Twisted Metal

This is a true story.

My preteen/teen years were spent on a farm that my family built on the outskirts of my hometown. My parents still live there.

This story, however, isn't about the house. It's about the road. But, more importantly, it's about a sharp curve in the road and the death of two high school kids. 

I was 19, and was home from college to visit my folks (and--probably--to bum some money). I couldn't remember what my parents and I were talking about that night, but I remember being on the staircase when I heard the sound. It was a piercing screech, followed by a boisterous and unforgettable thud that came from outside. 

"Did anyone hear that?" I said. 

Then there was a slow-moving silence that crept over the living room area as the three of us waited for something to happen.

Then there was a frantic knock at the door.

I hurried back down the stairs and crossed the foyer to the large front door. I then unlocked it and centered my footing, physically preparing myself before opening the door (I've seen too many movies).

Who was standing on the porch was a teenager with a familiar face. I knew I had seen him in my high school. He was a few years younger than I was, and must have been a senior at this point. I still can't recall his name, but I'll never forget the look on his face.

Sweating, crying, and gasping for breath, he had parked his car crooked in our driveway. When I asked him what was wrong, it took him a moment to compose himself enough for words to form.

"There's been an accident," he said. "Could you please call an ambulance?"

I can't remember which one of my parents called 911, but I do remember the walk along the side of the road, all the way to the end of the cornfield. I was with my father. And, together, we saw the absolute definition of aftermath.

What disturbed our sense was a ball of twisted metal that had once been a car with three teenagers contained safely inside. But, because sometimes the oats that we sow are a rotten crop, they had a need for speed that could not be satisfied before the collision. What now remained was a reminder of future possibilities cut short, and unbeknownst parents tucked safely away in houses somewhere in that darkness. Parents who will eventually receive a visitor that will change their lives forever.

The ambulance arrived, and we watched the bodies as they were cut from a metal womb and covered with long white sheets that soaked the blood like bread and wine.

There was one who had not been covered, though, but placed in one of the two ambulances and driven away like a bat out of hell. The jaws of life had freed her from the back seat.

The police office said that they must have been doing 85 down the dark country road, and only slowed to about 60 by the time they realized that there was a sharp curve.

The walk back home with dad was a silent one. And, when we got inside, the shaken kid was gone. I went upstairs to my room and turned on my electric typewriter.

The next day it was as if nothing had happened. The road was clear. The wreckage was gone. There was no blood or antifreeze pooling in the road. It was a return to normalcy.

I went to my best friend's house that night and watched some horror movies. I then got in my car and headed home around 11:30 p.m.

It was before midnight when I came to the curve in the road that claimed the lives of the teens just 24 hours prior. It was there that I could have sworn that I saw, running from the cornfield to the yard of the old farmhouse where it happened, the misty silhouettes of two teenaged guys. I thought that they were playing a morbid game of tag around the oak tree that was now stripped of bark on one side.

I could have sworn that's what I saw. A ghostly warning to slow down, and rebel within reason.

Sometimes, in darkest of nights, I still hear that sound of the collision, and shudder at the thought of the aftermath. 

~Torres

Yeah... Kinda Like That.

Like tap dancing during an earthquake.
Like drinking fire.
Like trying to fly.
Like sitting on the third rail with a wet ass.
Like wondering what that noise was in the darkness while you're trying to sleep.
Like driving with your sense of taste.
Like eating your favorite record.
Like playing Russian Roulette with an AK-47.

Like lowering your fucking guard for two seconds
in order to let someone
who may be just a bit more enlightened
than you
teach you something about life
because you can't fucking fathom
that we may all just be one soul,
and that we should just lay down our verbal
and physical weaponry
and usher in a kindness and peace of mind
that just lasts
for the rest of humanity's reign
because making art
and being good to each other
 just. Makes. Sense.

Like accepting fate.

You chose to write poetry.

And I thank you for it.

Foundation

Only the foundation 

remains 

of the haunted inn 

where your father bar-tended,

and made you into a bar-baby,

long before you found comfort in spirits.

When your parents finally divorced.

You dressed like a magical pixie

and tapped patrons 

with your wand,

allowing them the wishes 

that the booze couldn't grant.

But,

even more so,

you wanted to ride 

the dumbwaiter

from the bar 

to the kitchen.

They would give you maraschino cherries,

as you listened to the plates clang 

and clash.

That ride was your one desire.

              And they denied it. 

A few days ago,

that inn burned down. 

And our friend was there afterwards

taking pictures.

You wanted to buy one. 

Why?

You haven't spoken to your father

in 8 years.

You wished that he caught fire 

instead.

Should we drive to New Jersey

and steal what's left of his record collection?

Or should we worry

that he'll show up at the wedding.

Demanding answers 

from a room full of Irish

and Puerto Ricans?

I'd pay to see it...

Now, the inn 

is the ghost of a memory now.

Yet, here you are.

Red hair crescendo,

dancing by the sandalwood incense

in front of the living room window 

to soft music. 

Where were you on the night

that your past 

went up

in flames?

Yesterday

I've got a lot going on.
And, lately, there hasn't been much music
in my life.

Everyone on the radio talks too much.

Yesterday
The ice and snow
mixed on the sidewalk
and streets
And it looked like Cornmeal porridge.

The kind I used to make when we were snowed in.

I brought this bottle of rum with me.
Its got a good coconut and lime accompaniment.

Maybe, together, we'll hear jazz one more time.

I woke up
dreading the day
and missing people
I haven't seen in a while.

The typewriter ignored me.
The word processor ignored me.
The computer ignored me.

I wrote another poem about nothing
in my head
while I had my coffee
in bitter contemplation.

I would have written you sooner.
I wanted to.
But I don't like writing about cliche topics.
Or,
the kind of things that strangers
discuss while waiting for buses.

It's 2015
and I have 3 dollars in my wallet.

I'm waiting to hear back from 2 poetry contest
and a literary magazine.

They keep me going.

I'm waiting for the night time to come.
She'll be home, and she'll smile at me.

I'm waiting for the right word
to strike
and ring out in the forge
of my aged soul.

Perhaps I should eat strawberries a little more slowly.

Perhaps I should go fishing
when spring arrives.

Paddy Boy

Like one hand clapping

in a darkened theater

to the swan’s song,

Patrick

sits at home,

alone,

and fights his disease

for as long as he can.

The empty house,

far from the streets of Dublin,

has a hint of ghostly cigarette smoke

from tobacco long since punched out--

seeping out of the wood floor and paneling.

His kitchen

is barren

except for a loaf of bread

and a teapot whistling.

There is a transparent television

he bought for his son,

who went to prison.

And as he walks around,

he grabs tabletops

and backs of chairs

with calloused hands,

responsible for years of rebel wars

and bricklaying.

His dog,

Molly,

the gentle boxer,

doesn’t bark at strangers,

and never leaves his side.

“She sleeps nex’ ta me inda bed,”

he says in a sweet brogue.

She’s all he has now.

His sons never call.

His ex-wife

Could care less.

She’s already getting what’s left of his money.

They gave him

Experimental drugs

And told him

He could have ten years left

If he takes them

Every day.

The P.O.W. experiences

were recess.

The brain tumor

was a paper cut.

The psych ward

was a vacation.

The toe amputation

was a minor itch.

Leukemia

Could be different…

“it’s not dyin’ tha scares me,”

he says.

“It’s bein’ alone

while ah do it.”

Molly cups his hand

between her paws

and licks his fingertips

as steam rises from the teacup.  

When Dementia Came to Puerto Rico and all the Flowers Died

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

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