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John B. Rosenman

John B. Rosenman, Author

John is an English professor at Norfolk State University where he designed and teaches a course in how to write Science fiction and Fantasy. He is a former Chairman of the Board of the Horror Writers Association and has published over 300 stories in places such as Weird Tales, Whitley Strieber's Aliens, Fangoria, Galaxy, The Age of Wonders, and Hot Blood. John has published eleven books, including SF action-adventure novels such as Beyond Those Distant Stars, Speaker of the Shakk (Mundania Press), A Senseless Act of Beauty (Blade Publishing), Alien Dreams (Drollerie Press), Dax Rigby, War Correspondent (Lyrical Press), and Here Be Dragons (Eternal Press).

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Congratulations to John  for winning Best Sci-Fi/Fantasy Short Story in the 2011 Preditors and Editors Readers Poll for his eBook The Blue of Her Hair, The Gold of Her Eyes, published by MuseItUp Publishing! 

                                                  P&E 2011 Readers Poll, John Rosenman


New by John B. Rosenman

  Bagonoun's Wonderful Songbird by John B. Rosenman  Childhood's Day by John B. Rosenman

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Bagonoun's Wonderful Songbird by John B. Rosenman

An old man and a young girl are unlikely lovers, but what happens when a magical bird starts to sing? Bagonoun's Wonderful Songbird is an improbable love story that takes place on the island Nauru in the South Pacific. Sometimes miracles come true.

Word Count: 5,071                                  Excerpt
Pages to Print: 23

File Format: PDF

Price: $.99  


 Reviews of Bagonoun's Wonderful Songbird

From The Pagan and the Pen Reviews


Childhood's Day by John B. Rosenman

Suppose you could have yourself reborn at the age of seven so your childhood self could help you cope with crippling guilt for the death of your father -- would you do it? And would it be fair to the boy you once were, especially since he will live only one day?

Word Count: 5,350                                  Excerpt
Pages to Print: 27

File Format: PDF

Price: $.99



Review of Childhood's Day!


Bagonoun's Wonderful Songbird

   “Bagonoun, at first they were glad I came here, if only to be rid of me. But now they say . . .”

   He could have finished it. Oddly, there was a time when he would have agreed. Now he raised his hand and stroked her hair, gazing into her beautiful dark eyes. “You must keep coming,” he pleaded. “The bird will not sing without you.”

   “That is all you care about, Bagonoun, winning the competition. You don’t care about me at all.”

   “That’s not true. I do care.”

   “But not as I do.” She sighed. “At least you no longer think me disgusting.”

   He made himself smile. “Child, I have grandchildren older than you.”

   “I told you before, even if you were ugly, I would love you for the beauty inside, which is ageless. I would know it at once, no matter how others saw you.”                                                                        Back to Bagonoun



Childhood's Day

    Though it was the most important appointment of his life, Winter was not prepared for the innocuous pastry shop or the plump man in an apron who stood behind a counter.
    "Yes, may I help you?"
    Winter rubbed his arm, smelling the rich fragrance of bread, rolls, and doughnuts. He glanced at the only customer, who was eyeing some eclairs in a side case.
    "I'm Steve Morrison," he finally said, repeating what the man on the phone had told him to say. "I called last night about a special order. A . . . birthday cake for my son."
    "Ah, yes, Mr. Morrison." The man smiled, and then emerged from behind the counter. "Will you come with me, please?"
    He ushered Winter through a door, where a pretty young woman met them. "Please go with Ms. Starret. She'll see that you're taken care of."
    As the man returned to the bakery, Winter nervously followed Ms. Starret to a room with an inclined couch, where she smiled and told him to lie down. What had he heard such rooms called? Oh yes, birthing chambers. However, he knew it would not be that kind of birth, or rather, that it would be something both more and less than a birth.
    Ms. Starret touched him gently. "Are you comfortable, Mr. Morrison?"
    "Fine." She smiled and fitted his index finger into a plastic sheath on one of the arms of the couch, and then pressed a button. "This is a gene-scan. It will read and analyze every gene in your system. Basically, we use it to detect any problems or irregularities. If none is found, we transplant a clone-nucleus from one of your cells into a surrowomb, where it will be nurtured and grow over a period of three weeks." She picked up an electrical attachment and placed it around his head. "In addition, selected data stored in your brain will be transferred to a holding unit and later transferred, in turn, to your reprograph's . . ."
    He raised a hand. "Please, it's not necessary to explain everything."
    She smiled, making him feel rude. "As you wish, Mr. Morrison. But I will need some information before we proceed." She moved to a computer and began to type into it. "First, what is the precise age you want your reprograph to be?"
    He inhaled deeply, remembering the day his father had died. It had been shortly before Winter's seventh birthday.
    "Maybe a couple months after seven. I don't want this to be on his birthday."
    "I understand. Sex?"
    "Of your reprograph. We are now able to produce an opposite-sex version of the subject."
    "I didn't know that. Uh, male." He licked his lips. "One thing I've been meaning to ask. How will it—I mean, he—feel?" He tried to imagine what it would feel like to be "born" at the age of seven and couldn't. "Won't it be traumatic? I mean . . ."
    She smiled, patted his shoulder. "Mr. Morrison, your reprograph will be thoroughly conditioned, so that any trauma will be minor."
    "But. . ."
    "At the same time, I assure you that his feelings and memories, will be yours." She patted him again. "Now, if you have no other questions, perhaps we should begin."
    He spread his fingers on the couch's smooth surface. "Just one. What about the limitations of your technology? Isn't it true you can't create a reprograph that will last for more than . . ."
    Ms. Starret's smile froze. "If reprography had been legalized and funded, we would have overcome such problems. But religious and other groups called it godless technology and closed their eyes to all we had to offer." She sighed. "Shall we begin, Mr. Morrison?"
    He stiffened. As his wife tearfully stressed, prolonged psychiatric treatment had failed, and his guilt and depression about his parents was only getting worse. He'd lost three jobs in the past two years and had recently started drinking again. When his psychiatrist, an old friend, gave him a phone number and address, Winter had known it was his last chance. But was he willing to risk going to prison for it?
    He swallowed. What did he have left to lose? More importantly, what did he have to look forward to if he didn't try it?
    He looked at Ms. Starret, forcing himself to relax. "Yes," he heard himself say, "I'm ready."        Back to Childhood's Day