[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.
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What lies behind the unexpected? When a stranger talks, what will you believe? Short fiction by Steven Benjamin “Where are you?” I share almost everything with her. And she’s looking at me. And when she looks at me with vague concern mixed with curiosity, and her eyes change colour ever so slightly, with her question still hanging in the air; I’m then conscious of the burden weighing on my shoulders. That she sees this strain, means it’s affecting me in more ways than I know. It’s time to tell. I just need to soak it in and make sense of it on my own terms. My thoughts were with that of another man. A man I’d met earlier that day. One who would not change my life in any major distinguishable way, but definitely in the way I looked at things - the world around me. And so I told her of my day, watching her as she listened, to gauge how my words were being received. “He didn’t give me his name. He wore a shirt buttoned up to the neck but didn’t wear a tie. I don’t remember how we started chatting, but there we were; middle aged, I think we were both distracted by the same thing. I do remember asking him why he’d come to the country. He said that he was actually on a return visit. He’d come to see a man with whom he had a special relationship. He said that this man he was going to meet had become quite influential since they’d first met; he’d since gained many unwanted followers. That was months ago by the way. I asked him how they did meet – you know, just advancing the conversation. And then he said that this man he was going to meet was in prison, and that some months ago, he had tried to kill him. I thought I miss-heard him when he said that , but then he said it again “Yes. He tried to kill me.” He said it, almost like he couldn’t believe it himself, or couldn’t believe what he was saying. Anyway. He said this man had changed quite dramatically since they’d last seen each other in court. I asked what made him change, and this man said that he thought the man found God. I asked if he believed him, and he looked at me, straight in the eyes, and said yes. He was nodding when he said that, his voice a little cracked. I asked what made him believe him. And he said that he didn’t know, but that it felt… natural. He said that little would change if their roles were reversed. I don’t know why I asked this, but for some reason I did; I asked him how the man tried to kill him. He looked at me and shook his head; even half smiled. And then he said he was a tourist, actually no, he was working but had taken some time off to roam, and he was in the wrong part of town, trying to do something stupid and illegal. He said this man tried to chop his head off, with a long blade, like a machete.” “What?” “That’s what I said. He nodded to me. Said he almost succeeded. I didn’t understand, or maybe I didn’t completely believe it. We sat there, not talking for a while, just letting his words hang in the air. And then he looks at me again. It feels awkward, you know. His eyes a bit like glass. So he reaches up and undoes his shirt's top button and pulls his collar clear of his neck. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. It was a half inch thick scar running across his neck. I couldn’t see where it started or where it stopped. But it cut across his windpipe, and several big veins. He touched it gently with his fingertips. It’s like he was making sure it was still there. And then he nodded and buttoned up again. I thought I was imagining it. I was blinking trying to freeze it in my memory. He said that he wasn’t the first person to be under that blade. But he was quite certain that he was the first, and so far the only person, to get up afterwards, after it had come down. It took some weeks mind you, to get enough strength back just to stand, he said, but still. I asked him how, how he was still alive. He said he didn’t know, but that what he believed, is not what everyone else would believe. He then asked me something. He asked: ‘Does death happen to us? Can death happen? I mean its only the absence of life. So by rights, life happens, death is just what we call it when life is no longer there... absent. When life stops.’ “’All I know is this’ he told me, ‘death was supposed to come. But here I am, sitting beside you.’ He says the man who tried to kill him looked like a ghost when he eventually saw him again, still alive. He said the man started screaming, acting all mad, before he collapsed in shock, and started weeping.” I was thinking about all this when my wife asked me another question. “Do you think he was telling the truth?” “I know it sounds naïve, but there was no reason for him to lie to me. At the very least it is true that it is a story. But whatever… I believed him when he told it to me” And then there’s that scar. So there I was thinking; sitting, and thinking. Mostly I was just thinking about what to think. Was this Pandora holding my hand and smacking me in the face? – sounds like something my Dad would say. Like I said; it didn’t shake up my life in any visible way, but it did something to my mind. Like you’ve spent a lifetime building something with small bricks, one at a time, and here someone comes and shifts something out of place. Now everything looks the same, but it isn’t, you know it isn’t, but you’re not sure where that missing piece is, or how it will affect everything else, or how it’s all still standing. All I know is; it’s very simple, you see, it’s the way he said it. Something was supposed to happen, something expected, something inevitable even… but it didn’t. So. Now... tell me, what happens? I’ll ask you what I asked my wife; what happens, when something that’s supposed to be inevitable, that’s supposed to occur… doesn’t *** {A story in development - for writers, every story is in development, until they decide to abandon it... I haven't quite abandoned this one just yet. At the moment, its just a vent for an idea that's still brewing.} “Do me a favour.” It read. She set the paper down. She wasn’t quite ready for it. She turned off the TV, she saw enough of herself in editing. She strode out the kitchen and up the steps, then down the short corridor to one of the two upstairs rooms… her room. Or at least it used to be. She sat down on the bare single mattress, and then started reading again. “Look out the window at the sky. Whether nightly stars, clear blue, or laden clouds… curl your knees to your chest, and keep looking. Now look at yourself. Look at your legs, your hands, your feet… what do you see?” She glanced out the window. Then around the room and at the closed door, as if expecting someone to walk in even though the house was empty. She looked at herself, just as she’d read, running her hands over her legs and feet, then staring at the palms of her hands. “What do you see?” she read it again. “It’s you. Little you in a big world. I did that too you know. I thought to myself: how small I am. How small I am that you’d think of me. We are not giants in this world… although our spirits may be.” “I saw you walking up the lane at the back, outside. I also liked to do that. It’s because of that lane and the field that I bought the house. Even when it’s dry and brown in summer, I still go. There was a fire once, burnt half the hillside. Can’t remember how we put it out… All I remember is that people came out of nowhere to help. When they left, and I was standing on the stoop, sweating, tired, I remember thinking: ‘that wasn’t boring’. “I danced upstairs, alone, with no music, maybe even in your room. I was drinking so I don’t remember what room… probably wasn’t such a good idea – could’ve fallen down the stairs. I remember that I danced because my feet made a loud noise on the wooden floor boards. I always wanted to do it, somehow that time it just felt right. And so I tap danced; I think I was laughing as well, but I don’t know why, it wasn’t a normal laugh. “I write this to explain myself. You were younger, and I could’ve told you then but these things need time to, unravel. We were broken, both of us. I could not allow your mother’s death to intercept or delay your future. This place has taught me, that everything passes. I told you, and I’m sure you noted how small we are. Remember our trips to the beach. Remember how we watched the waves, how we fell asleep. And when we left the tide had claimed our footprints. There we saw, we saw something that has been for many years, centuries, so our visit to that shore was like our visit to this life… In my years I have seen what time does to the human body. I’ve seen how nature will reclaim everything – but we are not our bodies – we are simply driving them – for a short while. So, do not despair, for they are not meant to last. I write this also, to apologise. There is something I need to apologise for, and although I cannot for the life of me put my finger on it, I can sense its presence – that vague guilt of something I did or didn’t do. I am aware of the vacancies within our little tapestry of family life, but as you know, I’ve never been a good seamstress.” She chuckled to herself, remembering a time he’d called the ladder in her stockings ‘steps’. “I love you. I agreed to you leaving so forcefully because I wanted you out of the shadow that this house was in back then. Those are probably the times when people should remain close, but sometimes proximity has little bearing on the emotions. Sometimes you can live with someone, but also just pass them by day by day. It made the time we did spend together that much more precious. Thank you for not questioning my odd ways. I did not plan it this way; I too was once again a student… “I leave this house to you, and everything I own. You are strong woman, and I am a proud father.” She paused before reading the last line. “Be without hindrance.” She looked at the paper in her hands. Then she thought of that time when she looked at the house as they drove away, watching it grow smaller through the car window. She thought of the sum of material things which constituted her ‘life’, piled into that car. She thought of the goodbye with her father. Holding him, pressing the side of her face against his chest, her eyes closed, his hand on her head. She could not remember breaking the hug… in her memory, it never ended, even though she remembered him driving away in the old car, waving, and then looking at her in the rear view mirror. That picture of him through the back windscreen sat in her memory, just the back of his head over the headrest, through the window. She hugged her legs to her chest, resting her head on her knees, she closed her eyes. It wasn’t long after when she lay down, pulling a blanket over her. The house had always felt big, too big for the just the three of them, or the two of them... It didn’t feel that way now. The single bed upon which she lay, felt small and cramped. It had been years since she’d heard the creak of these bed springs. Her father seemed to see this place as a kind of unwanted anchor for her, a place that would hold her back. But lying there, with her eyes closed, she felt tethered for the first time in years. And it was a good feeling. He would've wanted her to sell it, but for her, this was her one secret place, one she needed, considering all her days chasing the truth. She took comfort in knowing that she knew how to hide from time to time. They say the truth will set you free, but for her, all the truth the world offered - she needed this escape, this truth. This was real. it may be a largely empty house, but her memories were not. [picture credits: digitalcameraworld.com-Gianluca Bennati, aso-geopark.jp, prettylittlenest.com] Shining Lights and Smoke and Mirrors - Perhaps when the color came, along with the dollar signs, and the misplaced value of things… I was looking at old black and whites of Hollywood stars of yesteryear, from candids to set photos – it looked like, and was, an entire world away. Was it that the advent of color contributed to the gradual fading away of that world? Before, seeing images and films was like seeing something several degrees removed from reality. We see things in colour of course, so the B&W aspect was reserved for the stars (apart from your family photo albums – but even then, those were records of ‘special’ moments and occasions) – Hollywood was a special occasion unto itself – for all the rest of the us, it may as well have been permanently in Black and White – the world of celluloid existed within a special moment - they were those characters. (Allowing a moment for a special nod to that equally marvelous Technicolor decades of the 60’s and early 70’s) Nowadays, we look for the broken, the incomplete hero, the tormented soul, the dirt behind the velvet curtain, the drugs in the drawer, the running mascara… it’s all about the real (and the advent of reality TV), when celebrities are portrayed as just people, as they always have been, flawed. Of course Hollywood has long been known as the place of lights and shattered dreams, but that’s not why I wrote this. I want to know if there’s a suitable compromise. At best we’re treated to rare occurrences where a modern film can transcend era’s to offer something that would succeed anywhere and still hold true to that sense of mystery, prestige and allure that was the bread and butter of ‘old Hollywood’. We can talk about art and life, integrity and business, and how one side of the industry needs the other to survive, and how the audience will watch what they’re given, or whatever the hype machine spews out… the talk of blockbuster tent-pole productions and that Hollywood is no longer so much a community as it once was, the exclusive hallowed league it once was (or was thought to be) – can that element ever be replicated? In today’s tinsel industry, money is the currency, where talent once was (or at the very least it was more of a narrower contest). We’re desensitized, to the extent that now people seem to want the wool to be pulled back over their eyes, because gritty realism just isn’t real enough, because once Hollywood finds a formula (and makes it a cliché), it will grind it out till every morsel is had. It’s the ‘golden woman’ – that complex that promises everything and brings you so far, but still only ‘so far’, always keeping that last little something out of your reach, because as an audience, we can never be satisfied. I am in a position to look upon those old images with nostalgia because I have the benefit of hindsight – looking at a past I was never a part of and can never be… so it will always seem that much more romantic and appealing, or was it just that appealing? Of course it could’ve been made to look so because the world was a different place, with World Wars, dark and unknown patches remained in the world, no internet… and the media was a different animal too, sort of… but the stars still carried a natural air of class and whimsy though. So, with surrounds made up mostly of dark things, the glamour, appeal and shine of that old-school tinsel, was made that much more brighter, stars glinting – because the world wanted the mystery, because everyday reality was often not such a great dwelling place. Shining lights and Smoke and mirrors – it’s what the world needed back then… and maybe, probably, it’s what the industry- the world – needs right now, again, even if we ignore the dust on the lights, the fire causing the smoke, and the cracks in the old mirrors. "I'm not interested in money, I just want to be wonderful." - Marilyn Monroe Perhaps its wishful thinking in hoping we can get some of that essence back, considering that the central totem to what made ‘old Hollywood’ so endearing, was the warped innocence of those stars, themselves struggling to come to terms with fame, shoved into the limelight and experiencing the two edged sword of a thing called celebrity - the virgin superstar. You’re not a mega star, until the people make you one. I suppose we'll always hope, and we'll always have... Such things were not meant to last,perhaps, for if they did, we would not hold them in such high regard - (one cannot have caviar, everyday, forever...) *** {article/letter/retrospective by Steven Benjamin... Images from easyart.com, unless otherwise stated} 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 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..." |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
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