The Man with Wooden Bones

Ben Thamian hated being caged, he hated the eyes now falling upon him.

The Man with Wooden Bones

Ben Thamian hated being caged, he hated all the eyes now falling upon him. His life had become a problem for some, and now here is shackled in a dark, musky courtroom of the Galway Prefecture. Ben had opted out of a society full of hypocrisy, and now he was ensnared by what he tried to escape. The bureaucratic system of the Galway Prefecture had monetised and problematised those forms of living that existed outside of it’s ‘societal norms’. The likes of Ben, who scavenged for food and found value in that cast out in bins and dumpsters, are now the focus of Galway Prefecture Board of Control’s new programme to achieve a zero percent rate of pauperism, vagabondage and homelessness. His existence was based now on percentages and numerical capacities to produce, in his cold cage under the dim courtroom lights.

As papers were shuffled and documents prepared, courtroom staff lazily tended to their duties while members of the jury gazed hypnotically into their phone screens. The eyes that left their screens fell with heavy judgement on Ben, deciding for themselves what he was, and why he was there. With a slow guttural croak, the small plump judge stood on the tips of his toes and began to speak.

“Quiet, please! The prosecution, on behalf of Galway Prefecture, are charging Benjamin Thamian �" Vagabond 1432 �" under the Pauper & Vagabond Penal: code 24,b. The defendant is accused of loitering in a Class 2 Gentrified area, of debased morals and theft from refuse bins. We would call on the ladies and gentlemen of the jury to note Mr. Thamian has shunned the work house on two counts previous, refused the charity of the church and on three occasions removed his identification bracelet. The prosecution today calls for 5 years unproductive labour within the city’s Panopticon, or if chosen by the defendant, swift execution.” And so croaked the small sweaty judge, from behind the desk he could barely see out over.

He continued with a chesty cough, “Will the defendant offer the good people of this court an explanation of why it is he on so many occasions refused the help of this cities generous institutions, both private and public?”

Ben’s eyes rose slowly to meet the bald sweaty head of the Prefecture’s judge. He felt silence would best serve dissent from this system which he held no faith in, yet he spoke his mind. “To be fed by our city’s holy charities, I was asked to give up my name and to take their beliefs as my own. If I would only be redeemed by their God they could in turn redeem my hunger. They would warmly clothe me. But I sir, am no liar, their beliefs would hold no claim on me. In your workhouses I was to give up my freedom, I would dedicate my day slaving over what you constitute fulfilling, but for me was vacuous. What is this I ask, if not slavery? Times were rare when I, without a home, sought refuge from storms only for your institutions to diagnose me as an ill that must be remedied. Yet I refused their medicine and chose to brave the elements. It is no life to abandon my convictions, and take up yours, in the hopes one day I may live up to your expectations.”

The voice of the judge could once again be heard calling out from behind his desk. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury can now note the defendant shows no remorse for his life of sloth. It is now that the court puts the decision to Mr. Thamian: Pointless labour, or death?”

As stark as this choice was, there wasn’t a heart that fluttered, or a face that held any more emotion on the paths that lay in front of Ben. A grey fog of apathy permeated all those present in the courtroom, as the slow droning march of this governmentality continued.

With vibrant strength Ben Thamian spoke for the last time. “You coerce me with your house of God, you offer to enslave me in the Workhouse. You say it will cure me of my ills, so I may get a job. I will be so lucky to devote forty hours a week of my life in homage to the deity of capital. You administer this medicine from your ivory tower of moral superiority, but is it I, that lack morals? Am I, the Vagabond, such a baseless, immoral creature that needs mending? I have divided the last of my food amongst others, shared my blanket on winters nights and kept watch when times were dangerous. Of this you place no value, I am but a number who to you is not producing. But what of you, hypocrite? Continuously engrossed in your smart phone, who’s batteries are dug from the earth by the hands of children. You can live with the fact most of your clothes are produced by some of the most economically enslaved people on earth. Ideas like these lurk at the back of your mind yet you go out, and you buy and you buy. You are voting for all of this with your money, there is no greater democratic expression of power than your ability to buy. You propagate so many systems of oppression with the money you spend, and there you stand with the audacity to tell me that you’re the one to help me become free? Today you will lay no claim on me, no, I will never join the ranks of you.”.

At that very instant a loud ruckus could be heard outside, muffled through the the courtroom doors. The guard that flanked the door looked around nervously, with beads of sweat glistening in the dim lamplight as they trickled down his forehead. Ben flashed a knowing smile. The lamps went out, and the room became a cocoon of darkness. Total silence.

The lights came back.

Ben was gone.

It would be three months before we heard again of Ben Thamian.

Author's Note

this is my first piece of writing, so please, the more critical you can be the better!

Reviews

[AE]

I would like to read more about Ben Thamian. This seems like an interesting world.

[Chris]

Its good, but a little ambiguous during the beginning. I personally like your writing style, but I think most people would appreciate a more active tone.