Ryan Van Ells Archives - Black Hare Press

Father’s Hungry

June 11, 2024/by Shawna Rowan

by Ryan Van Ells

Father hasn’t eaten. His rumble reverberates from the basement stairs, rattling the walls.

Mother is little more than a skeleton, unable to feed him. Your sister trembles beside you. The noises scare her.

You go down the basement steps.

Father, too large to move, lies in his too small bed. A malodorous rot burns your nostrils. His greedy eyes fixate on you and he wriggles excitedly.

You extend the crook of your elbow to his mouth. He opens his toothless mouth like a babbling babe. You bring the knife to your vein. Blood wells. He clamps down and slowly sucks.

Ryan Van Ells

Ryan Van Ells is a queer author and lawyer from Wisconsin. You can find him @ryanvanellswrites on Instagram and Bluesky.

Potion

March 14, 2024/by Shawna Rowan

by Ryan Van Ells

The stew looks delicious. My stomach rumbles. I look at the babysitter.

“Not yet,” she says. “It needs mandrake root.”

I hand her one. “Now?”

“Not yet. It needs sage.”

I hand her the bottle. “What about now?”

“Not yet. It needs lizard guts.”

I reach for the lizard, his stomach already slit open. I struggle to reach it with my feet tied, but I reach it and hand it to her. “Now?”

“Not yet.”

“What else do we need?”

“The eyes of a young boy.”

I look around the kitchen. I don’t see a young boy. “Where are those?”

Ryan Van Ells

Ryan Van Ells is a queer lawyer and author of dark fiction from Wisconsin. Their work has appeared in October Screams and other anthologies.

YEAR SIX

January 10, 2020/by Black Hare Press

Tag Archive for: Ryan Van Ells

Father hasn’t eaten. His rumble reverberates from the basement stairs, rattling the walls.

Mother is little more than a skeleton, unable to feed him. Your sister trembles beside you. The noises scare her.

You go down the basement steps.

Father, too large to move, lies in his too small bed. A malodorous rot burns your nostrils. His greedy eyes fixate on you and he wriggles excitedly.

You extend the crook of your elbow to his mouth. He opens his toothless mouth like a babbling babe. You bring the knife to your vein. Blood wells. He clamps down and slowly sucks.

The stew looks delicious. My stomach rumbles. I look at the babysitter.

“Not yet,” she says. “It needs mandrake root.”

I hand her one. “Now?”

“Not yet. It needs sage.”

I hand her the bottle. “What about now?”

“Not yet. It needs lizard guts.”

I reach for the lizard, his stomach already slit open. I struggle to reach it with my feet tied, but I reach it and hand it to her. “Now?”

“Not yet.”

“What else do we need?”

“The eyes of a young boy.”

I look around the kitchen. I don’t see a young boy. “Where are those?”