New Short Story: “Chang’e”

by Benedict Smith

Too many stories begin with the protagonist waking up, Emily thought, as she got out of bed. It made sense, beginning with the beginning of a day. But it was overdone. Lazy. She fingered the glop out of her eyes and yawned, tripping over the familiar bundle of boxes bags boots and bottles, as well as other less alliterative clutter. Then, peeping herself in the mirror, hunchbacked and carbuncular, almost weeping, and prey to herself, she prayed to herself. You can do this. The “this” meant leaving her little student flat and braving the world. For Emily, the thought of going outside felt like leaving the womb, in that she would almost certainly come to regret it. First, the medicine cabinet.

She figured she should go to her lectures. Fresh air would do her good. Ha. Fresh smog. And global warming worsened by the day. If we didn’t do something soon, the seas would dry out into salt. Our whole planet would be salt. Alien life forms would travel light-years across the galaxy just to flavour their chips. Yes, Emily thought, that would be humanity’s final legacy - raising extraterrestrial blood pressure.

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Benedict Smith

Benedict Smith

Questions and Answers

1. Is love just made of little fictions?

2. If there were a god, would you sock him in the mouth?

3. Is there any dignity for dust like us?

4. And most importantly, what should we have to drink?

- Benedict Smith

1. Love is the greatest fiction I have ever read, but it’s one of the few that doesn’t have a happy ending.

2. If there were a god, I would make him kneel before me and ask if I would pardon his own sins instead.

3. If there is, I haven’t found it yet. Maybe one day our particles will be scattered into wind and we’ll find a home between the bones of everyone we’ve ever loved but never touched.

4. I’ll take the strongest bottle you have to offer.

- writingsforwinter

(Source: benedictsmith.net)

Questions And Answers

1. Is hell a place or a way of thinking?

2. Do you miss any of the skeletons that used to be in your closet?

3. Are all the words in the world enough to make you feel less alone?

- writingsforwinter

1. Hell can work from the inside out or the outside in. It could be a death camp or a playground. But we do not need an eternity of hell. A lifetime’s worth is quite enough.

2. Never. It’s funny - to forget my skeletons, I lust after flesh.

3. No one could bear every word in the world. I couldn’t even handle four: “I’ll always love you”, from a woman to an urn.

- Benedict Smith

(Source: benedictsmith.net)

Little Death (Chapter Six)

Read Previous Chapters Here           

Serena’s house was password protected. I tried punching her name into the keypad. The screen blinked red three times. Too obvious. “Microbes.” Wrong again. Shit. What was I doing? If I got the next one wrong the system would probably call the police. I knew I should walk away. Of course I should. But I had to try. I had to. One of her husbands’ names? But which one? Shit. No. What was the name of her cat again? The one that got sick…


My heart thrashed about my rib cage. The screen blinked green. The bolt unlocked. I exhaled slowly and let myself in, closing the door behind me, immediately tripping over a bottle. She really needs to tidy up, I thought. She needed to, I meant. Fuck.

I tip-toed up the stairs, and then there it was, the refrigerator room. I twisted the doorknob, and the door creaked open. She’d be in there. And then I wouldn’t be alone any more. Serena would be in there and things would be okay again.

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Benedict SmithThe Fastest Way to Feel Alive

(Source: benedictsmith, via queen0f-darkness)

Little Death (Chapter Five)

Read Previous Chapters Here

Everything felt very quiet, save for the clack-clack-clack of my boots as I followed the nurse down the hall. He gestured towards Serena’s room and gave a sympathetic squint, as if to affirm what I already knew - she wasn’t the same. I took a deep breath and entered, only to be met with a barrage of high-pitched squeaks and squawks from a small television set playing films on fast-forward. All I could make out was a series of bright flashes. Yellows, greens, reds, purples. Flickers of people. People who lived and loved and killed and died and fucked in the blink of an eye, melting together into a collage of colour, as though all of human consciousness could be contained within one Van Goghian swirl.

Then I saw Serena, and my heart sunk. She looked broken. Bled white. Eyes beaming agony. The flashing TV cast shadows above her, plotting demons. She blurted out something I couldn’t understand, buried her head in her hands and sobbed. The leather of my jacket clung hard to my sweat-coated skin. She shivered.

“We’re still trying to work out exactly what speed to play the movies at,” the doctor said, startling me. I hadn’t even noticed she was in the room. “But at least this way she has some form of stimulation.”

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Benedict SmithThe Light

Benedict Smith (http://benedictsmith.tumblr.com)

Vote here to have NASA actually send this haiku to Mars.

Benedict Smith / "This Second"

Benedict Smith

Benedict Smith, "Mara’s Daughters"

Benedict Smith

(Source: bad-fad)

If you want you can click here to buy Dog Tired Eyes for the cost of a McDonalds meal. It’s a 66-page collection of my writings from this blog, as well as 3 new poems. 

Cover based on the original artwork by Tyler Murphy.