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 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... 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... Probably the final part of this particular short fiction series on my blog. It does become something of a schlep for those seeing this for the first time, wanting to catch up and having to search through old posts (so just click in the sub menu of the "Short fiction" Tab in the menu above - Short fiction "Awakening" - I'll be posting all updates in there. Going home... and then home again. Short Fiction by Steven Benjamin (2012) The wheels squealed as he turned the car around. Linda stared at every one of his precise movements. He’d grabbed her arm and ushered her to the car. “Where are we going?” She turned as she heard her children rousing. When she calmed them down she turned back to Jeremy. “Well…” “Taking them to your parents. Tell them I need hospitalization and we need some time. Tell them it’s not an emergency, but we need to sort it out now. Like an insect bite or something; it could even be infected.” Linda glanced at the road. Her eyes then fell toward the foot well. She swallowed, tasting only dryness. “Where are we really going?” She whispered. They drove in silence for a while. Eventually he spoke, “Home. We’re going home.” The rest of the drive was in silence. Linda followed her gut, and simply did as she was told… even when it came to dropping off the kids. This man she knew as Jeremy, had sat in the car the whole time, only acknowledging her parents with a glance and a slight but distant wave. It was a strange silence as they made their way home. He seemed to be deep in thought, and not just thought but summations, plans, calculations; as if he was remembering things and cataloging them as he drove. He didn’t say a thing, even as he waited for her to unlock the front door, even while he rifled through his lock box which he’d retrieved from the bottom of his closet. In that box were plenty of papers, a couple of passports, a set of keys and a few trinkets Linda had never seen before. He unpacked them all systematically on their bed until eventually he stopped. He knelt down at the side of the bed, cupping his face in his hands. She heard him taking deep breaths. Linda walked over and sat on the foot of the bed, watching. Eventually his face emerged from behind his hands, his eyes scrutinizing the empty box one more time. For a moment Linda recognized him again and for the first time in what felt like an age, she felt compelled to voice her thoughts. “What is it?” “I’m looking.” His hand then reached toward the underside of the lid. He pulled on a small satin strap embedded in its inner rim. The small strap was like those strips used for book-markers, the type seen in many Bibles. The underside of the lid released from some unseen clip. The only thing in there was a medium sized envelope. He closed his eyes as he opened it. “I need you to look at this. I believe it will all make sense then. For both of us…” He pulled out a simple Polaroid photograph and offered it to her. Linda looked at him briefly before accepting the picture. Before she looked at it she gave him one more glance, as if for reassurance. This glance, that subtle look, would prove to be the last time she saw the man she knew as her husband, for the next three years. Jeremy watched her intently, anticipating something, even though he didn’t know what. She seemed not to recognize the image at first, but then she started pulling it slowly toward her face. Her eyes blinked profusely, and then she shut them tight, clenching the bridge of her nose. When Linda’s eyes opened eventually, they were staring at the wall ahead of her. Her head turned to him, and then her gaze followed. “I have always cherished this time between us Eli; these moments before you leave. You can go now. It is safe.” She nodded to him and smiled. He nodded several times, though it seemed involuntary. He leaned back and stood up in one continuous motion. He took the image from her and repacked the lock-box in the reverse order of how he’d unpacked it. Moments later, he closed the closet, turned and left the room. She heard the front door close. He backed out of the driveway slowly. Just as he put the car in gear, he looked up and paused, catching sight of the house he’d lived in for the past five years, now receding in familiarity. TBC "Happy reading - enjoy your weekend!"
Consider yourself a Writer? Since I am one I decided to give you ten tips on the very subject. Well, actually I'll be giving you someone else's tips - Elmore Leonard in fact, a somewhat more accomplished voice in the industry... only somewhat though (he's the guy who brought us the stories behind films like Be Cool, Get Shorty, Jackie Brown, 3:10 to Yuma and the current, brilliant TV series starring Timothy Olyphant as 'modern-day-cowboy' US marshal Raylan Givens, in Justified... FIY, this series and Olyphant's rendition of the main protagonist also inspired Leonard's latest novel entitled "RAYLAN". The series as a whole, for the uninformed, was inspired by Leonard's short story 'Fire in the hole'. So there, my fellow writer/author Elmore Leonard - now you know, he's that guy). Anyhow, so he came up with a quick fire list for those fancy themselves skilled with pen and parchment, in particular, for those looking to spew out a novel. It has been said, by someone, don't know who exactly so lets just say ME, that 'everyone can write, but only a gifted few are good storytellers'... This was originally posted by the guardian.co.uk (for the expanded article with more tips from more of my esteemed counterparts, just click the link) a while back (2010), but with all good writing, such things are always relevant. So, enough already, to the 10 then...
Elmore Leonard: Using adverbs is a mortal sin 1 Never open a book with weather. If it's only to create atmosphere, and not a character's reaction to the weather, you don't want to go on too long. The reader is apt to leaf ahead looking for people. There are exceptions. If you happen to be Barry Lopez, who has more ways than an Eskimo to describe ice and snow in his book Arctic Dreams, you can do all the weather reporting you want. 2 Avoid prologues: they can be annoying, especially a prologue following an introduction that comes after a foreword. But these are ordinarily found in non-fiction. A prologue in a novel is backstory, and you can drop it in anywhere you want. There is a prologue in John Steinbeck's Sweet Thursday, but it's OK because a character in the book makes the point of what my rules are all about. He says: "I like a lot of talk in a book and I don't like to have nobody tell me what the guy that's talking looks like. I want to figure out what he looks like from the way he talks." 3 Never use a verb other than "said" to carry dialogue. The line of dialogue belongs to the character; the verb is the writer sticking his nose in. But "said" is far less intrusive than "grumbled", "gasped", "cautioned", "lied". I once noticed Mary McCarthy ending a line of dialogue with "she asseverated" and had to stop reading and go to the dictionary. 4 Never use an adverb to modify the verb "said" ... he admonished gravely. To use an adverb this way (or almost any way) is a mortal sin. The writer is now exposing himself in earnest, using a word that distracts and can interrupt the rhythm of the exchange. I have a character in one of my books tell how she used to write historical romances "full of rape and adverbs". 5 Keep your exclamation points under control. You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000 words of prose. If you have the knack of playing with ex-claimers the way Tom Wolfe does, you can throw them in by the handful. 6 Never use the words "suddenly" or "all hell broke loose". This rule doesn't require an explanation. I have noticed that writers who use "suddenly" tend to exercise less control in the application of exclamation points. 7 Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly. Once you start spelling words in dialogue phonetically and loading the page with apostrophes, you won't be able to stop. Notice the way Annie Proulx captures the flavour of Wyoming voices in her book of short stories Close Range. 8 Avoid detailed descriptions of characters, which Steinbeck covered. In Ernest Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants", what do the "American and the girl with him" look like? "She had taken off her hat and put it on the table." That's the only reference to a physical description in the story. 9 Don't go into great detail describing places and things, unless you're Margaret Atwood and can paint scenes with language. You don't want descriptions that bring the action, the flow of the story, to a standstill. 10 Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip. Think of what you skip reading a novel: thick paragraphs of prose you can see have too many words in them. My most important rule is one that sums up the 10: if it sounds like writing, I rewrite it. Awakening - [*provisional title*] -- (by Steven Benjamin, 2012 )
… Linda’s mouth hung open. “Jeremy” he said it again, as if tasting the words for the first time. “Oh. Yes. I remember.” His head tilted back as he looked skywards. “What?” Linda heard herself say. “What does that mean?” His attentions found her again, but not for long. He glanced around as if in mild panic, slowly rubbing his fingers together. “You were sleeping.” “Y-yes…” “I was away.” “No. You were driving the car. There, look!” “I was away for a while… saw this, this bridge. There was something I had to get. Something hidden.” “Jeremy you’re scaring me. Let’s just go to the car. Do you want me to drive?” “Shh.” Linda took a step back trying to recover. She was blinking profusely, her hands clutched to her chest as she attempted to formulate some kind of response. “I came here. I came back here… there’s something I need to do. I just need to,” He glanced toward the car again and then back to Linda. “Can you get something for me?” “Hm? You mean…” “Here.” He pulled the keys from his pocket. “Go home. I need something from my lock-box.” “Wh-what? Are you kidding? NO! We’re going home together, stop this, and get in the car.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him closer but he didn’t move. Linda staggered. He was looking at her in a way he’d never before. “You said my name is Jeremy.” She opened her mouth to speak, noticing then that she hadn’t seen him blink. “It isn’t.” His voice was a whisper. “Not remotely.” Her breathing was quicker now, “… Jay. You’re scaring me.” “I know. I was too at first… years ago. Course, I was unaccustomed to it then.” |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
WRITING
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