This is an official announcement that my book (formerly known as 'The Quiet Days') has since been renamed "Peacekeeper". It took me a while to make the decision, but slowly the new one won me over. I've also decided to name the sequel The Quiet Days, it feels only right that I do, whilst a possible prequel will be named 'The Dark Days'. There is a deeper relevance to these names of course and not just a morbid fascination with "Days", or the days of our lives Lol. For a brief Synopsis, keep reading... (its still the same book, albeit on the cusp of the 4th draft with some back end rewrites.) 'Peacekeeper' blurb: There are always so many questions; some remaining forever unanswered, and those with answers few are willing to face. For Michael, that’s hardly the beginning. In Israel investigating a terrorist threat, during a ceasefire after Operation Cast Lead on Gaza and the West Bank, he faces the questions that most are afraid of. An experienced former soldier, now trained in the art of conflict resolution, he discovers his true place, once again learning the art of survival, even when there’s no escaping a bullet. On borrowed time, in the shadow of Interpol and the UN, through blood and dirt, his greatest enemy in the fight to maintain peace, remains the man in the mirror, taunting him with that one fateful question: how much difference can one good man really make? "For whose cause, if not your own, are you willing to die?" Peacekeeper poem: (this appears at the very beginning of the book, it's also the one and only poem I've written in some years, and I continue to tinker with it...) … a faint whisper stirs, within, growing, piercing the inner walls; Another I, revealing …the fear, of the quiet days, the dark days when I’m dead but still living. My spent blood runs slow, my trembling hands, my frozen eyes in these cold, peaceful times. That fear of the slight of me . . . the far away man in the mirror, dark of the deep of the still waters in those eyes . . . my quiet days, creeping, nearer… [I may write a part 2 of this poem that may/will appear at the end of my book...] "You don’t expect to be shot during a ceasefire, or to see a peacekeeper break protocol, but anything goes in the pursuit to maintain the status quo, even if that means sacrificing a good man." - “The reward of sin is death.” That’s hard. If we say that we have no sin, We deceive ourselves, and there’s no truth in us.”... – Doctor Faustus, Goethe’s Faust. - If you like what you see, please feel free to rate it below, but if you have some constructive criticism or words of support then leave your comments - I always appreciate the feedback. Writing is of course a largely solitary profession and even just feeding some breadcrumbs for readers can elicit some angst on my part. I just hope you're as excited as I am, it's going to be big. Many Blessings Ciao
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Mark Twain, AKA Samuel Langhorne Clemens (1835 - 1910), as Publisher's Weekly once noted: "this manic, profound, daft and provocative mad genius of American culture." Author of the so-called, 'Great American novel': Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (and the one he wrote before that, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer). Hence, he's often called the 'great American novelist'. With that intro, plus the fact that his works and philosophies are enjoying a resurgence in modern literature and even political commentary, it's no stretch to think he'd have tips and relevant opinions on writing itself. Here then is his 18 tips on writing, followed by a short story which I thought appropriate for the sake of this blog - and my writing career. "To succeed in life, you need two things: ignorance and confidence." - - Twain Mark Twain's Rules for Writing 1. A tale shall accomplish something and arrive somewhere. 2. The episodes of a tale shall be necessary parts of the tale, and shall help develop it. 3. The personages in a tale shall be alive, except in the case of corpses, and that always the reader shall be able to tell the corpses from the others. 4. The personages in a tale, both dead and alive, shall exhibit a sufficient excuse for being there. 5. When the personages of a tale deal in conversation, the talk shall sound like human talk, and be talk such as human beings would be likely to talk in the given circumstances, and have a discoverable meaning, also a discoverable purpose, and a show of relevancy, and remain in the neighborhood of the subject in hand, and be interesting to the reader, and help out the tale, and stop when the people cannot think of anything more to say. 6. When the author describes the character of a personage in his tale, the conduct and conversation of that personage shall justify said description. 7. When a personage talks like an illustrated, gilt-edged, tree-calf, hand-tooled, seven-dollar Friendship's Offering in the beginning of a paragraph, he shall not talk like a Negro minstrel at the end of it. 8. Crass stupidities shall not be played upon the reader by either the author or the people in the tale. 9. The personages of a tale shall confine themselves to possibilities and let miracles alone; or, if they venture a miracle, the author must so plausibly set it forth as to make it look possible and reasonable. 10. The author shall make the reader feel a deep interest in the personages of his tale and their fate; and that he shall make the reader love the good people in the tale and hate the bad ones. 11. The characters in tale be so clearly defined that the reader can tell beforehand what each will do in a given emergency. An author should 12. _Say_ what he is proposing to say, not merely come near it. 13. Use the right word, not its second cousin. 14. Eschew surplusage. 15. Not omit necessary details. 16. Avoid slovenliness of form. 17. Use good grammar. 18. Employ a simple, straightforward style. "The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time." My debut As a Literary Person Short Story by Mark Twain In those early days I had already published one little thing ('The Jumping Frog') in an Eastern paper, but I did not consider that that counted. In my view, a person who published things in a mere newspaper could not properly claim recognition as a Literary Person: he must rise away above that; he must appear in a magazine. He would then be a Literary Person; also, he would be famous--right away. These two ambitions were strong upon me. This was in 1866. I prepared my contribution, and then looked around for the best magazine to go up to glory in. I selected the most important one in New York. The contribution was accepted. I signed it 'MARK TWAIN;' for that name had some currency on the Pacific coast, and it was my idea to spread it all over the world, now, at this one jump. The article appeared in the December number, and I sat up a month waiting for the January number; for that one would contain the year's list of contributors, my name would be in it, and I should be famous and could give the banquet I was meditating. I did not give the banquet. I had not written the 'MARK TWAIN' distinctly; it was a fresh name to Eastern printers, and they put it 'Mike Swain' or 'MacSwain,' I do not remember which. At any rate, I was not celebrated and I did not give the banquet. I was a Literary Person, but that was all--a buried one; buried alive. My article was about the burning of the clipper-ship 'Hornet' on the line, May 3, 1866. There were thirty-one men on board at the time, and I was in Honolulu when the fifteen lean and ghostly survivors arrived there after a voyage of forty-three days in an open boat, through the blazing tropics, on ten days' rations of food. A very remarkable trip; but it was conducted by a captain who was a remarkable man, otherwise there would have been no survivors. He was a New Englander of the best sea-going stock of the old capable times--Captain Josiah Mitchell. For the full story, click HERE "Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it." When he died, American newspapers declared (typically arrogant, though somewhat retrospectively prophetic) "The whole world is mourning", The following quote is perhaps his most famous... "Truth is stranger than Fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn't." So, again, this is a little abstract for me.. it was quite interesting dredging this story up to see how the years have treated it, and I must say I'm both intrigued and a little befuddled by my own work (which I'll take as a good thing). Here's part 2 of * Corner of fourth and main (Cont.)... Short Story by Steven Benjamin (2004) I focussed on her, her eyes. Taking a step closer; our moment of eye contact, observed in two minutes, as the world fell silent. If that world could see her eyes, peace would reign. She looked right through me, as if inadvertently mending my future – injecting hope. Her passive stance, yet lucid, compassionate eyes. ‘Why me?’ I wondered as trepidation crept up my spine. Fear, as her gaze consumed me. She gave of her life, to somehow compensate for the lack in mine. Hitherto, I was at the pinnacle of my life – my wife told me: she hoped our child would take after me, especially my passion for success. I was a warrior – the courtroom was my battlefield. The agency had abducted me, robbing me of my sanity, accusing me of betrayal, threatening my family. Two days in an interrogation room… felt like two weeks in a torture chamber. I had no information to give, I was innocent. Awakening, intense light blinding me; it was a hospital room. I emerged from it, my body aching, the noise deafening. I was told to visit the morgue, to certify that my wife and unborn child were dead. The world turned vertical. The pain signalling that I’d collapsed and hit the floor – darkness. Standing at the corner once again, the street empty. She was an adversary of the agency, whom I had worked for, thus I blamed her, God, the law, everyone, for taking my life. The discernment came when this woman unconsciously injected her purity of life into mine. God wasn’t the enemy, or the law. The agency whom I’d been a part of, had erased myself worth. The foe I fought was I, my mind. I was the common denominator, the origin of my own life’s destruction. Self combustion. Walking down the empty street, away from my infamous corner, I accepted that I had to share my world with her. This connection, would progressively emerge as a new paradise for our souls. Meeting her at the end of the block, her smile could make evil men repent. We embraced as mankind reappeared around us. Observing the street now, I realised we were standing on the corner of fourth and main – again… -->> It's the abstract nature of this story that gets to me the most, using an almost poetic narrative to tell the tale which is somewhat illusive. I believe the core storyline was something very basic, but the trauma of events lent something of an intangible quality to the story, leaving you and me wondering; how much of what the protagonist says, actually happened...? NOTE: *** I will be on the road (as in road-tripping) and/or in a different (neighboring) country during the next few weeks, thus don't expect any updates for a little while... God Bless! Stay cool, Stay Calm and Read On. If I do post in the coming weeks,it will probably be pictures from my travels, but I won't make any promises. ***
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..." 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... |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
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