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 ***
0 Comments
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. The Bible vs the Blockbuster. Do we really know the story of Noah? Or what do we think we know; have we been reading the Bible correctly? For those still curious, here’s a look at what the Bible actually says about the man from the Bible called Noah, famous for the Ark and the Great flood. Hollywood is infamous for their inaccurate adaptations of any and all stories/books/plays etc, so there was no surprise when Darren Aronofsky’s film started rumblings of controversy – though to be honest, there hasn’t been that much really, not as much as there could’ve been. Perhaps my Review on Inthekan lends some light as to why, but when you compare this to the reception of Mel Gibson’s bloodied Passion of the Christ which was wildly successful because it went further than all others before it in its graphic depiction of the crucifixion, its reception has been almost tame. It begs the question of, do we really know the real story of the Bible, because there are a number of details to this story that even Christians are divided on. What's certain though, is that if you believe this story to be true, one must acknowledge the supernatural elements; in fact, this Bible story is driven by the supernatural. But alas you can’t please everyone, whilst you can piss off very many. This though is an objective look (as objective as I – a Christian – can be). Needless to say it would of course help if you’ve seen the film – and I would recommend it, even if all it does is spark a conversation. Here then is a rendition of events delivered by noted Pastor Joseph Prince - he presents the Real story of Noah as its portrayed in the Bible - but he tells it in a way I, or probably you, have never heard it before. He paints a picture that you've probably never heard in Sunday school... and yes, it would make for a cool but disturbing movie. Interesting further reading: - FACTS on Noah's Ark and the Flood - (this alludes to some interesting notes on the design of the Ark) - Thinking Outside the Box - Explorers claim to have found Noah's Ark - 101 Reasons why Noah's story doesn't float (for a non believer Dr. Justin Long's take on things) Relevant links from this site: - Bible Book Review {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] 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 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." |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
WRITING
|