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.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
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.”
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