The Man With All The Trophies

The Man With All The Trophies

by Ramsés Dávila-Luna @ The Writer’s Cavern

The house on Nantucket belonged to Benny Blender. Its insides were empty, but the trophies kept entering. One trophy hit the ceiling. Another could fit in all sorts of pockets. There was one made from pennies. Two others from paper and even one from polar bear leather.

From the front windows, toppers waved hello to all passers.

Rumor has it Benny Blender once met a woman who gave birth to twins in December. They met near a finish line in South Africa, and she fell in love with his words, “You’ll be my silver.” By next autumn, she fled back to Gibraltar like stork and ascender. The trophies proved to be too much of an altar.

As a kid, he was crowned Ben. Mom and Pop ran the circus, and the show was more respect by the riches. Benny would look up at his buildings and extend hands for kisses, but dam and sire showed no signs of a spirit that seasoned. In a moonlight beam struck a reason that whispered and jumbled, “There is no us. You are your own provision.”

That was Ben’s very first trophy. The thought that pierced core and made him feel awfully lonely. A keepsake so grand that it would not be a brand.

In villages and city squares, Benny the make-believe grown-up was the talk of the town. There was nobody like Blender, and even a look at their own children had them think, “They could never.”

Fate sounded its toll during a chess tournament in Nole. While Benny Blender moved a piece for a checkmate, a snake bit his rump. Something about the whole thing caused his insides to stir. He lifted his trophy and walked back to his alcove. A deep gaze into a mirror made him stare at the true fellow. The venom had reminded Benny how he had never set foot inside his home.

Its insides were empty.