Showing posts with label Tantra Bensko. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tantra Bensko. Show all posts
Monastery Dolls
By Tantra Bensko
My doll is a hundred years old. She contains the edges of my mind.
Inside her little house, she wanders, looking for windows. She finds skulls instead. Those are carved from my fingertip bones: our master at the monastery requires we show devotion by cutting them off in the ancient tradition.
The doll's perpetual childhood in the adult long dress disturb my fingers that are left, which want so much to lift her skirt. I stare at their tips, imagining the faces I could carve if they offend me by reaching out to her secrets. Next, I could create the skull of an ape in the tiny bone and add it to my necklace. Soon, I will have no fingers left to carve with. I will no longer have to struggle to keep myself from looking under her dress.
Every recitation of scriptures which I let my thoughts wander away from takes me into further reaches of doll-house rooms of thoughts. Spider-webs, peeling wall-paper, mildew. Her damaged eyes look black as if from whorish make-up. They tease me. She wanders from room to room. She has seen my secrets.
Alexander calls out and knocks on my wall. The stone has no echo. I'm excited for company. We have no pets in the monastery, even stuffed, houseplants, visitors, babies, nothing to take care of, no one to touch, only our dolls. Without those I think we would go mad.
When I let him in, he says: "Hurry. I have to show you something. Put this mirror in your doll house." He holds up his palm sized mirror, and I take it. I would do anything for a friend. He pants, saying, "My doll doesn't show up in the mirror."
And in truth, I'm startled to see that neither does mine. A flake falls off the beige wall, falling onto the skulls along the edges. "What does this mean?"
Fear holding my breath, I poke my head down into the doll house, and look at the mirror, my hair falling in my face, my cheeks covering my eyes, and I am real. I am very glad.
We go down the hall and knock on Merwin's door, our eyes wide. When he lets us in, we ask. He says: "What are you going on about? No, I'm not going to put a mirror in my doll house. Of course the doll is actually there. What are you thinking?" But she isn't. I try looking at her with the mirror. I want to cry. I shake. Merwin looks out the window, silent. He says it's time for bed. His left eye begins to twitch.
Alexander and I run down the hall, and hug. I could have lifted the doll's dress all this time without it being a sin, because she isn't there at all. We dash into my room. I reach into the empty living-room, which is burned and ashen, and take her out. I lift her grey lace dress, and peer underneath. I wouldn't be so rude as to turn her upside down, whether she exits or not.
I have never seen anything like it: a bland space between the legs with no penis at all. I have heard of such from the brothers. In fear, I strip my pants and hold the mirror. Thank goodness my genitals are real. We scour the room with reflection. Everything shows up but her.
We decide we must eat her tomorrow, to make her one of us.
- - -
Tantra Bensko teaches fiction writing through UCLA X Writing Program, Writers College, Lit Demon, and her own academy. She has books out and a couple hundred flashes, short stories, novelettes, and a novella in journals and anthologies.
By Tantra Bensko
My doll is a hundred years old. She contains the edges of my mind.
Inside her little house, she wanders, looking for windows. She finds skulls instead. Those are carved from my fingertip bones: our master at the monastery requires we show devotion by cutting them off in the ancient tradition.
The doll's perpetual childhood in the adult long dress disturb my fingers that are left, which want so much to lift her skirt. I stare at their tips, imagining the faces I could carve if they offend me by reaching out to her secrets. Next, I could create the skull of an ape in the tiny bone and add it to my necklace. Soon, I will have no fingers left to carve with. I will no longer have to struggle to keep myself from looking under her dress.
Every recitation of scriptures which I let my thoughts wander away from takes me into further reaches of doll-house rooms of thoughts. Spider-webs, peeling wall-paper, mildew. Her damaged eyes look black as if from whorish make-up. They tease me. She wanders from room to room. She has seen my secrets.
Alexander calls out and knocks on my wall. The stone has no echo. I'm excited for company. We have no pets in the monastery, even stuffed, houseplants, visitors, babies, nothing to take care of, no one to touch, only our dolls. Without those I think we would go mad.
When I let him in, he says: "Hurry. I have to show you something. Put this mirror in your doll house." He holds up his palm sized mirror, and I take it. I would do anything for a friend. He pants, saying, "My doll doesn't show up in the mirror."
And in truth, I'm startled to see that neither does mine. A flake falls off the beige wall, falling onto the skulls along the edges. "What does this mean?"
Fear holding my breath, I poke my head down into the doll house, and look at the mirror, my hair falling in my face, my cheeks covering my eyes, and I am real. I am very glad.
We go down the hall and knock on Merwin's door, our eyes wide. When he lets us in, we ask. He says: "What are you going on about? No, I'm not going to put a mirror in my doll house. Of course the doll is actually there. What are you thinking?" But she isn't. I try looking at her with the mirror. I want to cry. I shake. Merwin looks out the window, silent. He says it's time for bed. His left eye begins to twitch.
Alexander and I run down the hall, and hug. I could have lifted the doll's dress all this time without it being a sin, because she isn't there at all. We dash into my room. I reach into the empty living-room, which is burned and ashen, and take her out. I lift her grey lace dress, and peer underneath. I wouldn't be so rude as to turn her upside down, whether she exits or not.
I have never seen anything like it: a bland space between the legs with no penis at all. I have heard of such from the brothers. In fear, I strip my pants and hold the mirror. Thank goodness my genitals are real. We scour the room with reflection. Everything shows up but her.
We decide we must eat her tomorrow, to make her one of us.
- - -
Tantra Bensko teaches fiction writing through UCLA X Writing Program, Writers College, Lit Demon, and her own academy. She has books out and a couple hundred flashes, short stories, novelettes, and a novella in journals and anthologies.
Secret-Free
By Tantra Bensko
I know I am not what I seem, but that is only one spectacular aspect of me, reflected by the brightness of the curving bloomers that blossom out in fluted curves, poofing out as I sit down on tiny chairs too big for me. I am also just what I seem, but for seeing that side of me, you need a ticket. Here. Take one. They're free. They're red, and if you lick them, you get clean. And you know, there's a little something on your face, a bit of something dead.
Inside the paper shredder lay the invisible secrets no one knew, but Aunt Jeffrey. I once lifted it up and shook the secrets out. They turned on me, though, and bit my behind, and went laughing into the corner where the mice had made a little hole. This ticket fell out, a strip of red, and I nabbed it, and tied it up, so it had no ideas of escape. It's never moved, but I don't fully trust it.
I see you hesitate to take the ticket. Here, it's curling up a little in this heat. Take it before it bursts into flames. I don't want it any more.
Yes, thank you very much; I've had it far too long. I keep it in my bloomers, in case someone wants to get to know me. I'd hate to be caught without it, as always being what one least suspects gets so, so tiring. I want to be known, thoroughly known, ravenously, rapturously known, warmed up by it, moistened by it, satiated by it.
Well, are you going to lick it? You have to be clean to approach my secrets. I don't want any filth. Especially dead filth, like that scrap on your face. You have to care if it's there, if someone tells you. You don't just leave something by your mouth when someone points it out. That's nasty. Vile. Don't approach. Not yet. The ticket. Lick it.
Ah, at last. Thank you for licking it. I'm ready. I've been ready for so long. Let me tell you my story, then, telepathically. Let it wash you, clean your ears deep inside the little darling spirals, let it wash you free of memory and care, wash away your inhibitions, innuendos, falsities, guilts, lies, loves for others in the dancing school. Ah, I feel it sliding from me, liquid, smooth, bourbon colored, flowing to you. Do you know, the dancing teachers, they are not as pretty as they seem. No, no, no.
Now that you did that, I'm just exactly as you know, now, nothing but. What do you think? You're wet, dear, from telepathy, around the edges of your ears. Let me dry them. I was never what I seemed to anyone before! The first to see me as I am, I say, deserves a special petting. A pampering to fit a king. Bend your head, down, dear, and I'll crown you with delight, formally. A kiss as well, upon your hair.
You know, you'll never be what you seem. Because this, you can not tell. You'll always have a secret, having gone through this experience with me. See the ticket? See it gleam? If I shred it, all you know, you'll forget forever, the little you still know, now that you are clean.
- - -
Tantra Bensko, MFA, teaches Experimental Fiction Writing online, and is the editor of Exclusive Magazine. She is the author of Watching the Windows Sleep, published by Naissance Press. She has over 120 creative writing publications in magazines.
By Tantra Bensko
I know I am not what I seem, but that is only one spectacular aspect of me, reflected by the brightness of the curving bloomers that blossom out in fluted curves, poofing out as I sit down on tiny chairs too big for me. I am also just what I seem, but for seeing that side of me, you need a ticket. Here. Take one. They're free. They're red, and if you lick them, you get clean. And you know, there's a little something on your face, a bit of something dead.
Inside the paper shredder lay the invisible secrets no one knew, but Aunt Jeffrey. I once lifted it up and shook the secrets out. They turned on me, though, and bit my behind, and went laughing into the corner where the mice had made a little hole. This ticket fell out, a strip of red, and I nabbed it, and tied it up, so it had no ideas of escape. It's never moved, but I don't fully trust it.
I see you hesitate to take the ticket. Here, it's curling up a little in this heat. Take it before it bursts into flames. I don't want it any more.
Yes, thank you very much; I've had it far too long. I keep it in my bloomers, in case someone wants to get to know me. I'd hate to be caught without it, as always being what one least suspects gets so, so tiring. I want to be known, thoroughly known, ravenously, rapturously known, warmed up by it, moistened by it, satiated by it.
Well, are you going to lick it? You have to be clean to approach my secrets. I don't want any filth. Especially dead filth, like that scrap on your face. You have to care if it's there, if someone tells you. You don't just leave something by your mouth when someone points it out. That's nasty. Vile. Don't approach. Not yet. The ticket. Lick it.
Ah, at last. Thank you for licking it. I'm ready. I've been ready for so long. Let me tell you my story, then, telepathically. Let it wash you, clean your ears deep inside the little darling spirals, let it wash you free of memory and care, wash away your inhibitions, innuendos, falsities, guilts, lies, loves for others in the dancing school. Ah, I feel it sliding from me, liquid, smooth, bourbon colored, flowing to you. Do you know, the dancing teachers, they are not as pretty as they seem. No, no, no.
Now that you did that, I'm just exactly as you know, now, nothing but. What do you think? You're wet, dear, from telepathy, around the edges of your ears. Let me dry them. I was never what I seemed to anyone before! The first to see me as I am, I say, deserves a special petting. A pampering to fit a king. Bend your head, down, dear, and I'll crown you with delight, formally. A kiss as well, upon your hair.
You know, you'll never be what you seem. Because this, you can not tell. You'll always have a secret, having gone through this experience with me. See the ticket? See it gleam? If I shred it, all you know, you'll forget forever, the little you still know, now that you are clean.
- - -
Tantra Bensko, MFA, teaches Experimental Fiction Writing online, and is the editor of Exclusive Magazine. She is the author of Watching the Windows Sleep, published by Naissance Press. She has over 120 creative writing publications in magazines.
Frequency Bed
By Tantra Bensko
The wheelbarrow full of occupants on many levels of reality, frequencies and concepts, bumps over the mole hill, the columbine flowers tied on to decorate the handles nearly falling off, which would be a shame as they mimic the shapes in the abstract mural along the sides of the barrow.
Sweat is pouring out of my arms as I reach down to rearrange the personae. The weather is spiking, and it’s time to plant the different personae around the breezeway in the old log house. The people who live here are vacationing this week. Space in the breezeway is more meaningful and real than around the house. Conceptually. And these personae thrive on concept. (Sometimes in newer places, we plant them in large forts made by children in the back yard. But usually only after the children move on.)
The multi-dimensional folks like these wheelbarrow occupants have been fighting for space on the other realms, which is getting sparse, and they are growing too thin there, too choked out. So, they’re moving down to the earthly dimension in larger numbers these days, and thus my job takes too much out of me. Some are “looking” at me with a twinge of blame, and that, coming from higher dimensions, hurts in a complex way.
I dump them out in the breezeway. They get grumpy harrumphy. Especially the higher dimensional ones used to a lot of hoity toity. I work fast, as they are getting attached to the area and sinking into it willy nilly. I weed and organize them at equal distances from each other, make little hills, for the two most powerful ones. They get feisty.
Their different levels argue among themselves without words. The astral bands getting sloppily colorful at each other, sloshing their rounded edges into each other. The etheric layers getting paranoid and nitpicky about details and sharp, too precise to merge well when they start overlapping. The higher frequencies forgetting boundaries and expanding too far, getting too bright and blinding some of the others on more mundane paths. Once I get them planted, though, they’ll thrive.
And I will put my hammock up. Lie in it, and sing ballads to them, opening up their astral pores with the sounds and images, feelings and characters, similar to the way bird songs open up stomata on plants so they can exchange gases through the holes. For a week they’ll learn the ways of the world through the intonations, learn gently how to interpret stories, how to feel about them.
And one day, the people who live at the house will see ghostly imprints in the breezeway, growing more substantial as the month go on. And the mysterious, questioning, intensely whispered stories about them will begin, around the house. Which will become all their lives.
- - -
Tantra Bensko, MFA, teaches Experimental Fiction Writing online, and is the editor of Exclusive Magazine. She is the author of Watching the Windows Sleep, published by Naissance Press. She has over 120 creative writing publications in magazines.
By Tantra Bensko
The wheelbarrow full of occupants on many levels of reality, frequencies and concepts, bumps over the mole hill, the columbine flowers tied on to decorate the handles nearly falling off, which would be a shame as they mimic the shapes in the abstract mural along the sides of the barrow.
Sweat is pouring out of my arms as I reach down to rearrange the personae. The weather is spiking, and it’s time to plant the different personae around the breezeway in the old log house. The people who live here are vacationing this week. Space in the breezeway is more meaningful and real than around the house. Conceptually. And these personae thrive on concept. (Sometimes in newer places, we plant them in large forts made by children in the back yard. But usually only after the children move on.)
The multi-dimensional folks like these wheelbarrow occupants have been fighting for space on the other realms, which is getting sparse, and they are growing too thin there, too choked out. So, they’re moving down to the earthly dimension in larger numbers these days, and thus my job takes too much out of me. Some are “looking” at me with a twinge of blame, and that, coming from higher dimensions, hurts in a complex way.
I dump them out in the breezeway. They get grumpy harrumphy. Especially the higher dimensional ones used to a lot of hoity toity. I work fast, as they are getting attached to the area and sinking into it willy nilly. I weed and organize them at equal distances from each other, make little hills, for the two most powerful ones. They get feisty.
Their different levels argue among themselves without words. The astral bands getting sloppily colorful at each other, sloshing their rounded edges into each other. The etheric layers getting paranoid and nitpicky about details and sharp, too precise to merge well when they start overlapping. The higher frequencies forgetting boundaries and expanding too far, getting too bright and blinding some of the others on more mundane paths. Once I get them planted, though, they’ll thrive.
And I will put my hammock up. Lie in it, and sing ballads to them, opening up their astral pores with the sounds and images, feelings and characters, similar to the way bird songs open up stomata on plants so they can exchange gases through the holes. For a week they’ll learn the ways of the world through the intonations, learn gently how to interpret stories, how to feel about them.
And one day, the people who live at the house will see ghostly imprints in the breezeway, growing more substantial as the month go on. And the mysterious, questioning, intensely whispered stories about them will begin, around the house. Which will become all their lives.
- - -
Tantra Bensko, MFA, teaches Experimental Fiction Writing online, and is the editor of Exclusive Magazine. She is the author of Watching the Windows Sleep, published by Naissance Press. She has over 120 creative writing publications in magazines.
