Works by Ben Balazs

Every day on this bus, I see life, death, and pizza delivery cars. I see those who are lame, those who are able, and those who don't care. I see headphones, wallets, and greedy hands. I see street signs, pedestrians, and road kill. People say that a "ride of a lifetime" is a title best given to a new roller coaster, but they have not ridden the bus. The bus is quite literally a lifetime in transit - a constant ebb and flow of people who have differing opinions on who should be president. There are people who work mornings, evenings, and weekends. Some have makeup, some have trash, some have wheelchairs, and many have cell phones. One bus ride is one trip through the lives of dozens of people, most of whom you will never know personally, but some of which you will be inclined to remember for a very long time. On this bus you will meet the homeless, the drug-abusive, and the newly promoted. I see the sweat-wearers, the white-collars, and the bike-riders....

I was with my family. Beside me was a somewhat small luggage bag, and I had a backpack slung over my shoulder. I began hugging and kissing my parents and sister. They were saying bye to me, with eager smiles on their faces, anticipating great things from my journey. I had no idea where I was going but they had such a determined joy about them that I couldn’t help but feel certain anyway. I slowly wandered off into the packed terminal where I would await my flight. My family kept waving at me, remaining at the entrance until I was out of sight. A prompter screen above where I sat was dotted with red lines along the flight numbers. It turned out that my flight was being delayed. I would have to wait several hours before my next plane could arrive. After the first hour I decided to call the family and let them know. It was my sister I spoke with. “Yeah, it’s no big deal… I’m sure it’ll be fixed soon… Well it sucks that I have to sit here, but whatever...I’ll be fine… Just tell mom not to ...

14 years it's been. So long since homemade jam and dew-lit grass. So long since the scent of whiskey and dry blood. So long since childhood friends and big apple trees. The house has withered, A flower in a graveyard of dirt and overgrown weeds. Its lips are dry and cracked, Paint peeling from the stench of rotting wood. Its eyes are hollowed and bent, Glass shattered and refracting the light of the gray sky. Abandoned. Where I used to laugh, to cry, to yell. Where my mother held me after a cold bath. Where my father broke my favorite toy. Time was no friend of this ashen corpse. I stepped onto the naked porch, Stripped of the once lush, white floor-boards. The posts could hardly bear the weight. The dead weight of a dead place. I touched the decay-infested walls, Tracing my fingers along the splintered, weak frame. The front door was battered, Tired of locking out the world. My suit and dress shoes made awkward contrast, An angel in the aftermath of wa...