Works by Ben Balazs

This sign was across the street from a local church.

The routine remained rote. Boxes were lined up in a somewhat docile arrangement, and their lids were popped open. As the synthetic odor of bubblewrap sizzled in the air, the people became drawn to them. They were drawn like flies to a blue bulb that burned incessantly. Their numbers multiplied and eventually they consumed the pathways and roads, congesting them with phlegm and clean clothing.  The people looked upon the boxes and saw their futures, their wants, and even their fears. Each one was uniquely different, shining with many hues and shades, varying in size and dimension, bending this way and that, yet they were all boxes. They were all made of the same cheap material.  The people didn't pay attention to that. They were too busy waiting for the sun to rise, perky and stretching away the anxious night prior. Almost reflexively, they scuttled into their holes, each to their own, each being sucked up and swallowed into those thin bowels. A moment of reprieve was met b...

"BE" The warning reads, "STAY BEHIND THE YELLOW LINE"

"Please stand clear. The doors are closing." That's how every train ride started. Common folk traveling to common places alone, but together. People shuffled into compact seats with ugly patterns stapled onto them, and they pulled out whatever distraction was most suitable: books, phones, papers, toys if they were young. One could almost call train rides a form of meditation. All the passengers make it their goal to become invisible, silent, forgetful of the other invisibles sitting next to them. Every once in a while people stood out, but even if that happened it was treated as an unacknowledged anomaly.  There was one particular homeless man who sat in the seat across from me on one of these trains. He looked like any stereotypical bum, disheveled and lugging a random assortment of objects behind him. He had a cellphone in his hand that didn't seem too old to make him outdated, nor too new to make him seem like a hypocrite. Every few minutes or so, he would rais...

The news is news to me. As best described as pixels of tears and broken bones, Anchors hold with voices gold, And not much more is seen or heard, But little is known of those involved except that they do suffer. That they must hold their kin by arms, by legs, by fingers, by blood, No shame can be described as that which cannot be solved. That which is missing pieces, An equation with no solution, A world of storytelling and unseen resolution. I see not much by way of pain, For I live here, I’m far away. "I wasn't there," I often say. It's not my core, it's not my life. I do not witness fear by eye. I do not fear at all. Know it I do not, The taste of blood running, The smell of burning rubber and tendons, I do not catch the wanting scent of death or hear the sound of sirens. No make or model or vision of mind, Could recreate what one can find, When met with horror and grief and loss, And yet it’s found with double clicks, And yet it’s s...

Spring cleaning never gets easy. Sometimes you find that, year by year, one accumulates an impressionable amount of waste. This year was no different than the rest. In my hands was a trash bag, full and hefty with dusty displeasure. Even so, I felt the need to double-check the contents, otherwise I wouldn't be able to sleep at night knowing I might've thrown out an antique. The first object I found was a pair of sunglasses. I had gifted them to an ex-girlfriend a while back. She always wore shades, so I figured they were an appropriate present. Only when she broke up with me did she explain that wearing them was the best way to avoid eye contact with me. Beneath the glasses was a lead pencil, snapped in two. I had gotten into an argument with my father about how I would make a living. "You're 19 now," he'd say, "Time to get off your ass." I got so infuriated with him for not understanding and I crushed this pencil in between my fingers. He left i...

The sky was devoid of clouds, allowing the sunlight from above to pulsate casually onto the stale earth below. Caught in this unfortunate heatwave was a young man. He wandered throughout the desert expanse aimlessly, seeming to have no clue as to his whereabouts. His blue jeans contrasted well with the pale dirt that huddled around his feet, making him a beacon of color in a colorless landscape.  Eventually the man came upon a large rock face that stood many meters high. At its base were numerous stone crags - a somewhat intimidating installment of nature. He pressed forward until he reached the wall-like structure, finding sweet sanctuary under its shade. The man surmised that he would be there a while, trying to regain his energy, and found that he was also quite parched. He smoothed his chapped lips with the tips of his equally dry fingers. The man searched around the base of the rock, trying to find an entry or means of passage beyond its border.  After wondering aroun...