This short story is from before I became a writer, or actually, before I even thought of becoming a writer - I wrote it almost 10 years ago and I'm paying it another visit to have a look at my progress, or evolution... Admittedly I couldn't resist the temptation to edit it, but I must say, it is about 90% the same as when I finished it those years ago. Corner of fourth and main Short Fiction by Steven Benjamin (2004) When death becomes us. Our souls’ survival is in peril. Our lives become the object of perdition, even before we encounter eternity – through death. On the corner of fourth and main, stood a man, just about two feet from the curb. He stood, slightly slanted, swaying when swept by an occasional gale. Nearing autumn, there were scatterings of cloud overhead, although the city did seem to be in a jovial mood, vibrant with all the usual colours. But there I stood – the world passing me by… I was, for lack of anything better, a mess. My face; more wound than face. Staring straight ahead, I explored the realms of oblivion – ‘how nice, this culmination of… of nothing’ I thought. I felt a warmth within this impromptu hiatus of melancholy. My life had little worth. My peripherals: enlightened mankind – the living doomed. There is no meaning to life; we all end up the same – worm food, dead matter. My flagrant nihilism of life. My mind glides between this enigmatic thing we call life, and my perception of it, like a pendulum, undecided of its true destiny. Amid my dull gaze, mankind dissolved, the street became deserted; no recognizable signs of life. I liked it, my own unrestricted world – the street emptied. A sensation of serenity aroused within me, as my mind found a strangely awkward yet peaceful refuge within the tormented decay of my soul. Eyes, light brown, penetrating my still world. Bedlam! A bus roared passed me, horn blowing. I crashed back down to reality. ...to be continued - "For me, what was most interesting was the use of poetic themes and styles to tell the story - it also assisted in telling more of the story in less words (there was a limit I had to adhere to at the tui), but there is a notable rawness in the narrative. The original story is only about 600 words, but I decided to split it in two parts to see how they measure up to each other, with the possibility of fleshing some of the story out a little more..."
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The Boy in the Sandbox Short story by Steven Benjamin (2012) Description: Innocence can come in many forms; curiosity, a journey, an absent life and even a simple vision. Between here and an unforgiving faraway land lies vacant memories of a life given, and a life lost, and the link they share. It started with a tree, which inspired a long journey to find truth. Clara takes this journey to discover that even within dirt and arid heat, innocence and a rose may yet live… *** Her mother nodded even though her back was turned. “If this was real it would fall down and die. Metaphorically speaking that doesn’t bode well for us. Our family tree is more than just a little lopsided Mum. I’ve filled most of your side in; gone back about as far as your great-grandparents. But there’s nothing on dad’s side. I’ve already written something about him – just a couple of lines. I need more… Mum? Hello? Are you even listening? I need a story, something. I mean, all I’ve written is about how I don’t know him, and, how he’s never been around.” She lowered the heat and then turned from the stove. “Do you really need to know? I mean, is this really it? Is this what you want?” “Well. Yeah, I mean... Unless you want me to submit a half completed project.” “This isn’t just about some school assignment…” she said folding her arms, “this is about you. What do you want for yourself? Just for you.” “Well,” Clara took a step back to think, “You’ve always told me ‘when I’m older’, well now I am.” She hesitated, “Why have I never met him? You never said that he died. I don’t remember you ever speaking of him with regret; then again, you hardly speak of him. The last time was when I was enrolling in High school. You said to me he’d be proud. Where is he Mum?” Corrolla felt the question coming. She exhaled deeply, her face without emotion, as she prepared her words. “I could tell you a story.” She chewed her lower lip, her eyes searching, reaching out to distant memories. “Perhaps it’s better if you see. I’ll tell a few of the facts, the ones I know of anyway, just some names for your tree. The rest, I really don’t know.” Her eyes continued, still on their journey of reminiscence. Clara looked to her with concern. “Mum?” Corrolla’s eyes were lucid, meeting her daughters gaze. “You’ve started something now, haven’t you? There’s no turning back. Are you still keen? You need to be absolutely sure.” Clara swallowed, “Uh…” She took a deep breath, feeling a little cornered, before she responded “… well, only if he’s a good man. I mean, as long as he’s not in prison.” Corrolla smiled, walking toward her daughter. She cupped her cheeks and then pulled her close, wrapping Clara in her arms. “Okay, I’ll take you there.” She thought about Clara’s last words, and then thought to herself ‘Not all men in prison are bad men. Hope is so fickle. He’s probably still in one, maybe.’ Read more click HERE Story of Remoteness, 2. "Words" by David Martinez Romero Sometimes, I do fall into long monologues, and words move me as if they were good, good mothers, unconditional friends, comrades. Just talking I sometimes heal from every evil that boils in the dead city, it cures me of all the sickness and all the sadness. Sometimes a talk is like letting the music play, and a voice that imposes with its brief strings is also peace, love, every thing that is worthy and comes back to claim its name allowing itself to be named by the same voice that unties it. Happiness could very well be just a word but it is mine in any case, it is in any case my truth, my ardent breath that happily becomes verb and resets my pain, my suffering and my agony shaping a tremendous smile that compares the moon with its beauty and in the end is mine, and only mine, and I give it away to those who have an ear for music. To talk, talking about anything, just saying beautiful things, not being afraid of the vacuum nor the sea of futility, loosing talk, saying yes, no, sometimes, saying that I love you, I’m out of here, so long, and then shutting up at the right time, walking and redecorating words when indiscriminately giving away phrases, texts, strokes, smiling to the stranger, to the walking woman, to the child that’s always playing. And just listening with unusual care to what they say. If they’re happy, the words are not only words. They are bridges lying between two shadows, they are lights in the starless night, they are huge windows through which the air passes and sometimes so do the spirits. Saying yes, when everybody else denies, is a cardinal virtue. To those who affirm with their voice, with their gesture, with their elegance should be granted the rank of Prince since their gallantry means highness. And talking with your own life, saying pretty things by just living, with the only air that you breathe, setting the example of laughing… that also justifies our existence. Because being is a problem and the very solution, just a word. Whether it has meaning or not, whether it is new or made up, the word, said in the appropriate space and time, lasts. It is stronger than stone. Children are always learning to speak: and so am I, for I am a child born of the heart of speech. And like a newborn to language I’m always looking for happy findings, I jump from complexity to simplicity, I lie, discover, celebrate, certify, extend grubby checks and introduce documents sealed with a carmine kiss that I always steal from a beautiful woman. I speak as well, for not only does the poet, other men speak too when they do not fear the nothingness, those happy flukes that take joyfulness as their own. Many believe they are talking, but they should just keep quiet. We, the happy, even in silence say tricks. Happiness: believe me, it is not only a word, but well spoken, it could also be true. -- Following on from last years "Artist Feature" spot on David Romero, he and I have since sparked something of a collaboration. Here's a new poem from him, translated into from Spanish to English - My role involved assisting with the latter part, that of streamlining the English version. This will not be the last of David's poems to feature on this site. For more on the poet, click on the link in the Blogroll to connect to his personal site. -- Image from snorttumblr A short piece on drugs, hallucinations, hazy dreams, being swallowed by the barrel of a gun, and a man thinking he's a dragon. This story was not inspired by my life events, just so you know, though felt it is quite relevant to Cape Town right now (and much of the world for that matter. I grew up pretty insulated from the bad and the ugly, however there are those quite close to me who came in for more than just a bit of a scrape. Although I must add, the reoccurring dream - that's mine. The White Line Short fiction by Steven Benjamin The man: His stare wasn’t empty; instead it was filled with years and years of what was best left forgotten... Every red vein in the former milky whites of his eyes though, which over those years of abuse had turned a faded yellow, told of a more material ruin, like glazed windows that would never again reveal what lay in the shadows on the inside. His dried crusty lips quivered. His gaze fell down, catching sight of his own trembling hands. And then the deep familiar hurt welled up in his chest. His mind drifting to the thought of a woman he once knew – who once called herself his friend – and how she’d hung on in those final minutes. He wondered about that; what hanging on to life must feel like. From where he sat, it was all a little sad… a sad quiet; no more talking, no more pleading, because a life had been terminated, swept aside, and there was little fan fair, little commemoration. So anticlimactic... As if someone had asked him “… may I live?”, and he’d looked down and answered: “No.” But instead of that word, he’d used his hands. The stare, the coffee table and the R381, ‘Oh yes, that road…’ he remembered it all now – was it the right one? Just like the hurt brimming inside, so came that old guilty feeling, settling like foam. He knew; he saw and he knew what would make it all go away. It came to him like a dream; ‘oh yes, that dream’ he remembered that too now… it sometimes happens that way; you’re thinking of something else and then suddenly fumes of recollection of a different world wafts in… My Dream: It was about time running out, and of course, just running away… I suppose it’s always something like that, isn’t it? A gravel, dead stretch of road, somewhere in the Karoo, wait, no, there was grass, so it had to have been further north, closer to where the flowers grow and bloom in spring… or was it south, the R353 maybe, from Leeu Gamka. Only, this time there was no flowers, and it was in the dark, at night. Sometimes I’d pass by a windmill – just the silhouette mind you – funny that, since there was no moonlight. In some of them there’d be two lights heading directly toward me, growing brighter in the darkness. In those ones I’d always wake up just before the light engulfed me; just before impact. Mm, there were never any stars or moon in the sky… that’s how I knew I was dreaming, even in the clearest night sky: nothing, just blank, every single time. I knew what it was all about… The getaway: One of his greatest fears arising from the unseen depths within him, percolated to the surface every so often. This was all he was good at, and, it was the worst part of him. It was a way of getting in and getting away at the same time – his only escape. It committed those around him to believe they knew him, “his kind” – whatever that means. But the few he trusted believed it was a necessary evil. Once he’d even tried liberating himself with Muti – he didn’t believe in it mind you, but when you scrape bottom, you’ll be willing to try anything once, sometimes, just to get a leg up. When you’re down, you’re really down. Sometimes when your brain is on a ‘go slow’ it can convince you of the strangest things. He knew the lie he was living had matured over years and taken root within a hidden truth – one he kept very secret. A small confession he betrayed only to himself, and only in the darkest, lowest moments – the truth that he actually liked it. Was it really a revelation? No, it’s not like he was alone in this struggle. Be it lines, holes, rocks, pipes, money, smoke; everyone has their fix, governed only by the tick of the everyday clock. He looked down at his watch… the hands of time ticking away as always. Time. He was beginning to make sense of it again, slowly, the same issues, the same old habits. Time. He’d lost quite a lot of that. read more... Flash Fiction The scene: Standing on the deck of a Ukrainian Navy ship in the Black Sea; two former soldiers discuss the efficacy of their roles in this unending battle. This deleted extract is from my book (The Quiet Days) another casualty of my redraft. I've since rewritten it, changing the conversation entirely... The Quiet Days (by Steven Benjamin) - Chapter 28 extract - Michael’s brow furrowed as he stepped closer to stand beside him, leaning against the steel railings. · “I haven’t been involved in it as long as anyone here so maybe my perspective’s a little warped, but it feels like there can be no winner here, ever. We can always fight the battles but at the end, it falls down to a squabble for a share in whatever’s left. I mean you know the facts. I’m not talking about criminal networks or terrorists or even us, I’m talking about the bigger – the much bigger picture – it’s something that’s always beyond our control.” • Michael was half nodding but still looked sceptical, “I’m not sure I follow…” • “It’s just one big cycle. I was having a conversation with Theo a while back and he was saying how there is no more bad versus good but rather rich versus poor. A common statement I know but I understood his inclination that there are good men on either side of the fence, same goes for the bad men…” he huffed bitterly, “it’s like if we were the cure, or let’s say for arguments sake that we’re part of this massive body, the index finger maybe, and all our white blood cells are fighting one cancer growth in the body. But, what we haven’t realized is that the cancer has taken over the whole body – infected everything everywhere, so in effect we’re not just fighting the cancer but, you could say, we’re fighting the entire body.” • “Because the body has basically become the cancer?” • “Precisely.” • Michael looked off, “So how do we fit in, in terms of this case? Just so I’m clear.” • “We’re just like the white cells fighting, but dependent on our enemies for our own existence. Who pays our wages? Who manufactures and distributes the weapons that are in the hands of the terrorists we chase.” • “Mm. So, seeing as we’re the finger fighting the same body we’re apart of, if we succeed in our battle – we die.” • “In theory: yes. The one cannot live without the other, or at least we cannot live without them. Metaphorically speaking.” • “Of course.” • “But the real issue is that the main culprits of the problems we face today are the ones making all the rules, conducting summits etc… And it’s not like they’re aware of it all the time, I mean it’s made up of people like you and me with consciences of their own. We deal in problems, not solving them, just morphing them from one form to another – an endless cycle.” • “With the obvious question being: will we ever make any considerable headway in our current capacity, or in any capacity for that matter? And further more to use a tried cliché; will we ever – make a difference?” · “Is there any point to it all? Or are we just doing this for self satisfaction. To give us the assurance that we’re the good guys and, even though our efforts don’t make much difference, it sure makes us feel good about ourselves.” Skipp said. **** Theme: The following song is something of a theme for the book. It's Ben Harper's "I will not be broken" - this is not a music video, just the track with a picture of the artist that someone uploaded... A while back my sister and I concocted a pretty lavish story set in some fantastical Science fictional world (what sci-fi story isn't?). Over the next few months we actually fleshed it out quite nicely... but, as is a habit of mine, before I delve headlong into something, I feel compelled to test the waters first. So this story came about as I undertook a veritable dip of my toes into the delightful cesspool that is, or can often be, the genre of science fiction. The main character of this story, who ironically doesn't talk (because he can't, he's catatonic) plays a significant role in the story we thought up; all I did though, was to jump ahead further into the future by a few decades... to see what may have become of him... * Sleeping dogs of war californica.wordpress.com by Steven Benjamin (2012) “Well, what have they got for us today?” “Oh, nothing new I fear; done this procedure many times.” “Really? One would think after all these centuries they’d have come up with a more efficient method. OH, but wait, we have… and yet, mine eyes do not deceive. You seem to labor still at the wheel of the archaic.” “Oh yes indeed, they have, many different procedures in fact, but each for different use.” “So, why this method for this specimen?” “Because he’s old. We’ve found that, apart from the sentimental value, retaining the methods that worked over the years yields better, or shall we say smoother results.” He paused, mid thought, “It makes progression seamless. Plus, in science, there are many examples where continuity and cohesion is called for.” “Mm. It’s still very crude though.” “Well yes, but we’re still leagues ahead of our predecessors. Xenos past used to use very elementary tools, and of course the procedure, as well as the results, was infinitely less refined.” “I heard, or actually read, that they had a very different name for it too. I forget it though.” “Oh yes…” his eyes focused, through the thin glass compound of the eye visor, at the intricately delicate job at hand. “Very different indeed.” He whispered, “And equally as unrefined. That’s why I prefer mine. Markedly more tactful,” “I thought it was a just a nickname until I heard a few stewards referring to it as such. Have you been spreading the word?” “Ha. No. It appears genius rubs off. Although that is something of a misnomer; if genius – in this case denoted as a noun – rubbed off, implying that it can thence be shed, or lost, the perceived intelligence would be diminished within the so-called genius – in this instance myself - and gained by the receiver – in this case being the stewards. Alas, it is something we have yet to perfect,” he paused again, thinking… “strange that…” “What?” Reems continued. “That we’ve apparently failed in the quest to develop an effective device for the procedure of intelligence transference.” “Oh. How did you come to that name though?” “Aah, it was bestowed upon me by my fellow …” “No. I mean this procedure: re-“ “Redressing, yes, that is mine. It’s simple really. Like putting on a new suit – getting dressed. He – or rather we – are simply giving him a new suit. For each role he plays he acts different, thinks different and usually wears something different. Hence: Redressing.” read more HERE... On our journey of progression, and for many of us, discovery, we focus on David Romero, filmmaker, writer, novelist, poet... A creative at heart, David is a man on the move with great insights as well as goals and surely someone to look out for in the future. It gives me great pleasure to feature this artist, whom I hope to work with someday: Poetry: Story of remoteness, 47. By David Martinez Romero The soul of an artist Gently silence falls as white bird eating holes in the clouds, where broken glitter beams cross needles in ice flowing, slow death of magma yesterday on our hands clasped, now lost underground. Because the dust has eaten the paintings in the library: those books, on which dreaming we once promised immense love and pleasure and caresses, have been lost, such as dust, as white bird that rises. Pages and pages of gray images, fragmentary, I remember the futility of all the roses and I know that beauty dies that woman is beautiful and her beauty shines, the time ineluctable push intensifies and a wave comes and goes like foam. Slowly, from a tear magnificent the whole philosophy springs, all the knowledge of the truth, the night, the sugar, all that is worthy of being known or kissed, glazed moons with lids wide open as if an albino animal had crossed the room at the speed of a smile: perhaps an angel ... perhaps the soul of an artist. * Videos by Eldorado Entertainment "Motorway" - Anni B Sweet. Directed by David Martinez Romero Movida Corona 2010 - Executive Producer: David Martinez Romero Mini Biography: Born in Madrid in 1976. Journalist, writer, video producer and on his way to make a filmmaker out of himself. Founder of Eldorado Entertainment, production company in which he has produced and directed from TV commercials to music videos and his first short film, The Offer. As a writer, he has published one Poetry book, El mundo cuando sueña, yet he has written several collections of poems, two novels and one autobiographical essay. He publish a blog under his own name in which he shares poems and other writings every week. Right now, looking for financial support for a documentary film. Q & A:
Zahara de los Atunes (a little town in Cadiz) La Judería, Córdoba For more, contact and follow David: Juanda Cortes Photography Referenced earlier: visit Juanda Cortes photography, another contributor at Eldorado Entertainment. |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
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