written: Friday, June 18, 2010
The Best Hair in Radio by Christopher M. Bohan
Cyril had a funny way of putting things. He liked to say “my cats are meowing” as opposed to “my dogs are barking”. He liked to have cereal for dinner and a nice piece of grilled salmon and a Caesar salad for breakfast. He once took a trip to England just so he could drive on the other side of the street. And, he liked his ice cream served warm.
No less endearing than Cyril’s certain oddities was his penchant for hair gel. He had a most impressive coif that demanded the better part of his morning to perfect. What, with the grilling of the salmon and the precision with which he set his coif, it is a miracle he was never late to the station. He had the best hair in radio.
Cyril’s hair was so nicely and firmly set that it never budged an inch even while he drove his white Mazda Miata ,with the top down, the ten miles from his home to the station. He never once went over the 25 mile an hour speed limit and he was never late for the show – Cyril’s Seventies!
The Best Hair in Radio by Christopher M. Bohan
Cyril had a funny way of putting things. He liked to say “my cats are meowing” as opposed to “my dogs are barking”. He liked to have cereal for dinner and a nice piece of grilled salmon and a Caesar salad for breakfast. He once took a trip to England just so he could drive on the other side of the street. And, he liked his ice cream served warm.
No less endearing than Cyril’s certain oddities was his penchant for hair gel. He had a most impressive coif that demanded the better part of his morning to perfect. What, with the grilling of the salmon and the precision with which he set his coif, it is a miracle he was never late to the station. He had the best hair in radio.
Cyril’s hair was so nicely and firmly set that it never budged an inch even while he drove his white Mazda Miata ,with the top down, the ten miles from his home to the station. He never once went over the 25 mile an hour speed limit and he was never late for the show – Cyril’s Seventies!
Friday, June 18, 2010
The "Sarah"
Written: Thursday, June 17, 2010
The “Sarah” by Christopher M. Bohan
Carl was extremely excited about the opening of his new deli “Carl’s”. He especially loved the way his name looked in neon. He always had a feeling it would look good, but seeing it now it seemed as if his name were destined to be immortalized in neon.
Carl had thought of naming the deli after his late wife, Sarah, but she was a modest woman and wouldn’t have wanted all the attention. Besides, her life insurance policy helped to make Carl’s lifelong dream come true and that would be all the satisfaction Sarah would have needed.
Sarah passed peacefully in their home six months ago with her darling Carl at her side. One of the last things Sarah said to Carl was that he should take the insurance money and build his deli. Carl tried to brush it off, but she insisted. She said the world should taste those delicious sandwiches that he made her everyday of their 35 years of blissful marriage.
Sarah had worked as a tollbooth attendant on the turnpike for 30 years. Everyday she looked forward to opening her lunch and discovering Carl’s newest creation. Sarah would savor the whole sandwich and when she finished she would name the sandwich. Her favorite was the “Whippersnapper”. All of the sandwiches on the menu at Carl’s were named by Sarah; except for one. For the lunch after Sarah’s funeral Carl made turkey paninis with provolone and pesto with a roasted red pepper aioli on the side for dipping. It’s called the “Sarah”.
The “Sarah” by Christopher M. Bohan
Carl was extremely excited about the opening of his new deli “Carl’s”. He especially loved the way his name looked in neon. He always had a feeling it would look good, but seeing it now it seemed as if his name were destined to be immortalized in neon.
Carl had thought of naming the deli after his late wife, Sarah, but she was a modest woman and wouldn’t have wanted all the attention. Besides, her life insurance policy helped to make Carl’s lifelong dream come true and that would be all the satisfaction Sarah would have needed.
Sarah passed peacefully in their home six months ago with her darling Carl at her side. One of the last things Sarah said to Carl was that he should take the insurance money and build his deli. Carl tried to brush it off, but she insisted. She said the world should taste those delicious sandwiches that he made her everyday of their 35 years of blissful marriage.
Sarah had worked as a tollbooth attendant on the turnpike for 30 years. Everyday she looked forward to opening her lunch and discovering Carl’s newest creation. Sarah would savor the whole sandwich and when she finished she would name the sandwich. Her favorite was the “Whippersnapper”. All of the sandwiches on the menu at Carl’s were named by Sarah; except for one. For the lunch after Sarah’s funeral Carl made turkey paninis with provolone and pesto with a roasted red pepper aioli on the side for dipping. It’s called the “Sarah”.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
The Adventures of Jim and Tom: The Apology
Written: Monday, June 14, 2010
The Adventures of Jim and Tom: The Apology by Christopher M. Bohan
Jim: Sort of wanted to say that I feel this is all my fault.
Tom: I…
Jim: No, really. Wait…
Tom: But…
Jim: No, let me finish. I feel I am responsible for how this all went wrong…
Tom: Okay, but…
Jim: I’m not done. I really need to get this out there and be done with it.
Tom: Okay, but really…
Jim: If you would be so kind as to keep your mouth closed for two seconds maybe I could get a decent apology in here. Which, I probably don’t even have to, but I am going to…
Tom: That is what I am trying to say. If…
Jim: If you keep interrupting me then I am going to do something that I will have to apologize for. But, maybe I won’t apologize because I warned you several times to quit interrupting me while…
Tom: Fine, just…
Jim punches Tom in the face.
Jim: I told you not to interr…
Tom: What did you…
Jim punches Tom in the face a second time.
Jim: I do not like to be interrupted while I am making an apology. Now, I am sorry I killed your cat. There. But, I ain’t sorry I punched you in the face. Twice.
The Adventures of Jim and Tom: The Apology by Christopher M. Bohan
Jim: Sort of wanted to say that I feel this is all my fault.
Tom: I…
Jim: No, really. Wait…
Tom: But…
Jim: No, let me finish. I feel I am responsible for how this all went wrong…
Tom: Okay, but…
Jim: I’m not done. I really need to get this out there and be done with it.
Tom: Okay, but really…
Jim: If you would be so kind as to keep your mouth closed for two seconds maybe I could get a decent apology in here. Which, I probably don’t even have to, but I am going to…
Tom: That is what I am trying to say. If…
Jim: If you keep interrupting me then I am going to do something that I will have to apologize for. But, maybe I won’t apologize because I warned you several times to quit interrupting me while…
Tom: Fine, just…
Jim punches Tom in the face.
Jim: I told you not to interr…
Tom: What did you…
Jim punches Tom in the face a second time.
Jim: I do not like to be interrupted while I am making an apology. Now, I am sorry I killed your cat. There. But, I ain’t sorry I punched you in the face. Twice.
Callahan "The Shriek"
Written: Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Callahan “The Shriek” by Christopher M. Bohan
Schwartz felt the zeal of his opponent as he entered the ring. It is as if his opponent were an electrical cord frayed at the end and alive with energy – snapping and sparking to and fro. If it were possible that zeal had a tangible feeling this was it.
Schwartz thought he felt a jolt of electricity as he parted the ropes to enter the ring. Callahan was slapping his gloved hands together and hopping about like a child eager to pee. Callahan liked to shriek – it threw his opponents off balance. Most boxers grunt or sneer, but Callahan made as if he were calling a pig to slaughter. It was horrifying.
Schwartz new he was going down in the third but began to feel as if sooner might truly be better than later. To hell with his payout, this guy was nuts.
Paul “The Night” Schwartz dropped his robe, gave the turnbuckle a head-butt and headed to the center of the ring where the shrieking Callahan was still hopping about and now punching himself in the head.
The ref gave the rules during which Callahan politely kept his shriek to a low whine – they punched gloves and headed to their corners – the bell rang – Callahan shrieked towards Schwartz – Schwartz tried to duck – Schwartz heard his nose break and felt his ears pop – the shrieking vanished.
Callahan “The Shriek” by Christopher M. Bohan
Schwartz felt the zeal of his opponent as he entered the ring. It is as if his opponent were an electrical cord frayed at the end and alive with energy – snapping and sparking to and fro. If it were possible that zeal had a tangible feeling this was it.
Schwartz thought he felt a jolt of electricity as he parted the ropes to enter the ring. Callahan was slapping his gloved hands together and hopping about like a child eager to pee. Callahan liked to shriek – it threw his opponents off balance. Most boxers grunt or sneer, but Callahan made as if he were calling a pig to slaughter. It was horrifying.
Schwartz new he was going down in the third but began to feel as if sooner might truly be better than later. To hell with his payout, this guy was nuts.
Paul “The Night” Schwartz dropped his robe, gave the turnbuckle a head-butt and headed to the center of the ring where the shrieking Callahan was still hopping about and now punching himself in the head.
The ref gave the rules during which Callahan politely kept his shriek to a low whine – they punched gloves and headed to their corners – the bell rang – Callahan shrieked towards Schwartz – Schwartz tried to duck – Schwartz heard his nose break and felt his ears pop – the shrieking vanished.
Gertude's Steinway
Written: Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Gertrude's Steinway by Christopher M. Bohan
Gertrude has a beautiful Steinway with real ivory keys and polished brass pedals. The bench looks as if it hasn’t been sat on – ever. In fact, it is a new bench. The old one, now a planter in the backyard, had seen its day and was a little too rickety and worn to support the daily deluge of little Mozarts that grace Gertrude’s den.
Gertrude adores the new bench and is looking forward to watching it age as each new pupil learned to walk the keys with their tiny little fingers. There are four piano bench-planters in the backyard. You wouldn’t think a piano bench would wear that quickly, but to Gertrude, it is more a matter of aesthetic than support. If a student sits on a beautiful bench, they can’t help but feel beautiful themselves. They always sit more upright on a new bench. Once their backs begin to slouch, it is time for a new bench.
The students never notice the new benches, nor comment when the benches begin to show wear. But Gertrude can tell the difference in their playing. Gertrude believes a proper seat is proper for perfect playing.
Gertrude's Steinway by Christopher M. Bohan
Gertrude has a beautiful Steinway with real ivory keys and polished brass pedals. The bench looks as if it hasn’t been sat on – ever. In fact, it is a new bench. The old one, now a planter in the backyard, had seen its day and was a little too rickety and worn to support the daily deluge of little Mozarts that grace Gertrude’s den.
Gertrude adores the new bench and is looking forward to watching it age as each new pupil learned to walk the keys with their tiny little fingers. There are four piano bench-planters in the backyard. You wouldn’t think a piano bench would wear that quickly, but to Gertrude, it is more a matter of aesthetic than support. If a student sits on a beautiful bench, they can’t help but feel beautiful themselves. They always sit more upright on a new bench. Once their backs begin to slouch, it is time for a new bench.
The students never notice the new benches, nor comment when the benches begin to show wear. But Gertrude can tell the difference in their playing. Gertrude believes a proper seat is proper for perfect playing.
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