November... (And new book details)

Tom Waits - "November"

My wife and I were married on Halloween, but after a discussion regarding the fall and how happy October makes us year after year, we have reached a consensus. 

November is the creepiest month of all. 

I'll elaborate:

Think of all those dead leaves...

How the ground looks damned 

after a rain. 

The mists of the morning,

and the breath escaping 

like exorcised ghosts.

November,

though nestled between 

Halloween

and season's greetings,

is purgatory

to the darkened 

imagination.

The poem is mine, but check out the Tom Waits' song listed above. If you don't know Tom Waits' work... you're welcome. 

Also, if you want to get the most out of your creepy November, buy my latest book. It's a collection of horror stories entitled A Rustle in the Attic. Have a read and let me know what you think. Leave an Amazon comment. Or buy one for the spooky person in your life. Thanks for the love and support. 

Happy November. See you all very soon. 

Cheers,

Torres

A Rustle in the Attic

I haven't posted in a while because I was working on a new book. It's called A Rustle in the Attic and it's available now on Amazon.

This book isn't like the first. It's a horror story compilation. No poetry. Just nine stories that, I hope, will scare you.

I decided to write a full post about it because I was asked the same question several times since the book was released last week. "Ryan, how exactly does someone go from writing a poetry collection to horror stories? What is the mindset behind such a strange jump?"

I was also asked "Why not a book of love stories?" That question, in particular, got under my skin.

So, I thought about it for a couple of days. And this morning I solidified my response.

I write whatever comes to me. I have written plays, horror stories, poetry, and--yes--even a "love" story here and there. I have a lot of problems letting go of what I think may be a great story idea. But, I had to write a horror collection. when people ask me "what" I write, I say "poetry and horror." Then I get a weird look. Then... a muttered "why?"

If you have love in your life (and it is my hope that you do. Well, actually... it's my hope that you have nothing but love in your life) then you are ready for a little bit of horror. I like to think of horror stories like night swimming. Standing there, by the dark water, maybe the moon and stars above, poking their way through the black sky like pin holes. You test the water. Dip a toe into it. Feel the initial chill, then--once you find your brave sense of self--take the plunge.

You will emerge eventually. You will towel off. You will go home and shower. You will get comfy and drift off as slumber beckons. But that small experience will still be there. It happened. And you may or may not dream of it later.

I have all the love I need. But I never turn down the opportunity to swim after dark. And, I am always dreaming.

Fondly, and with love (of course)

~Torres

Playground

At the park yesterday,

while walking the dog,

I passed the playground.

Within a world of wood shavings and swing sets
were children
running and giggling.

A Muslim child.
A Jewish child.
An African American child.
And a pale, Irish girl
being chased by a Hispanic boy.

They were all there.
And they were all out of breath from laughter.

There just wasn't enough time to hate each other...

There were dragons to slay.

High seas to sail.

A Justice League to unite.

Someone had to save the world...

Imagine if we could strive to be those beacons of hope.
Imagine if we could unite for that common good.
Imagine how easily hate could have a change of heart
if it just accepted the invite to play
instead of watching--
alone--
from outside of the fence.

The truth of our endurance
will leave that playground at dusk.
It will arrive home safely.
And after brushing its teeth,
and hearing a bedtime story,
it will dream of the heroes it will meet tomorrow.

Change

If you wish to see it,

this has to happen first:

You will have to get angry.
You will have to cry.
You will have to see it affect those close to you.
You will have to become desperate.
You will have to feel lost.
You will have to lose sleep.

You will have to find humor in all of it.

Then,
you will plan.

Then,
you will follow through.

Then,
you will bask in the glory.

And then,
you will be happy...

...until the cycles begins anew.

I promise.


---

"Before enlightenment, chop wood and carry water.
After enlightenment, chop wood and carry water."

~Torres

American Society: 7/27/17

What 

aren't

we 

fighting 

for

at 

this 

point?

--

~Torres

The Day Batman Died

On the day Gotham lost its hero
I debating between mac and cheese
and potato salad
At a picnic.

On the morning The caped crusader fell
I hung up my 1989
Michael Keaton
BATMAN
Action figure.
The first one ToyBiz ever made.

I hung it on the wall
Behind the door.
 I wanted him to watch from the shadows
as you drew your last breaths.

It wasn't the Penguin
It wasn't Riddler
It was Freeze or Ivy
It wasn't even the Joker.

It was leukemia.

The battle within
eventually triumphs.
Even when it comes to
the dark knight.

I imagine that the bat cave is quiet
Now.

Goodnight batmobile.
Goodnight Alfred.
Goodnight Robin.
Goodnight commissioner Gordon.

Goodnight shark repellent
and grappling hook.

Goodnight cape
and cowl. 

And goodnight bat signal.

"Shut it down. He's not coming."

----

Heartbreaking... But many thanks Mr. West. You made this Boy Wonder very happy. 

Cheers,

~Torres

Podcast #1

Hey all.

So, I tried something...different. I decided to start a podcast in which I talk about writing, horror, and other outlandish musings. Hey! Just like the description of this blog.

Give it a listen and don't judge too much. I'm still learning about all this stuff.

Thanks a lot. Leave a comment on the Partreon

Cheers,

~Torres

https://www.patreon.com/RTorres

It's Here...

Hey everyone,

Sorry for not posting in so long; but there is a good reason. My first book of poetry was just published yesterday. It's available on Amazon now. Here's the link:

Poem, and Other Four-Letter Words

I would like to thank everyone that has supported, and continues to support my writing. You all know who you are, and you rock.

Also, if you want to check out my publishers site--Red Dashboard LLC-- please do so. They have an amazing lineup of authors that they publish.

Red Dashboard LLC

Remember to support local artists. They work just as hard, and are just as talented as the celebrities that we constantly put upon pedestals. Plus, they need the money more...

Special shout-out to Kevin Durr for creating the cover. Dude is an amazing artist, and a great friend too. Go ahead and click on his name to explore the awesomeness that he creates. 

I'll be back with more posts soon. 

Cheers,

~Torres

#priorities

Today in the news:

100 dead from a gas attack in Syria.

And one of my students

cried,
and complained,
and called me the devil, 

because I wouldn't let him

chew gum

in class.

----


Honestly, some days I just want to take a break from this world...

~Torres

Birthright

I often wonder--

after all these years--

if the blood has dried up

yet.

San Juan,

You will never meet martyrdom.

The Rich Port,

is still owned.

The country that rules you

will not pay for you.

Nor will they accept you.

Nor will they cut the

umbilical cord.

Were they there when the hurricanes 

touched down?

No.

Did they see when the storm brought water

and winds

and wrecked crops

and shook concrete houses?

No. 

Did they see Carmen's 

childhood home

torn away?

The stone foundation

weeping 

in the mud.

No. 

They didn't. 

Nor were they there to rebuild 

anything.

But they took, 

and took,

and took,

and gave 

nothing but grief.

Falling cane,

and raising cane.

And they poured sugar

in their coffee.

They poured sugar

on their corn flakes.

They poured sugar 

in their tea.

They poured sugar

into their cake mix.

And the sugar cubes 

fell like Domino's.

Sugar 

makes blood

look pink.

So pink 

that the rich

mistake it 

for Himalayan 

salt.

But the calloused hands 

know the truth.

The worried mothers

and the children 

without shoes

know the truth.

The sugar

is anything 

but sweet.

Harness

Just harness it.

Yes,

the job sucks. 

Yes,

you are broke.

Yes,

the bills are piling up.

Yes,

the car needs work.

Yes,

the house needs work.

Yes, 

the rent is due.

Yes, 

the fights have gotten worse.

Yes,

the panic attacks are getting worse.

Yes,

each morning starts with anxiety.

Yes,

you forget to even the simplest of tasks.

Yes,

it's the third day that you've had this headache.

But...

You're so close...

Keep pushing.

Harness the bullshit.

Your dreams are slowly becoming a reality.

They--

           Your heroes--

Said that it would be like this.

Listen to them.

You won't be happy doing anything else.

Ride this wave to shore.

Harness this, dammit.

It's way too late to stop.

Pap Just Is

I was on the other side of the porch

as my grandfather,

                         Pap...

was painting the railing 

a deep cherry 

stain.

His brush strokes 

following a gentle

up

and 

down

like a septuagenarian 

Karate Kid. 

Then,

he pauses

and moves down

a few rails.

Leaving two

unpainted.

I moved in closer

and inspected.

Sitting in between the two rails

was a grasshopper.

                              Young grasshopper...

Sitting and watching.

"Hey there fella,"

Pap said.

The grasshopper said nothing.

It just sat 

and watched.

When Pap reached the end of the railing,

he stood in front of unpainted portion

and waited

in silence.

The wind picked up

and the air felt good.

It was spring

and 72 degrees

on the outskirts of Lebanon, Pennsylvania. 

When the wind died down,

the grasshoppers jumped, 

and fluttered back into the field.

Then Pap picked up his brush,

and finished painting.

"He was awful curious,"

said Pap.

"Can't blame a fella for wanting to know

what the old timer is up to."

As I looked out at the waving blades of grass

in the field,

I saw no trace 

of the curious guest.

And,

a few minutes later,

the rails all looked the same.

The Block

The mental block. Wow. What a killer.

I've been editing a lot for my latest project, but even though I've been hard at work there is still this sharp grinding of the rusty cogs of my mental state.

I haven't been creating. The one thing that makes me... me.

When I can't write, I can't function. I just feel like I'm fucking melting.

I had to generate this blog post today. I had to do something to shake off this existential dread. It is in no way, shape, or form a cry for help. Think of it more as an emotional dumping site. A place where I can turn my head upside-down and get this out.

I chose to just "write words" for this one. I don't want to get into politics, or introduce any topics that typically shake things up. I'm breathing now.

It is humorous how crippling this is. I can't handle my day job whilst coping. I can't talk to my wife. I can't talk to my friends. I ignore the dog and I don't want to go anywhere. I also don't drink alcohol or eat a lot when I'm all blocked up.

I don't celebrate or sing of myself.

I just stare at a blank page.

The way I ease back in is through light exercise, I step outside for fresh air, and a mental dump (this).

See. It didn't take that long and already I'm starting to feel better. Writers are a funny sort of lot, aren't they?

Yep.

~Torres



P.S. I'm not editing this shit today. Human nature is doused in error.

We, Outside the Gates

Emperors have placed their fortitude 

in walls before

without realizing that strength was always in numbers

and voices

that chant

the same battle cry

in solidarity.

And when the crowd you want with you

becomes the crowd that shows up to oppose you--

it's time.

Time to rethink the next vital moments. 

Time to retreat. 

Time to apologize.

Time to leave 

what is not broken

alone.

Because

when we, outside the gates,

become informed,

begin to think critically,

begin to ask questions,

begin to demand answers

                                        together

we won't need to knock

with our fists

anymore.