Works by Ben Balazs

It wasn't a matter of what changed. It was more along the lines of who I left behind. Seeming more like a phantom in the distance, shrouded in a mist of sweet smelling memories. Not as much a part of me as it was another ‘me’. Not as far away as past but far enough to look a stranger. Not that I'd look back, or forward it seems, since a face as calm and collected as that would bring me back to tears. “For shame,” some did say, “You poor thing. You'll never be the same.” But I am the same. Or perhaps a clone, better described as a replica with similar arms and legs and curvature and teeth and eyes. A perfect model, hollow within, just in case it tried to come alive. Although at times it feels to me that I ought to forget I had a name, and take on the role of the reanimated corpse, a monster who prowls and roams with little to call his own. No name for me, no name for her. We were just figurines bent this way and that, warped into awkward dimensions that lef...

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...