Poem: "The Mountain Kites" by Steven Benjamin To the quietude I was led, To my knees I sank In the deep I drank In the grit my nails scratched A roar from my lungs found escape in the dark I saw a face, in their eyes the night sky flickering Into those pools my gaze did reach Each crest mine or not to take To breathe until I break To wait for my chest to quake By a figure behind the lace and in that dark, a familiar face The twitching of my heart. Softly the mountain spoke Quietly dying in my path Not mine to take As the peak sank from sight The trail lost to unknown fate Forever knocking at my mind Like a taunting dancing distant kite. Not mine to hold Nor to summit A path held from me By arcane hands And a sleight voice whispering Some paths are not meant to be took Keep climbing, from your knees Beholding my familiar face In our quiet dark home go where I go Keep going, till you’re gone *** [Image credit: from PoemHunter.com]
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Short Story by Steven Benjamin Short fiction Genre: Drama "The Route of '81" There and back and gone, to a forgotten place…
I had to be somewhere, but I forget where. What I remember is standing on a stone or marble walkway looking out at the mountain vista thinking to myself ‘I mustn’t forget the scarf’ – why that scarf… because I bought it for her. She only wore it once, but she liked it. She liked it so much, enough to leave it behind on her seat at the restaurant that same evening. She only remembered it when we got back to the room. I went back for it. That’s what I did. What bothered me as I stood there on the walkway thinking back, was why I hadn’t noticed it was missing earlier. If not for that damn scarf, things might’ve turned out very differently… loose ends I suppose. And then, as if on cue, a stiffly breeze wafted across me, even raising the lapel of my coat. As I was looking down at the offending lapel I felt a tap on my right shoulder but when I looked, no one was there, so I looked left, and there she was, smiling at me, shaking her head that I fell for that silly trick again. ‘You ready to go?’ I checked the view again and shook my head, but my feet started walking. Her smile widened. As we strolled down the path, glancing back a silent goodbye at the mountain retreat, I said ‘This is where I ask you where we’re going? But I know you won’t answer me, not properly anyway.’ ‘Then don’t ask.’ ‘Okay, I haven’t. So now that you know that I haven’t asked what I wanted to ask, what would your response to my non question be.’ “Didn’t I just give it?” ‘No. You gave the response you would’ve given if I had asked. Or you responded to what my question would’ve been, not to what it is.” She thought for a moment, narrowed eyes, then shook her head at me being silly. “That, I’m proud of you,” she said as I opened the car door for her. And as she tucked her dress in and reached for the door handle she continued, “and concerned. You’re gonna drive yourself crazy thinking so much about what we don’t say… or say about what we haven’t said.” I closed the door and walked round to the driver side, stealing a last deep look at where we were, and the winding road through the narrow valley into which we were about to descend. I got behind the wheel beside her. “Drive myself crazy? You’re the one driving me crazy.” She was smiling broadly at that, clenching her thumb nail between her teeth, though her gaze was taken by the view out of her window. I took a deep breath as I watched her a moment, before starting the car… We drove in silence for a few minutes, punctuated only by the sounds of the old car, a faint creek from the rear suspension, the tires struggling to hold the road on the twisty hairpin bends. ‘That place is nice,’ I said, ‘but it needs an update. Still feels like its stuck in the 50’s.’ ‘That’s why I like it’ she said. ‘I hope it stays that way. I know it won’t, but I hope they keep a fair bit of it. It’ll never be like it used to.’ I stole a glance at her for as long as I could manage before the road tore back my attention. ‘That’s why I rented this car. I just pray it makes it down the mountain. She’s a beauty, but she needs a little love and affection to restore some of her tired parts.’ Silence again, as we negotiated a few more grand bends in the road, the joy of the drive made rather perilous by the sheer drops down into the valley below. A chill crept up my arm from my hand which was clutching the gear lever as I felt her cold hand upon mine. I glanced at her briefly. She was staring at our hands and then her gaze lifted to the road ahead. ‘We’re going to a friend. That’s all I can say. You don’t know her. I haven’t seen her in years, and if I’m honest, I don’t even know if she’s even there. She’s from before I met you.’ Her voice had changed, and I could sense there was more to come. ‘I’ll ask some things of you that will be difficult to understand, as I have done till now. Hopefully in time I’ll be able to explain it all.’ We drove, chatting about life, like most couples. Stopping at the rest stops, taking pictures with the windup Kodak camera I bought before the trip. My favourite photo was almost a throwaway shot, one taken in between all the smiles and posing, among all the spanning shots of the way we’d come, and the shadows that the clouds made upon the mountain slopes. No, my favourite was one where I’d just pulled the camera out as I scanned the landscape before me at the last lookout spot, before we’d merge with the valley below… but I didn’t take the shot. I peeked through the viewfinder and felt nothing for it, so I lowered the camera to my chest and turned to look back. She was leaning against the front end of the silver Sebring, holding her elbows, looking down as she leaned back on her heels so her toes were off the ground. I couldn’t tell if she was looking at her toes in her sandals or at the ground between her feet, thinking of something else. That’s when I took the shot. She didn’t hear the click as a slight breeze blew by the lookout, ruffling her hair a little. Her expression in that photo would forever remain as she was, elusive. Poem: * "My bones in the road" by Steven Benjamin 'Thousands of years of rolling and crashing, smoothed the stones', I heard him say. Buildings still abound, much older than I will ever be. When did I gain this voice When did it fade Young we are to the elements, and will always be Blooming flowers to nature we are, and will always be, and then gone What is this effort? To catch my voice in a jar? I hum, clear my throat, and when my lips part, sounds come out, a head inclines and then I turn the page and see some figures on that paper, lines that came from me. I held a pen and moved it. Rearranged some letters, with fingers and breath, whispers and tones. My heart beats; I know. My red blood I’ve seen, and my veins. Shared some space I did, and thought some thoughts, and then quietened my mind. Beating is my heart, and not much more is happening. . . Hushed Until another hour, when again the voice quakes, and a sound, as inspiration steers. the blood pumps on, ink shall be laid, lips to be parted Bones shall move and a faint echo will let loose in this, our dying maze of time. Let the bones of my ribs rise and fall a cage, the jar for my voice holding it like a gloved claw, keeping some air in, until it slips out, and is no more. Just long enough for that breath that it holds, that small voice within that cage, to nudge the blood, to itch the muscle, to crinkle the flesh, to move the fingers. Just long enough for the echo to spill and dent the page and fill the dents with ink. Just long enough it holds, until it is no more. Good intentions are all I am, and all we are, then let the road be paved with me, that narrow path Home to us all that road will be, in the maze of time. And that road - where shall it lead? until time closes, lost, to the red place but for the tether a pinch from that place without time to make the way straight to make the bones move, and that which placed within those bones that air, that breath, that voice it speaks, it moves, it saves and makes the bones live again without time, this time * [Image credit: photo by Frank Robert --- Video credit: Music by Max Richter ( From the Art of Mirrors) Filmed, directed and produced by Montserrat Rubio Sound effects by Romain Olivieri] Short Story. "Land of False Memory" - Fantasy - by Steven Benjamin * -
We’d been traveling for days, I don’t remember how many, before we found the old man. I only call him old because he was the oldest of us there, but it was mostly in his ways, capped off with his dark brown handlebar moustache. He sometimes wore an old woolen cap to keep away the chill from his greying sparsely-haired head. But he was strong; perhaps the strongest of us, because he’d lived in these lands and climbed these crags and mountains many times. But he needed help, help from us, to get him to a place where he’d remember. A day or two of aimless wondering through the cold wilderness followed, before we finally found a clearing. The old man led us to the far end of the clearing and then squinted up at the steep slope. He rubbed his arms and then grunted. He left us all behind, striding swiftly, hugging himself against the cold, his legs pumping as he climbed. He must’ve given his coat to one of the women in the team… all he had on was a dark trousers and an old pullover, tattered at the edges. We were left looking at each other, and then watching the figure move, without rest, up the slope with his hulking shoulders leaning into the breeze. Eventually we followed up after him. A while later we came up behind him. He was almost lying down on the ground, poking his head up over the jagged rocky ridge every now and then before hunching down again. He was busy. He felt us coming, hearing our footfalls behind him. “I need to draw it,” he said, scanning the landscape peeking over the ridge again. He’d spread a large white paper on the ground, pinned in the corners with rocks, and was sketching a fairly decent image of what he saw, using a piece of charcoal and dirt. Some time later, with the group huddled together for warmth, he got to his knees and squinted up at me, then back over the ridge, nodding. The sun was setting in the far horizon, the rays reaching below the cloud cover, casting his face in a burnt orange glow. “I remember now,” came his raspy voice. “I have to draw it to remember it.” He blew his warm breath onto his dirty fingers, rubbing his hands together and them tucking them under his arms as he got to his feet. I don’t remember much more of that night or the next morning... what I do remember is like a puzzle, the blank parts filling in as I think about it more, winding the clock back, seeing things I didn’t consciously notice when in the moment. I remember we’d descended into the valley, coming down from the dragon’s back-like ridge into the rising mist. By afternoon the mist had cleared and there was only this odd hazy steam. We found ourselves at the river’s edge, though it was scarcely a river as the water wasn’t moving. Maybe it was a river once upon a time, but now it was more like a stagnant toxic culvert. The ground and rocks at the edges of the slope, where the earth fell away to the steamy liquid below, was a scorched pale tan colour. In the fresh sunlight at certain angles the surface of some of the rocks reflected a rainbow colouring. The chemical rich liquid was undoubtedly heated by natural underground geysers. It was a strange place that looked dead, but felt dangerous and alive. A place that sought to claim those who ventured in. The Fall of man - 'Moving in the darkness' - Poem by Steven Benjamin The darkness covers us all the same
Rich and poor Strong and weak Good and evil. All existing in this same place Distant Removed. living and dying, we share it all, until One Or a few of us, reaches out to where we came from Before we walked Before we breathed Before we saw, and heard, and tasted and felt This world. To act here, in this place of darkness and absence exiled We exist and are forever lost. Until a heart reaches for the light. The light to illuminate our life, our path, our flaws. But we are still painted by the same brush, Moving in the darkness The same abandon that many love to bathe in, That some question, Searching the dim depths, for tenor, to whisper faint philosophy Reasoning in anonymity, As this shade, hides our actions, bolstering confidence, Justifying ignorance, for the lesser mind. All of it, echoes in obscurity. Without the gift of light - to shine on us, until then, once ignited, to shine from within – without this light what are we? shadows, playing, pretending on the dark stage, until the absent curtain falls, ... and time swallows the memory of us. It is the light that colors us, illuminating purpose and path. But in the darkness, all meaning is forsaken. Light needs only light to be… for darkness is merely the absence of it. For we only know what darkness is, because of light. We know the light, we recognize it, the form of our shadows, A hint, We recognize it because we came from it, We were made to reflect it. Once, In a distant memory, half forgotten, a remnant in us, of a garden and a past, swept away. We came from it. Before we learned what darkness was. Before we fell, Before we walked, Before we breathed Before we were born… Once there was a time when it breathed in us, there was a time when we were painted with light. ***** It was only meant to be a fill-up stop, but something caught my eye. It wasn’t noticeable in the normal way, but just something I picked up on as we rolled into the small dusty town of Moorn. We crossed the single lane rusty iron bridge which passed over a humble river gorge, home only to a steady stream which no doubt became a flowing river in the winter months. After filling up at the only petrol station in sight, and asking the attendant in the small kiosk about any local restaurants, I noticed something else – without actually realizing it.
I speak of things caught in your periphery. In my case it happens often, even more so on long journey’s, maybe because we’re looking for them and our minds are more winsome to change, reaching out at the glimpses within our path. So these hints waft about in my subconscious all in their own time. But as I fetched these small oddities, not immediately understanding why they aroused suspicion or interest, they found their way together in a corner of my mind, garnering a more assured patina of intrigue. We arrived at a local house, courtesy of the slow talking kiosk attendant, just a little ways off the main road, noted as “main” because it was only one lavished with asphalt. It was an old place, like most in its company, built of large stone bricks. It was guarded by a chicken wire fence held up by thin ageing wooden poles, restraining a well maintained front garden with what seemed like the greenest patch of grass on the street. We later learned it was because of a borehole on the property. Purple and white flowers were in bloom in the midday sun, much to the pleasant distraction of my favourite lady, Ina. After passing by a sun-bleached signboard we strolled down the short pathway to the gaping front door which stood open beyond a generous stone paved veranda which accommodated two small tables for patrons. A middle-aged lady in an old house coat, fanning herself with a pamphlet, emerged from the house and ushered us to one of these tables saying it was way too hot to sit inside. So there we sat, beneath the corrugated iron overhang waiting for a humble meal. As colourful as the homely concierge-cum-waiter-cum-house owner appeared, offering us a selection of homemade jams and honey at country-town prices, it wasn’t hard to spot the odd something brewing beneath the surface of this rustically genteel woman who proclaimed herself as Merlene. It seemed like a routine she offered to all her guests as if she was building up to something, before she revealed the would-be gem in the concert of her hospitality. It came after our meal and amidst the serving of our tea. To our mild surprise she’d brought a silver tray with three cups, setting it down with practiced grace. She then pulled a chair from the adjacent table to join us. She spoke half in a hushed tone, or at least quieter than her usual vocal tenor, and inquired if we were here about “our river”. All three of us exchanged looks. I kindly mentioned that we had noticed that there was indeed a river, but that we’d never heard of it, although I added my vague observations that it was, in its own way, distinctive. Merlene’s eyes narrowed and for a moment I thought I’d said the wrong thing or that my vague detective work was lost to her. But then she nodded curiously, “Why, because there’s no plants?” “May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.” – Ps 19:14 "So many men make the mistake of thinking that the woman IS the adventure. But that is where the relationship immediately goes downhill. A woman doesn't want to be the adventure, she wants to be caught up into something greater than herself." --- Extract: 'Wild at Heart' - John Eldredge. Secret thoughts on Beauty What is it about this thing? What is it that draws my gaze, my thoughts, my being? I’ve read and know that beauty nourishes, it invigorates, inspires, uplifts and sets fireworks in the imagination. Ohhh, the imagination… and this is where we’re at – or, where I'm at, You see, the imagination… Here’s an ironical thought; imagine a world where people didn’t have an imagination. Could we live in a world like that? Now take this; imagine a world without beauty. Could anyone live in this kind of world? Think of everything that is not beautiful, and feel the corners of your mind shrivel, and the depths of soul shriek in agony. Our senses cannot live without avenues such as these. We need the nourishment for this journey. But, and here’s the thing, beauty has another side. Because we’re drawn to it so, and because our soul craves it, we can at times allow it to overwhelm. And it can consume, it can consume. It happens most with artists, when they search for the meaning, the depth of it, and they delve into it, exploring something we cannot understand. The risk is raised when Love steps in. Again, for the artist, love and passion is all entwined in it. And it seems and feels pure, when all these fine elements are interwoven within. But what happens when it’s projected, or when life’s happenings and emotions become entangled. It’s why when looking at famous artists in time we so often see their loved ones dragged down by these seemingly honest pursuits. It’s where we falter. Because deep down, when all these various glorious elements like love, beauty, passion and raw emotion are explored, we find that at the core is something quite fragile. And if we really want to go there, if we really want to delve deep, we’ll find that that fragility is tied to everything in this world. It speaks to our very existence, and the world we live in. And this is where it becomes dangerous, because so often, it is unbalanced. In this broken world, beauty was always bound to be abused, tormented and wrought under the talons of depravity as men try to control or capture this illusive something. And how pure intent can get warped Pity we have to grow old Pity we have to lose our childhood innocence. Naivety can be the saving of some, and the death of others. And so, when we shoehorn ourselves into an odd quest to preserve something pure and beautiful, we have to constantly guard ourselves. Think about this; a man looks at a beautiful woman – and what does he think? What thoughts play in his mind? What are his secret thoughts, his secret desires? Sometimes its not that hard to see when witnessing their facial expressions just passing a woman on the street. A man can voyage to save something pure, but what if he were told that he was the very threat to that purity. Could he stay away Some talk of a secret thought life. If we could wear these thoughts on our bodies, what would we look like? And so, we can see how easily it is to pervert something pure… As a writer, no, never mind that, I’ve always lived inside my mind. My father said I have an overactive imagination (which was one reason why I had nightmares as a child), but as an adult, it helps me create believable fantasy, or in most cases, believable fiction, or interweaving fiction with reality. My mind is my strongest quality, and with that, potentially my greatest strength. When I explore something, driven by passion, my mind leans on the obsessive side of my personality, and here’s where the danger comes in, speaking of consuming. I’ve been told I would make a good detective, due to this very dog-with-a-bone type quality. But, the consuming comes into it when I take on pseudo problems that have no solutions, or when trying to understand and work people out. People are our currency, our inspiration for story, our subjects, and when we don’t understand them…where are we to go? And guess what? All those elements I mentioned earlier; love, passion, beauty – can all be found and explored in the brokenness and fragility of us, People. This is the crux – we’re a simple fabric made with a complex thread. It elicits ecstasy and pain all the same because all this grows from our soul. So when it feels like its deep, it’s because it is just that, it’s exactly that. People tend to undersell it, or take it for granted. That’s why sex is on the same level as shopping for shoes. Beauty or more specifically, sex (as sexiness) is used as a bartering tool to sell objects. Flesh is sold. People are sold… and whether overtly or covertly, people even sell themselves. Reverence isn’t enough, or it’s sometimes too much. When it comes to our secret thoughts, it’s invariably a question of balance. So let me end on a note of hope, instead of a hope for the best but prepare for the worst, or a ‘where did everyone go wrong’ – So, there is a way back, for me it’s through the Almighty, because if you cannot contribute-to/give/unveil/preserve/protect/nurture beauty, then at least just, Let it be. The torment in our souls is due to the lack or failure in searching for something that cannot be found in this world. If you're wondering where all this is coming from, well, we preach only that which we ourselves need to learn. As a man and as a writer, I constantly seek to understand, and when something riles at my core, it falls under my microscope, specifically and intensely. Beauty is otherworldly, but to truly appreciate it, we must focus and grow closer to the creator of that beauty, lest we fall and find ourselves settling for inferior pleasures, or idolizing earthly things. It's where it all started, with pride and betrayal in the garden of Eden, and the struggle within man continues to this day. This is simply part and parcel of my endless quest for purity, in God's eyes. "Never have I dealt with anything more difficult than my own soul" - Imam Abu Hamid al-Ghazali [Images: via pinterest.com] |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
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