Works by Ben Balazs

I could taste it. So sweet. So damn sweet. "Drink up! Don't you waste a drop!" I kept my head down as I gulped, forcing it to slosh past the roof of my throat. So sweet. Drool began to pool, but the drink never stopped, and the lights, they got brighter, and I wasn't sure what people were crying out to me. Their words drowned in it. "Drink up!" I kept going, unable to breathe, but it didn't matter. It was so sweet. Sweet like ice cream, cake, and chocolate crushed together and blended with a candied apple. It burned, but I could not stop. The people disappeared, the walls were melting, and the music was looping, looping, looping. "Drink up! Don't you waste a drop!" I drank, and I drank, and drank. For a moment, my eyes wide, I choked on it all, and the music stopped, and the yelling came back. So loud! "Make it stop," I begged. And back I went, head bent forward. "Drink up! Don't you waste a drop! Not...

Every week felt the same. The table would be set. The candles would be lit. A few prayers would be uttered, and then we would eat our fill. It was just your run-of-the-mill human social complex, but when I think of the word complex, I expect something a little more... sophisticated. “Oh, this election is great,” someone at the table remarked, “It’s gotta be the best one yet!” “Yeah but it’s not supposed to be television,” someone else interjected between mouthfuls, “‘cause the one in charge is gonna take care of us for 4 fuckin’ years.” A brief quiet ensued, only periodically interrupted by the clashing of silverware. “Well I’m sure it won’t make much of a difference,” the head of the table muttered, “We’re still here. There’s still work to do. Doesn’t matter if this country’s run by a squirrel. Bills need to be paid…” His voice trailed off into his food. That was an interesting thought. Did it really matter? The president is just a fancy title afforded to a pret...