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.
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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. Flash Fiction: This (short) story is an 'interview'. It came about through two completely unrelated character sketches I was playing with... also, I was toying with character cliches. Titles I considered were 'Oceans, sketches & Sway', 'The Immortal tides'... He had a weather beaten look, like life had flung him across icy oceans, then dragged him down to the depths in mere moments, before the waters finally raised him against some craggy beach where the sun and wind had dried his skin, but where the saltiness remained. His wispy hair and gaunt, lined face seemed like more of a sketch than a real man. His movements were deliberate too; his hands moving like those of time itself. Have you ever been married? I heard myself say, trying to restart the conversation, which felt like trying to get a steam engine back on the rails. His eyes moved across my general vicinity as though they were lazily and haphazardly rummaging around, and casually assigning relevance to whatever he saw. Eventually his chapped lips parted, and a whisper snuck out. It sounded something like “… always” There was something different about his eyes. It was not a sparkle that one would liken to excitement, no. This was dimmer, like a flame, or glowing ember. There was a hint of warmth to his shifting stare. Somewhere, somewhere deep, a few memories were dancing around each other, coming into focus as they neared on whatever distant dance floor they were held. This was enjoyment of a different kind, like he’d rediscovered an old bottle of whisky, and had proceeded to study the label, despite knowing it by heart. He was now taking a sip of the memory, gently, letting the aroma meet him before the taste. It was a lesson in savouring. Whatever sadness lurked there, on the edge of that distant dance floor, waiting to cut in, seemed diminished by time. This dream of a memory was a quiet, melancholic enjoyment, the kind that seemed to never fail to inspire rekindling in this man, adding shades of life affirming color to the sketch of his face. It seemed to have greatest effect when coaxed out from wherever he’d tucked it, those many years ago. I watched him now. " It always started with the glide. The sound. Hard rubber soles over dusty wooden floor boards. A rare and unforgettable richness in timbre. The heel would come down with a dull clap. And then the glide again. Her leg jutting out, followed or led by her hip… Her head arched back. Her eyes were closed. Her neckline flowed in the dim light, over her chest beneath the cotton dress, to her belly. Her arms unfurled, wafting slowly above her head, ending in a cock of the wrists, and stiff straight fingers. A moment of stillness. Her fingers moved. Then her wrists straightened, and slowly the movements began to pour over the rest of her body. Before it reached her feet, the sound of gliding was at my ears. And then the clap of the heel again. It was the only way she knew. This was her story, and how she told it. One of grace, of sound, of stillness, and of sway. The rhythmical claps of the heels were reminders of bygone hitches, stifling the flap of her wings. This was a song of defiance and graft, a dance that continued well after the possessive smiles and reverent cheers of old crowds had faded. But her message was written in movement. I remember her movements more than her face, which always came in glimpses. Time does this. Faces change and fade in the memory, but her melody can never fail me, her story remains. That wind may be stifled, but it’s enough to keep these sails true. Her hushed movements, in the back of memories, lingers immortal. " I watched him in his thoughts. Before he took another sip, of the drink on the table I thought he’d forgotten about. With wet lips he whispered her name. Or at least I think it was her name. As he said it, a bus rolled by bellow the café window, muffling whatever his raspy voice had offered. I thought of asking him to repeat it, but hesitated. Perhaps it was a sign that I was not meant to hear it after all. And with that, the sounds of the day filtered back to my ears, brought back to the present after being taken by the brief old wind which quietened my thoughts for a few minutes, whisking me off to another time. I don’t know what I expected from this old man. But what I got was a few notes, a broken melody perhaps, like hearing someone attempt a tune on an old piano a few rooms away. I would let it be. Perhaps one day, without prompting, the melody, hidden from me, owing to time, dust and fog, ebbing even in the best of times, would once flow to visit me, in a dream perhaps. Sometime later I walked away from that old sailor, hoping perchance to stumble my way to that shore. And that the elusive tide would flow to meet my toes and dance before for me, just once. A faint whispered hope. But perhaps my own depths await, to one day earn the wash of tide through a half remembered dream. - Flash Fiction by Steven Benjamin. "For all is like an ocean, all flows and connects; touch it in one place and it echoes at the other end of the world.' - Fyodor Dostoyevsky {Image credits: pinterest.com, paintinghere.com} Artist Feature "Eldorado. Actually, it is 8 years old. But it did not become an independent brand until the second year, so you could say Eldorado Entertainment started 6 years ago. Eldorado Entertainment was my first project as an entrepreneur/ producer/ director. I am not sure what will come of it in the future: I believe I will make only fiction out of it, I mean, if I am lucky: tv series and movies. On the other hand, The Homo Artifex Project is the main project, very soon my new company, and I will base its business model on two directions: one, tv spots, virals, commercials and other stuff for clients; two, Homo Artifex, an internet video channel in which I will publish videos about artistic processes and many other things related to arts, science and philosophy. But The Homo Artifex Project is still developing into a proper company. My objective: launch the channel before the New Year and make it a profitable company this very year, Already working on projects on demand by new clients. You will see some of them very soon." - statement by David M. Romero Showreel 2010 from Eldorado Entertainment on Vimeo. And speaking of Homo Artifex, here's the latest video "Glede" Introduced as such -- While the official presentation of Homo Artifex presents the theme of 'in the distance', we had the opportunity to participate in a particularly interesting project, and put it to video; a gathering of musicians of Norwegian and Spanish jazz, we have called "Glede" (joy ">, in Norwegian). I hope you enjoy it, as it also serves as an incentive, for the expectation of the arrival of our next work. Glede from Eldorado Entertainment on Vimeo. Another recommended video by David Martinez Romero, showcasing his directorial work... ***ANNOUNCEMENT***: Steven Benjamin will be away for the month of August, so there'll be no Blog updates till September. God Bless! I wish I was in Mogadishu (in 1970) For the love of old things; don’t let (all) bygones be bygones. I just relish the feeling of Nostalgia in the morning. Sampling what we can from the past, but let’s not get existential and delve into history here, I’m simply talking about pockets, pockets of time. Are you a little lost? Allow me a moment to explicate. I like mystery. I’m a tad sentimental, a little traditional, and more than somewhat adventurous – but only as adventurous as an introvert allows himself to be. I tend to explore in pockets, in times of inspiration to feed my soul. But, what I’m nudging towards here is: treasures. We cannot take anything with us from this life (thought I wasn’t getting existential), but we can always treasure those notes that award life more depth. I was chatting to a friend and colleague about the internet and how people don’t want to read anymore –technology has made us lazy and a little idiotic and stupid, or perhaps just numb. Truth is, most people are okay with speedy temporary mediocrity, or they just allow it to be okay. I like to read. Sounds simple, because it is, but as has been bemoaned in the recent past, it also feels like its dying in this society. I’m currently reading an espionage thriller fantasy – sounds unreal (well it is a work of fiction), but its set somewhere in the 50’s/60’s, and it’s made up of gloriously vivid characters and stark locations. This of course was a period when there was much more mystery in the world. The world wasn’t as conscious of itself as it is now – so in a way it too is a character in the novel. This was a time of deadly aristocrats, master thieves, underworld assassins and smugglers with trench coats – each with their own individual quirks and signatures – and those would be the good guys. This feels like an era long gone, because it is. Like another story I read some time ago that began (if memory serves) with an already old-world English traveller in Mogadishu, in the days before an attempted coup d’état in the late 70’s, as he lamented the changing of times as the dark political shadows grew longer over the city – this as he sipped a cool beverage with (as per the delightful description) an Iman lookalike. I’m certain there are characters like these living today, but they’ve been absorbed by the corporate world, the technology, a blanket of commercialism, social media and globalization. This, here, now, around us, is a diluted society. It’s something you’ll find as a theme in some of the stories I’ve written; from a father telling his son a bedtime story encompassing his former dangerous and high-speed life, to a girl imploring her mother to take her down the path to find her estranged father a half a world away. I like holding history in my fingers. From books, to my father’s old broken watch… So what if they say I’m grasping at phantoms – whispers of the past that can never be again, trying to, in some small way relive a moment, or colour in a distant memory, I’ve always been like this, from trying to break into my Dad’s safe when I was seven, or trying to get into either of my grandfather’s backyard sheds – there was mystery there yes, but also objects that were decades older than me, and in a young mind, anything can be a treasure, the trick is to keep a hold of a morsel of that youth, to add whimsy to something that strikes a chord in the vein of the illusive things alluded to here.. They don’t make anything like they used to. The trick is in finding gems with no pretense. Moral here is; don’t stop reading. Books on a shelf are like latent worlds waiting to be discovered and explored – although some are more vivid than others… There is a bit of mystery left in the world yet, it’s just about being willing to look, to find something from a certain time, or maybe just something timeless, that isn’t in plain sight. Maybe you’ll find a secret garden, or just a secret that once was lost, but now is yours. It's about discovery, and that endless pursuit, of grandeur... even in the small things. Ahh, tis but a practiced talent indeed, to master the art, of savouring. "Any man's life, told truly, is a novel." [Image credits: pinterest, tumblr, imgur.com, darnour.com, grantstonerrawlings.blogspot.com, i3.minus.com, lonelygentlemangloves.com, mogadishuimages.com, eurocrime.blogspot.com] Related Posts: Why do we love the red convertible? Ugly Beautiful The Inside Watch Abandoned Ruins of Speed I thought my days were ash, but what are days really? There was a time many moons and suns ago, when I was a different color. I was young once too you know. I’ve heard, or actually since I don’t hear, I’ve felt that I am descended from a long line, that my ancestors on these great dry plains are plentiful, some might even still be floating around. The old ones. One or two passed me by in my younger days. Those were but brief encounters. Time stands still in those times when the yearning thirst for rains and moisture are long, here within the shimmering furnace of nowhere. I am sure that had I eyes to see, I would not be fond of the view, because despite the changing seasons, there is not much change on these distant plains – I can feel it. I thought my day was up, or days. I thought my roots had reached for the last damp, or the last lick of dew to be had in this rocky outcrop, in the hard and the dry. I have let go pieces of myself – there will always be a branch to spare. I suppose I should’ve expected it, having experienced the faint wisp of a passing relative, that I one day too would be free. But now I am. I’ve caught a second wind, or second hundredth – I lost count when I was but a sapling that age ago. Now I feel many things, mostly hard. But, in lifetimes of mostly wind and dust and rain and the heavy undergrowth, a rock or several hundred are welcome acquaintances than simply floating against the bareness. I passed by some embers some time ago, can’t say how long. It could well have been some relatives of mine, giving way for another world, another time. The wind will claim them. The wind claims everything, just as it carries and rolls me along. It’s still dry here. It’s always dry here. Ancient murmurings make this to be that place called the cousin to a desert. Why, because what little growth there is – like myself – provides that glimmer of hope, where a desert has none. I have passed by some far off dwellings and some lonely living things. All are waiting, that is all anyone does here, to wait, for those clouds to bring a faint promise... We wait. I use to wait too, until I took this journey, this long journey. Who knows how long it will last or where I will go. I do know that there is no more waiting, not for me. But, I do feel like this journey, my only one of substantive distance, shall be my first, my last, and my only. For now, I tumble on… and in this vast land of nothingness but dust and thirst I am what I am. I am home, in this place without time, of dust and rock and me, where the sun is my shelter, referred to by many in a grating whisper, on an umpteenth wind as, ‘Thirstland’. --- Flash fiction by Steven Benjamin [flickr.com, mikerossi.co.za, jbaynews.files.wordpress.com, northerncape-info-directory.co.za, rainharvest.co.za, theday.co.uk, karoospace.co.za, lessonsleatlastnight.files.wordpress.com, portfoliocollection.com, themaxefiles.blogspot.com, safaribookings.com, thewildangle.com, savingwater.co.za, dressedbystyle.com] Fact: South Africa is 2nd only to Australia in the world, when it comes to the countries with the most Windmill's. Widely acknowledged as Hollywood’s greatest cinematic accomplishment, bringing Middle Earth to film in The Lord of The Rings trilogy and now the lesser (critically) the Hobbit films (based on the book – consisting of only one modest volume). So, why then has the Tolkien Estate, led by J.R.R. Tolkien’s surviving son Christopher (responsible for the streamlining/completing/editing and then publishing of his father’s early work The Silmarillion) turned their back on the film adaptations? This may be old news to some since Le Monde's revelatory interview with Christopher Tolkien was conducted back in 2012, but the implications and sentiments are just as, if not more prevalent now in light of the liberties taken with the Hobbit adaptations currently in big screens. These latest films by Peter Jackson have famously been the most brazen in adapting the source material, the biggest move being to convert the single volume book 'The Hobbit - There and Back Again' into a trilogy of films. But let me first explain my perspective: I write this as someone who hasn’t read any Tolkien book, ever. I can’t even remember the last time I picked one up… the closest I’ve come is reading the synopsis for the recently published (previously unfinished work – then completed and edited by Tolkien’s son Christopher) book ‘Children of Hurin’ (2007) – this may not sound like much because it’s only a synopsis, but I must say, the several page affair read like a short story (as full synopsis’ should) and made for some fascinating stuff. It manages to draw you in enough so that, partnered with your already developed knowledge of Middle Earth, culminates in a very captivating and involved experience… but would I buy/read the book, knowing what I know about it – perhaps, but I’m in no rush. It’s a curious case. That ‘must read-but don’t really want to’ scenarios. This is partly because I’m not a major adventure fantasy fan. Now before you go on about how the books overlap genres and involve a whole lot more than those two elements, I’m fully aware of that, and I’d probably enjoy the books once I got into them. The truth is, I just lack the motivation to do so, my immediate literary interests lie elsewhere, meaning I’m more than content to preoccupy myself with the films (as lazy as this is, mind you). I enjoyed the films and have even seen the latest two Hobbit installments, but I still would not call myself an out and out fan, as in fanatical. Tolkien and his works however, remain a fascinating subject, and the fact that it is so, even for someone who has no immediate will to read said works, is testament to their magnitude, influence and impact on contemporary literature and the media in general. So, now that I’ve mentioned that I enjoyed the films, taking into consideration the understandable compromise that needed to be made – alluding to many scenes, stories and elements left out from the books because they are quite long – in bringing these them to cinema, it did surprise me to learn that Christopher Tolkien (and the entire remaining Tolkien Estate) does not support these well-loved films, which have been so effective in introducing this literature to younger generations. The Lord of the Rings trilogy in particular is an amazing feat, and there is a growing consensus out there that it is Hollywood’s very best offering (more than just as far as adaptations go). Considering the magnitude of production, the logistics and the previous sentiment that such a story was impossible to bring to film (or un-filmable) – they merely proved what is possible with celluloid. [picture credits: stylefavor.com, hdwallpapers.com, walldaz.com] So with such a virtuoso undertaking, lauded by fans and critics alike, why have the Tolkien’s turned their backs? Well, in part its due to the fact that they were largely excluded (by New Line Cinema) from the creative process and could do what they wanted with the films; and Credit to them for not straying from the source material. However, the recent Hobbit trilogy is a greater indictment of the fears the Tolkien’s expressed… since there was only one book – but the studios could not pass up this money spinning opportunity. And then there’s the issue of adding an entire character to the films as well (despite most lauding the decision – it simply highlights deviation, which fuels discontent). By the way, zero of the proceeds of this film trilogy and merchandising go to the Tolkien Estate (in fact they haven’t seen a cent from the LOTR success due to the old and liberal contract signed by Tolkien when he himself was cash strapped). You can read more about it in this interview with Christopher Tolkien, and it’s not sour grapes either. Here’s a man that knows the works like it was his own and who has dedicated his like to completing his father’s work. Hence it’s not surprising that he would be so passionate about the films, but that he would go so far as to label them simply action films. Does this revelation diminish the accomplishment of the films in any way – I don’t think so, but it does add a sad note to the works mainly because its a timeous reminder of the times we live in. As a film critic myself (and a writer), I can only judge the films - and they are a magnificent achievement (but of course film will never be as timeless as the written word). "They eviscerated the book by making it an action movie for young people aged 15 to 25,.. And it seems that The Hobbit will be the same kind of film." That sadness though is not surprising since we are at the business end of things. In a way it illustrates that moment when art and business can coexist to produce something great, but such coexistence will always be temporary, and despite the harmonious amity, sacrifices and compromises need to be made… so not all will be happy, and in this case, its those at the heart of the work in question, those for whom the work means the most. So ultimately if this is Hollywood’s best yet, then it’s come at a cost – a very deep cost – in typical tinsel town fashion. What’s more, and this is strangely often the case, is the vaguely prophetic writings of J.R.R. Tolkien as they apply to his works and his legacy as a whole. Here we are, or corporates at least, nudging and fighting over who receives the material wealth… kind of like the fate of the Ring in his most famous trilogy, and then there’s the case of his family… Who will continue upholding the Tolkien name after Christopher dies – he is an old man now but is the most outspoken about his father's work – and though I’m sure nothing as tragic as his character experience in his stories will befall the Children, or child and grandchildren of Tolkien, the corporate snub and creative cold shoulder is perhaps akin to echoes of those fictional distant tragedies, transformed into those of a different kind, resonating in this money driven world. We may not have the enemies of old, or even of fictional foes like that of Smaug, Morgorth or Sauron, but in the literary sense, in these modern times where good and evil are often hard to distinguish, we are witnessing the battles in the corporate realm, and this is one the Tolkien’s have lost. This is due to the brand that is 'Tolkien' - it is no longer a family name denoting an artist and deeply, vastly imaginative creative genius of an author, it is now a corporate monster - a money making machine, grown beyond humble control and/or opposition. Despite this though, the family retains the moral high ground. It is a position of slight, a faint glimmer of the remaining but eroded artistic moral and ethic - but was this not the same sort of faint glimmer of integrity in a dark world that Frodo faced before his epic quest? The odds are rarely in your favour. Here's the link to the translated Christopher Tolkien interview with Le Monde, via thetolkiensociety.org "My Father's 'Eviscerated' work' - J.R.R. Tolkien's son breaks 40 year silence. You're welcome to share your thoughts on this in the comments... {*** Happy New Year to all, wishing you a blessed 2014. This is going to be a great year! God Bless and thanks for visiting the first post of the new year... Regards Steven. ***} |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
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