He told me
about how his grandmother--
His mother's mother--
and the last time he saw her.
How every family member
had a recipe for pasteles,
but she made the best.
How her garden was lush
and always full of sweet promise.
He could remember how the flowers smelled.
He swore that he could recite every story
she told him.
He could close his eyes,
and remember,
but now the tears came instead.
He remembered the last time
he saw her.
How the flowers were all dead.
How dirt and stone replaced the garden.
But he could see her in the doorway.
He remembered a cold, angry stare,
instead of a warm embrace.
There was no food cooking.
She cursed at him.
And then his father
grabbed his arm and pulled him
toward the car.
He never saw her again
before death came.
He couldn't save her.
Her couldn't care for her.
They were too poor.
He was too young.
"Never again," he vowed.
I grabbed my love's hand and clutched it tightly.
"Yes, son. I will help you pay the florist
for your wedding day."
----
~Torres
Friday, January 30, 2015
Saturday, January 24, 2015
Sometimes, as in a Nightmare
I'm interested in how other writers get their inspiration. Especially my heroes, who are masters of dark fiction. The kind of individuals who had the unfortunate experiences in life that they ended up forming into their masterpieces.
I tend to think about Lovecraft and the night terrors that he had. This ended up boosting a theory that H.P. was actually being warned by the monsters, Elder Gods, Old Ones, and nameless abominations that he was writing about. That they really do exist. And that some viewed mankind with indifference, while others viewed us as slaves, or food, or both. The stories alone are weird and horrifying, but to think that there might be an actual cult out there that worships these eldritch beings outside of the weird fiction.
Life imitating art.
The same could be said for Poe. Now, there was an individual who was flat out tortured by life. He started off as a child full of promise (although his mother died when he was three and his father abandoned them when he was born), but terror and sadness kept him in within their chilling grips until his own mysterious end. However, had it not been for the fact that every woman he loved was sent to the grave by consumption; his only family was a foster father who cursed Poe's name on his deathbed; and most of his writing was rejected, was he was able to leave behind stories that epitomize such inner torture and suspense.
Art imitating life.
When it comes to my own dark fiction, it's an interesting experience to examine a story after it is finished and pull out the true-to-life instances contained within. It's true that sometimes I don't know what I'm actually writing about as I am trailblazing through what is nothing sure of feverish writing and romantic spontaneity (even though it may be difficult to believe). But, there are still those times when I know exactly what I want to show people and how I am going to do it.
One story I've been working on recently is a perfect example. It deals with how a child (me) dealt with being afraid of the dark (which I was), and what I thought was dwelling out in the darkness of my bedroom.
I remember what inspired it. I remember how my own horrific journey that got this macabre ball rolling. When I was five years old, life began to form the art. And now, as a man, the art is taking on a life of its own...
--
I would have grown up and chased a different dream entirely if my father hadn't gone to Hershey Park that day and brought back that strange stuffed toy.
Thinking back, I still don't know what the plush toy was, but it was green. Not an M&M, or some other false idol of anthropomorphic candy that defined the corporation, but some other strange food item. It reminded me of a giant pea. Sort of round, with a darker green tuft of hair on top; two huge plastic eyes with black pupils; a wide, plastic, toothy smile; two arms, with white three-fingered gloves; and two feet with Chuck Taylor-esque basketball sneakers.
When my father gave me the thing, I received it with much excitement because I, like any other child in America, loved toys. And after spending the day with it, my parents thought it would be a good idea to keep it on the toy box that was against the wall across from my bed. So there it sat, and when the hour grew late, we all went to bed.
I always woke up in the middle of the night when I was a kid because of nightmares, or any and all forms of noise. My bedroom in that apartment was in the very front of the building and there was a busy road right outside. So, with every single loud engine, car horn, and overall lurching fear of things that boys are afraid of (and afraid of letting others know about) I would spring awake and glance about the room.
Then, one night...
I do remember being asleep. I do remember being awoken by a loud truck engine. And, I do remember glancing about the room. However, the one thing that I remember the most about that night was what was sitting out there in the darkness. I remember seeing glowing green eyes, and a smile as well. I remember the panic and fear that I felt.
My immediate reaction was to use my blankets a shield from any and all monsters, and especially this unknown specter. But, my plan backfired. As I pulled up the covers and covered my head, I twisted and turned and tightened the covers around my body so much so that I began to hyperventilate.
I remember not being able to breathe.
Then, I heard something through my gasps for breath. They were footsteps along the side of my bed. Then I felt something. It was a hand on my shoulder. I heard my name. Someone spoke, but as they did I was already moving--and eventually falling--off the side of my bed.
Then my mother turned on the light and asked what the matter was.
So, tearfully I told her. And when I was done, she flicked the light back off, and saw the eyes and the smile for herself. It was the stuffed thing that my father won for me. She took it out of my room. Then she closed the curtains that divided my room from theirs.
Sometimes, I'm still afraid of the dark.
-----
Ah, childhood...
~Torres
I tend to think about Lovecraft and the night terrors that he had. This ended up boosting a theory that H.P. was actually being warned by the monsters, Elder Gods, Old Ones, and nameless abominations that he was writing about. That they really do exist. And that some viewed mankind with indifference, while others viewed us as slaves, or food, or both. The stories alone are weird and horrifying, but to think that there might be an actual cult out there that worships these eldritch beings outside of the weird fiction.
Life imitating art.
The same could be said for Poe. Now, there was an individual who was flat out tortured by life. He started off as a child full of promise (although his mother died when he was three and his father abandoned them when he was born), but terror and sadness kept him in within their chilling grips until his own mysterious end. However, had it not been for the fact that every woman he loved was sent to the grave by consumption; his only family was a foster father who cursed Poe's name on his deathbed; and most of his writing was rejected, was he was able to leave behind stories that epitomize such inner torture and suspense.
Art imitating life.
When it comes to my own dark fiction, it's an interesting experience to examine a story after it is finished and pull out the true-to-life instances contained within. It's true that sometimes I don't know what I'm actually writing about as I am trailblazing through what is nothing sure of feverish writing and romantic spontaneity (even though it may be difficult to believe). But, there are still those times when I know exactly what I want to show people and how I am going to do it.
One story I've been working on recently is a perfect example. It deals with how a child (me) dealt with being afraid of the dark (which I was), and what I thought was dwelling out in the darkness of my bedroom.
I remember what inspired it. I remember how my own horrific journey that got this macabre ball rolling. When I was five years old, life began to form the art. And now, as a man, the art is taking on a life of its own...
--
I would have grown up and chased a different dream entirely if my father hadn't gone to Hershey Park that day and brought back that strange stuffed toy.
Thinking back, I still don't know what the plush toy was, but it was green. Not an M&M, or some other false idol of anthropomorphic candy that defined the corporation, but some other strange food item. It reminded me of a giant pea. Sort of round, with a darker green tuft of hair on top; two huge plastic eyes with black pupils; a wide, plastic, toothy smile; two arms, with white three-fingered gloves; and two feet with Chuck Taylor-esque basketball sneakers.
When my father gave me the thing, I received it with much excitement because I, like any other child in America, loved toys. And after spending the day with it, my parents thought it would be a good idea to keep it on the toy box that was against the wall across from my bed. So there it sat, and when the hour grew late, we all went to bed.
I always woke up in the middle of the night when I was a kid because of nightmares, or any and all forms of noise. My bedroom in that apartment was in the very front of the building and there was a busy road right outside. So, with every single loud engine, car horn, and overall lurching fear of things that boys are afraid of (and afraid of letting others know about) I would spring awake and glance about the room.
Then, one night...
I do remember being asleep. I do remember being awoken by a loud truck engine. And, I do remember glancing about the room. However, the one thing that I remember the most about that night was what was sitting out there in the darkness. I remember seeing glowing green eyes, and a smile as well. I remember the panic and fear that I felt.
My immediate reaction was to use my blankets a shield from any and all monsters, and especially this unknown specter. But, my plan backfired. As I pulled up the covers and covered my head, I twisted and turned and tightened the covers around my body so much so that I began to hyperventilate.
I remember not being able to breathe.
Then, I heard something through my gasps for breath. They were footsteps along the side of my bed. Then I felt something. It was a hand on my shoulder. I heard my name. Someone spoke, but as they did I was already moving--and eventually falling--off the side of my bed.
Then my mother turned on the light and asked what the matter was.
So, tearfully I told her. And when I was done, she flicked the light back off, and saw the eyes and the smile for herself. It was the stuffed thing that my father won for me. She took it out of my room. Then she closed the curtains that divided my room from theirs.
Sometimes, I'm still afraid of the dark.
-----
Ah, childhood...
~Torres
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