ben kling

Motown Romance

Ben — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 08:09:23 +0000

Think For Yourself

Ben — Thu, 18 Feb 2010 08:44:14 +0000

I Am a Grocery Bag

Ben — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 07:04:25 +0000

Jenny

Ben — Sat, 30 Jan 2010 04:52:15 +0000

Emma Watson

Ben — Sun, 26 Jul 2009 01:28:50 +0000

Lyrics:

Memoir (#2 of 10)

Ben — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 16:07:02 +0000

“These are beautiful!” my mother said, as she scanned through the photographs. The little bell tinkled, and a rush of cool air followed us outside before it faded into the muggy heat. Shot after perfectly-framed shot slipped out of the envelope and into her hand. The sleeve was labeled “July 18 - Danaus eresimus”. She held a photograph up. “Now how on earth did you get this one?” It was a perfectly centered portrait shot of the old, charmingly rusted spigot in the garden. Perched above it was the butterfly, a lightly spotted little thing with wings the smoky, sienna color of aviators. Danaus eresimus. The Soldier. Two to three inch wingspan. Slow-flighted and easy to approach. “Got lucky, I guess,” I said, shrugging. I returned to my sandwich as she continued flipping through them, marveling at the impossible close-ups and perfect poses.

Memoir (#1 of 10)

Ben — Tue, 12 May 2009 00:49:52 +0000

Note: Some names have been changed. I don't remember much about my childhood. I don't even remember what I did yesterday. I do, however, remember the first chapter of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's stone, word for word. I also remember the title of every episode of Seinfeld, ordered chronologically. This should give you a good idea of my situation. The years of my life devoted to developing basic human skills were uneventful. Or maybe they were eventful. All I remember is that once I ate Cap'n Crunch in a high chair and noted the abrasiveness of the berry pieces with a high pitched squeal. Another time I mixed every component in an edible chemistry set, assuming erroneously that the result would be edible. I also remember that, at one point, I raised a pair of geese. The barn across the street from my house on Warren Street was an eyesore. Everyone said so. Far from emanating a rustic charm, the decrepit old shack appeared to be on the brink of collapse. Though Warren county and the surrounding areas are host...

Memoir (#3 of 10)

Ben — Tue, 12 May 2009 00:05:55 +0000

In my junior year, I began work at the Hackettstown Library. An interesting fact about this building: it is the nearest thing to dust that can still be called a solid. It was built by the Works Progress Administration in 1935, out of what I can only assume are tinker toys and petrified wood. Being a library, it is usually completely devoid of conversation. However, the job of replacing human speech is spectacularly filled by a multitude of other sounds. The lights buzz viciously, the heater grumbles menacingly, you can’t breathe without causing something to creak, and the walls themselves seem to gasp as they emit some unholy gas. This is the perfect place for someone who’s last job was at a Haunted House. The building, though, is nothing compared to the patrons that frequent it.

This Too Shall Pass

Ben — Tue, 12 May 2009 00:05:06 +0000

Sometime near two thirty AM, a spark, from the boiler, wakes up and jumps over to a piece of insulation. Alive and curious, it soaks into the wall and rounds a corner. It stretches out and touches everything within reach, grabbing, and feeling, wrapping around and consuming it until the tiles in the hallway sparkle with a devilish glint. Then, in an instant, it is everything; an inferno. It rages through the halls and into classrooms, it shreds textbooks and smashes desks. Pencils, rolled beneath furniture are blackened before fading into flames. In supply cabinets, paint boils and cracks, and on the walls it withers and coils. The fire tears through ceilings and licks at the rafters, charring them with its breath; batters against windows, which buckle and split. And it keeps going. "Seriously, though, make sure you understand what you're getting into. This is both dangerous and illegal." His words echoed in the stiff silence, along with the distant whistles from the highway.

ERIC FREEDMAN

Ben — Mon, 11 May 2009 23:57:15 +0000