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.
Monday, June 28, 2010
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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