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. Short: The Blood trail - {non fiction} - by Steven Benjamin - the trail of blood ran from the dungeons, starting as several sporadic drops, And continued in spots and marks, to the court... only noticeable if your were looking for it. From there down the alleyway Up the narrow street and into the courtyard. Here it was no longer a few drops, It was a pool of blood staining the stone slabs With spatter on the stone walls and marble columns of the fortress, on the table and chairs. The bloodied footprints had trampled the stone slabs red The blood that led away from the courtyard was more of a smear than a trail, where legs had been dragged until he found his feet. More bloodied footsteps, staggered at first, downhill, where he stumbled. And still the blood trickled like a steadily leaking tap. It kept going still, Down the road - a bloodied hand print on a wall at the gates - and out of town to the barren west side. The dark red soaked the stone steps And thence up the gravel track winding the short way to the top of the hill called skull. At the top the blood drops had become patched and smears once more again where bloodied flesh met the earth. There was a squared hole in the ground, for a wooden beam. the ground around the hole was stained. Here was where the bloody trail ended, In a jagged dark pool around this hole. The wooden beam that had stood in that hole was stained too, where the red had streamed down. The streaming blood soaked the wooden post for six hours. For six hours the man hung there… For six hours he hung nailed to that post. an innocent man *** [Image credits: jerusalem-insiders-guide.com, artflakes.com] - A factional short story - She sat as she usually did at the beginning of one of her more philosophical lectures, with her one thigh resting on the edge of her desk. When she brushed her short dark hair behind her ears, tucking the strands neatly into the arms of her slim spectacles, as she did now, it somehow lured onlookers, in this instance, her students, to sit forward in anticipation. It was her way of readying herself, and us, for what was to come. She interlocked her fingers in her lap and with a vaguely shaky voice, she began. “How hard is it, to believe in the invisible… how hard have we tested our perception of invisibility? An ‘invisible God’, for instance? Why, why is he invisible in the first place? And is the concept of invisibility even believable, I mean, it’s been the subject of many art pieces - films, scientists have actually been working on an actual ‘invisibility cloak’. But can there be any truth to this concept, anything more than fiction? Is it yet another fruitless pursuit of some impossible goal?” She turned her gaze to the open window now. “The more we know, the more we clutter ourselves. Travel to a rural town, experience a slower paced life and it will begin to lend some appreciation, not only for our creature comforts, but also to how simple life can be, or once was. I’ve met people whose only concern, quite literally, amounted to “when was the rain coming?” – that was and still is their main cause of stress. I’ve met farmers who’ve prayed for rain… I started in this manner because I want you to take a mental step back for a moment and think about life differently, to clear the clutter of bills, work, study, even family, from your plate, and let’s just think about life… the roots of it. When it comes down to the essentials, it becomes a matter of perception, because your life is less cluttered, you get to focus on the real things. I think of rural dusty towns because on such outskirts you become most aware of life in general.” She said her two fists together, “You’re conscious of it all the more, and just like that your perspective changes because quite literally, you’re relying more of your five senses to interact with your surroundings. City life often involves things or people jumping out at you, asking for your attention, making a noise, shrouding your vision… assaulting your senses. In remote places, that is removed, and you’re suddenly aware of the sound of your own footsteps, natural smells and aromas of nature, the cleaner air, being able to see to the untouched distance, and after a while you’re perhaps aware of the sound of your own breathing, because it is the only sound punctuating the air. You become fully aware of your own existence because now that everything, family, friends, TV, wifi, noise, is all gone and nothing is begging for your attention, everything around you just is. So your own existence… it feels, strangely “close” because now your senses are required to fetch stimuli from around you." She grabbed fists of air. "What does this have to do with God and invisibility? It’s simple; it’s how we perceive life. How we see this material world before us. Our senses, are our gateway to this world, allowing us to experience it. What we sense, governs what we determine to be invisible or not. The ancient peoples and rural cultures all had a sense of the spiritual, yet city life has diminished that sense by simply droning it out. We’ve become desensitized on a spiritual level. Think about this a moment: Dogs have more powerful olfactory sensors, said to be 1000 times more powerful than ours. So their sense of smell is richer, and broader, detecting odours that we can’t. They’re able to hear certain frequencies that we cannot. Crustaceans, in particular, the Mantis Shrimp, has one of the most elaborate visual systems ever discovered. They’re considered to have the most complex eyes of the animal kingdom. Some species possess 16 different photoreceptor types, of which 12 are for analysing colour. What does this mean? Well we only have 4 visual pigments of which 3 are used for colour perception. The rainbow stems from 3 colours. What this means is that they not only possess a better visual spectrum than we do, but it’s even better than our best technology can offer. It easily outperforms Blu-Ray optical technology. Mantis Shrimps can perceive more colours than we can. Does this mean there are more colours than we know? It makes sense if there are, since most of the light spectrum is not visible to us. What’s certain is that they perceive more than us, including ultraviolet light, and even polarization vision. What is clear to me is that even by studying the material world there’s a whole lot more than meets the eye… or ears and nose - not forgetting taste. So already we know, or are aware of the unknown… sorry to use this once laughed at idiom. But this is the known unknown… So by considering the invisibility of God, specifically addressing people who seem sure that there is no God, or spiritual/supernatural realm, we can already ascertain that even within our humble finite existence, we cannot see all there is to see, or hear all there is to hear… and this is about what we know exists out there. To us, they are known invisible entities. There are definite elements that exist outside our realm of perception. Now, spare another thought for the invisible world of . . . your mind.” Her head cocked to one side, “Wait what? – Yes,” She nodded, looking at our faces, “everything happening inside your mind, your thoughts, your imagination and your dreams. ALL this takes place outside, or apart from the natural material world, and are, by their nature, invisible to others. They are intangible. So already we’ve established 'perceivable' unknowns or invisibilities, and thence indefinable invisibilities. Again, these are invisible elements we know exist. Now think about this: If you’re in an accident, you may lose limbs, have an organ transplant, become paralyzed…" She waited, "the point is, that despite these things, you would still remain who you are, in mind, your personality… the essential things that make you, YOU. And guess what, it’s those invisible things that make us different. I’ve seen a couple of medical cases where patients lost portions of their brain, and though their lives were adversely affected, they still remain essentially who they are as people. So what makes us who we are? This is the existential question, because even through all that I’ve mentioned, there’s still more to us. A relative of mine recently suffered a stroke which has drastically impaired her speech. As a result, she could only enunciate two words: 'Willy boy' – this incidentally is what she used to call her now deceased husband. So of all the words in the two languages that she was able to speak, somehow her brain and mouth 'chose' those words as their default setting as she now learns how to speak again. Is this due to habit, muscle memory, or Love, or all of the above? Either way, its food for thought. We are already more than what we can perceive. Is believing in an “invisible God” really that hard? Ask yourself this: Is your idea of God too ‘provincial’? – The Bible is, well, its like a Vladimir Nabokov quote – ‘not like one wave... and to experience it does not mean you’ve grasped the whole sea. To truly understand it, would mean getting in the boat, going out to open waters until you can’t see land anymore. You then experience the waves that the sea can muster, and in the midst of it, find out what God’s Grace is really about… but still, you would be in the dark as to the teeming life beneath the surface, and the endless undercurrents... Many want to think of God as a simple timekeeper, who wound the universe’s clock, and then let it tick on,” she wafted her hand, “leaving it be, to run its course. But no, when we were created, the first of us, we were created holy, and righteous to stand in God’s presence – it was only Good. So what is Holy? – It means to belong to, or derived from, or associated with - a divine power. Something sacred. Regarded with veneration or specificity. Something reverent. But we disobeyed God, and thence removed ourselves from holiness, from God’s presence, as we descended into sin. And what is Sin? - A condition of estrangement from God, resulting from such disobedience. Romans 14:23 “… and whatever is not from faith is sin” – thus we are born into it, because we are born separated from God – we’re on opposing sides. But this creator of the universe, who sits on his throne in heaven, then stepped off that throne, to be born of a woman, and live amongst us, knowing full well what would happen. He knew he would be killed. But God planned this since our fall in Genesis 3. He planned it perfectly. He chose to dwell among us, to demonstrate his love… and true love is sacrificial – caring not for oneself, but for others. And Sacrifice? - A Relinquishment of something at less than its presumed value. === Imagine you were sentenced to death for a crime you were guilty of - which we all are, in this life - and someone came, and they said they loved you… even though we did not deserve the love, and they said they would take your place,to be executed in your stead. THIS is the type of love God has for us. God didn’t just choose to die, he chose to be beaten, tortured, laid bare and humiliated… reduced to a bleeding chunk of ripped flesh nailed to a wooden cross. - When this was prophesied in the Old Testament, this method of death, and punishment, hadn’t even been invented yet. God not only humbled himself, but Jesus subjected himself to hours of pain for our sake. It would be simple for God to show up and exercise his power, much like the miracles he performed throughout the Bible, with the same universe-creating power, making it obvious to us that he is the one true God, the almighty, brandishing his majesty in a visual feast of splendour and authority, essentially asserting that man choose to follow him, or choose death. But instead, God chose death first, overcame it, and now offers his hand gently, to follow him. God does want obedience, yes, like a father wants from his child, but he doesn’t want to enslave us, or to force us. He cannot make us Love him, because that is not true love. Read the Book properly, and you’ll find that it is in fact a love story, with a hero, fighting for us. The facts are that historians are unanimous. There was a man named Jesus, and he lived, and died, under the rule of Pontias Pilate. The bone of contention is whether or not he rose again. If he did not, then the entire Christian faith is based on a lie. In fact it would then mean that Jesus lied, since he said he would rise again, as it is written in Mark 10:34, Luke 9:22 and Matt 16:21. In fact, the majority of sceptics who studied history and the Bible, to search for evidence, came out of it a Christian. It could be claimed that the ones who were not converted, were never sceptics to begin with, but were rather cynics who presented no evidence to back up their claims that the Bible Story is false. Bertrand Russell admits his take on Jesus was, and I quote 'not concerned with historical facts'. Even outspoken critic Friedrich Nietzsche referred to Jesus as 'the only one true Christian' – whilst the Hindu religious leader Dayanand Saraswati made the wildly ridiculous claim that Jesus is 'a hot-tempered person destitute of knowledge and who behaved like a wild savage' – which he said without producing any evidence. So what we have, is historical evidence, and specifically a first generation of martyrs, who either saw what they claimed to see, or they were lying. All of them could choose to end their suffering, instead they chose to die for their belief. Understand… this is not one man’s testimony, this is the core testimony of Twelve men. Or shall I say thirteen, for after Judas Iscariot killed himself, the Apostles elected Matthias to replace him, and thence there was Apostle Paul. Both of these men died for their faith. So there was twelve apostles who died for their testimony of Jesus. Only Apostle John lived to be an old man, though he endured torture and beatings in his life time. Thus they fulfill Revelations 21:14, where John writes about the names of the Twelve on the twelve foundations of the New Jerusalem. So what does all this have to do with an Invisible God? Simple. These are the signs, the evidence of things unseen. The 'knowns'. Are we to suppose that what we see with our human eyes are all that is there? Let us think about that for a moment. We are claiming that all that our human eyes can see, is the extent of existence. And we do not even know how the human eye works. That is to say we don’t even fully understand the mechanism that allows us to perceive the world around us, and yet we have the audacity to claim “This is all there is”. Primitive men, or people of older times, in rural places, believed in a spiritual realm. It was part of them. Yet modern man has sought to eliminate this aspect of life. Secularism has sought it educate spirituality out of us, to show that it was simply a reflection of the primal uneducated thought patterns. This of course makes the false assumption that you cannot have both spirituality and intellect. And yet, intellects have failed to tear down the Bible. Whether you are an intellect or a simple man, the battle is always in the mind. This is why it is written in Luke 24:45 – “Then he opened their minds so they could understand the scriptures. Our physical bodies are visible, yet that which comprises who we really are, our mannerisms, character, personality and thought patterns… these are all invisible. We live finite lives, yet what we are made of, mentally and spiritually, is not finite. Stepping aside from Jesus Christ for a moment, we can reason that God being 'invisible' as we understand invisibility, is simply because our natural finite human eyes cannot perceive something as vast as a creator of the entire universe. Something so immense cannot fit into this world. Yet he ‘inserted’ himself into his creation a number of times in subtle ways. Moses beheld a burning bush, and as a result he had to wear a veil because his face was glowing due to the encounter he had. Every heavenly encounter in the Bible comes with the words 'DO NOT BE AFRAID'. Because we, as humans, have three principle fears," she held up three fingers which she lowered one at a time as she listed them "the unknown; that which we cannot understand; and lastly, the truth. Spirituality, the supernatural... ticks off all three. ... To believe in God, you need to have an open mind. Class dismissed.” [Image credits: fotocommunity.com, pol-ubeda on flickr.com, imgkid.com]
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?” 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} [For Doreen Benjamin] What was I doing? I was cleaning the microwave tray from excess milk. Why? Well, because the milk boiled over. But I wasn’t crying; no one was. At least they weren’t anymore. But let me explain; You see, this spilled milk was over two weeks in the making. It was yet another turn in a series of unfortunate events which led me to that moment of taking that simple step, with my sister casually looking on opening the little door to the microwave, peering in, and then throwing my head back to look to the heavens in a proverbial “OHHH Jesus Please… (take the wheel)” Which prompted my sister to abandoned me after her initial sharing in the groan of frustration. But why two weeks? The fact is that this spilled milk could be traced back and blamed solely on one thing, and one thing alone… Pneumonia. Mm hm. That foulness that collects on the lungs and that is of no benefit to the world or humankind whatsoever. This ‘P’ word is to blame for my moment of woe. But allow me to divulge a titbit of backstory. Had my Grandmother not contracted Pneumonia, I, or any of my other family members, would not have been at my Uncle’s flat to begin with to aid in the matriarch’s recovery, after she’d spent a tiresome long-weekend in hospital. Not a slight thing by any means; waking up and not knowing where you are with no one familiar around; this coming after a hazy and delirious few days, involving a backache inducing overnight vigil (by said Uncle) and a somewhat unconscious ride in an ambulance. So there I was, making a round of coffee for several of us. My uncle meanwhile, had stolen himself away from ironing some of his Sunday best shirts, and was now attempting to turn on the geyser. We wanted to give Granny a relaxing bath earlier, but my uncle’s attempt to reprogram the geyser’s timer had only succeeded in making it fail to come on at all. So there he stood, behind me in the kitchen, leaning precariously on a small wooden stool to reach the geyser’s control panel. Then he asks me, over his shoulder, to run inside and switch off the iron. And so I did. Low and behold the iron was there in the back room, huffing and puffing away like it was dying of thirst. And so, that jog to the room, unplugging the iron, and making the return journey had cost me a minute, and one could not pass by Gran’s room without checking in (costing me several more precious seconds). The consequences of which were evident at the opening of the microwave. SO, you see, had Pneumonia not struck down my Gran, she would not be recovering at my Uncle’s place, he would not have been stretching to reach the control panel (during a session of earnest ironing) and I would not have been there to make some cups of coffee that required milk at an above-than-ambient temperature… Hence, no milk would’ve spilled. As it is, or was, many prayers were said before the milk boiled over, and many since (from around the globe mind you). The old Lady (I shan’t reveal her age… ladies take issue with these sort of things) is on the mend, stubborn as always, craving ice cream and Ginger beer whilst smuggling sugar replacement sachets for her afternoon tea. Although it must be said she was preparing herself for her date with Jesus whilst curled up on a gurney a week prior (I would be too mind you), but she has not sung her last song just yet… and she does love to sing. Thanks to Jesus for taking the wheel, healing a loved old lady… a family can draw nearer. And so, Pneumonia and spilled milk aside, there are some deep positives to this tale: beauty that runs deeper than tired legs, battered lungs and a tray of medication . . . but runs through heart and mind and soul, witnessed in moments and memories - a soothing bath, combing of hair, or sharing a warm meal at a table a half a century old. An old lady fell And a family rallied around her, to share in this fragile and mysterious thing we cling onto, holding on so dearly, when its most flagrant. --- God Bless you all. |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
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