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

Year in Review

My writing sucks lately. My only hope is that next year I can get my head out of my ass and take things even more seriously.

--
It's a great thought to have resolutions, but I've never really understood them. All really seems to do is mislead habitual people for a few weeks, and clog up the gym when I want to work out. All I want to do next year is find more time to write. Will that happen? No. It's shaping up the be the busiest year of my life. A little happiness, and less time spent fighting with loved ones (including my fiance) would be nice, but that probably won't happen either. I am, and am surrounded by people who are constantly on fire about every aspect of their lives. And, when those things don't pan out, they turn on each other. It's that, or everyone is too damn busy to find time for complete resolution. You be the judge.

I just wanna write stories with ghastly ghouls and mischievous monster. Things that go bump in the night, and things that traumatize children. Writing more poetry that promotes deep thought, and/or is something that people can relate to would be ideal as well. Basically, I wanna keep on keeping on.

Happy new year. Stay warm. Have a scotch. Love your neighbor. Love yourself. Love me.

Love you.

~Torres

Untitled...With Reason

Untitled...With Reason

You think that the fact that we are going to die would be enough…

You think that we be enough.

Motivation to be kind to each other—

      Believe in something besides fairy tales.

            Love harder than you thought possible.

                  Be loved back.

But it isn’t.

       It isn’t enough

              to walk with both eyes open in wonder.

We won’t let it be so.

We favor our differences over the differences of others.

The crowd refuses to give up its rule.

        It refuses to consider that

                     it

                                 may

                    be

                                 dead

                                                   wrong.

---

Moving around the stanzas and lines can be fun sometimes. This is the first time I really did it.

But, I haven’t written poetry is a couple months.  It’s sad, but true. I’ve been doing a lot of
editing. I’ve been doing some submitting. And, I’ve been focused on writing spooky stories and the like.

I miss poetry. But at least I’m writing something.

Later,

~Torres

The Squalid Number

I used the title "The Squalid Number" because an English gentlemen used the term when describing "The Life of Brian" to John Cleese during an interview. It's fun to say; sounds like a Victorian horror story; and has a great meaning (a dirty/unpleasant bit of info/material).

It has nothing to do with this post. 

--

In this post, I will provide you with a Bukowski video that (I think) everyone should watch (Tom Waits is reading this one). Then, I will attempt to reach you with poesy of my own. Behold!

The Laughing Heart

Now, it's my turn...

-------------------------

Wanda

The first girl I ever kissed

when I was 8 years old

is wanted for manufacturing 

and dealing

in my home town.

Judging by her mugshot

(from an arrest a year ago),

it was a more serious chemical this time.

Back them,

she was cute

and shy.

A rose of promise.

Her father was gone,

but her mother would beat her 

with one of his belts

on a regular basis.

Her brother was overbearing

and over-protective.

There was no neck tattoo back then.

No luggage under her lids.

No scar on her left cheek.

She was as pure,

and as tan 

as untouched

Puerto Rican 

sand

along Arecibo.

We were building Lego castles

in the toy room

of my old house

when she leaned it,

and I felt the softness

of the opposite sex

for the first time

upon my lips. 

"If you tell anyone, I'll kill you,"

She said with a smile,

before strolling down Chestnut street

unguarded,

back to Lebanon's own 

little Barrio

on the other side 

of the train tracks. 

It looks like she's been there ever since.

--------------------------------------------------

~Torres

Every Creepy Opportunity That I Can Find

As it turns out, my fascinations with strange or otherworldly phenomena has a tendency to obscure the way that others view me. I know that there are times when I become almost entranced by a mind frame that is horror-bent or supernaturally charged, but that's only because I need to feel fear in order to write about fear.

Lately, I've been feeling as though people seek me out for explanation or further investigation when they experience something strange. It doesn't bother me that they do this. In fact, I welcome it. Like I said before, it inspires me. Even if it makes me scream and wet myself.

The newest addition of creepdom (my word) in my life is a part-time job that I took in order to save money for my wedding. The job is a simple one (for those that aren't deathly afraid of the dark, or, most things for that matter): work an after party for wedding guests and be the night-watchman/innkeeper from about 3 p.m. to 3 a.m. The boss said that I could stay in the renovated innkeeper's apartment on the property. He even had a desk put in the bedroom and urged me to bring my typewriter. It's perfect because there's no TV. No distractions from a busy highway, or noisy neighbors. The grounds are beautiful.

 but, it's almost too quiet.

The first weekend I spent there went exactly as you are probably assuming that it did. I unpacked some clothes, a typewriter, and my pet rabbit (Henry) into the apartment, and went for a walk around the property. Keep in mind that I arrived on a Friday around 6 p.m. (I start later on Fridays because I'm coming from my full-time job), so it had already been dark for an hour.

I, almost immediately, began searching around the inn for a flashlight. I ended up finding one in the innkeeper's office (convenient, I know), along with a spare key for the innkeeper's apartment. There was no one around, so I couldn't ask if it was alright to take one of the keys, but I knew that I needed it. I needed it because the last thing I wanted was to have a stranger in the apartment (by accident or not). I did not want to keep the door unlocked while I worked.

Do you see how easy it is for me to get paranoid? I blame all the great horror stories and the men and women who pen (or have penned) them.

The night went by typically. There were guests who needed ice, or their cable adjusted; there were some drunks who needed help relocating their rooms; and there were decent tips made.

And then, the night came to a close, and it was time to turn off all of the lights on the two acres of land. It was 2 a.m. when I began this task.

The first step involved walking to the top parking lot where the valets park the cars before an event start. There are two lights up in the lot. One is in the dead center, and once it is extinguished you can see all the constellations you had to memorize in high school. The other light is beyond the fence, in the tall grass. Now, with weeds up to your knees, one cannot help but wonder what might be skulking through the vegetation towards you. once those lights were out, and I began walking away from the lot, I felt a bit of relief.

When I rounded the corner next to the old innkeeper's apartment (a separate one from where I was staying), I hit another outside light which illuminated a breezeway between those living quarters and the "old barn." I then opened the door to the "old barn" and went inside.

The "old barn" is where the after parties took place. At this point, we had cleaned up all the garbage and food scraps, I had doused the embers in the fireplace with water, and no one was in there anymore. When all the lights were out, every creak in the old wood floor scared the hell out of me. There was a time when I saw the ghostly silhouette of a woman pass by the large window on the second floor. while I was valeting. I didn't want to see her tonight.

I locked the doors to the "old barn" and split. I began creeping my way down the stone pathway that led to the steps of the bridal suite. There was a light on in there too, but the suite was empty as well. As soon as I opened the door, I was hit with a wave of perfume and women's sweat. The bridal suite was small, especially when a bride has such a large group of ladies all getting their hair and make-up done in the same place at the same time. It tends to get hot in there.

Of course, the light switch was on the wall at the other end of the suite, right in front of the 10-foot by 8-foot mirror. It awakened an old fear in me that ran from the age of eight to about nineteen. I was afraid to look into a mirror if the lights were out. Fearful that that the reflection wasn't true. That something else was beyond the mirror. And that maybe, if I didn't turn the light back on, and then off again, it would crawl through the reflective portal and kill me in my sleep.

But I don't have that fear anymore.

I am grateful.

After I closed the door, I continued down the stone path to the "new barn" or the "reception hall." It was the largest building on the property, and I had to enter through the kitchen because, at this point, it was the only door that was unlocked. All I had to do here was double check everything and lock that kitchen door behind me. The servers are supposed to turn everything out at the end of the night.

Walking back, I took the server's path, which ran behind the English courtyard. It was the same red stoned path where the dark figure of a man can sometimes be seen walking along. Once he even bumped into me.

I didn't want to see him either.

By the time I got back to the parking lot next to the inn. Next to building where I was staying. And there, in the darkness, I heard a voice.

"Who's there?" he said.

"Night-watch," I replied. "Go to bed."

And he did.

"Jeezus, that was easy," I said to myself.

Then I took a walk about the inn and tried to keep the thoughts of the ghost of a little girl that guests claim to see and/or hear from time to time out of my mind.

I then locked the back door when I was done, and went to bed.

Nothing really happened. I was proud of myself. I could do it. I proved it to myself.

That night, I slept. And, as I did, I dreamed that a man was standing in the threshold of the bedroom, staring down at me. He was angry. And there was a darkness that crept across the room, up the walls, and resonated from him.

Then I awoke. The morning sun was pouring through the blinds and I was hungry. The bedroom door was closed, and the man wasn't there anymore.

This job will be going on for the next several weeks. Wish me luck.

~Torres

Hot Static

Have you ever heard of shadow people? It's a particular "theory" that comes up from time to time when I'm discussing weird or supernatural fiction with others. I'll fill you in a bit....

Okay, so "shadow people"are--somewhat disturbing--images that people tend to see out of their peripheral vision. Now, let me ask you the following: have you ever noticed something moving out of the corner of your eye? Perhaps a swiftly moving lump of darkness that takes shelter behind a telephone pole or down an alleyway?

If so, have you ever wondered what it was? There are several theories.

Some believe that these dark features come from other dimensions. That we share a space between this world and others.

Then, there are those who claim that they are an energy source from this world. What some call "ghosts," or "paranormal energy."

Regardless of what you think, feel, or believe, the concept of "shadow people" is an interesting one to those whose curiosity reaches beyond the realm of the world that they perceive on a conscious basis.

By the way, I named this short post "Hot Static" after a description I had heard once when someone was referring to this "energy." It's what the individual claimed that it "felt and looked like."

Yes. It is going to become the title of one of my short stories...

If you have a story to share about this topic, leave it in the comment section. I can't wait to read them.

~Torres

Subconjunctival hemorrhage

Haven't posted in a while, but I did injure my eye. Here's a poem about it.

_-_-_-_-_-

Subconjunctival hemorrhage

I got kicked in the face
By my pet rabbit
After he tried to eat a poisonous
Houseplant.

And I got scared.

Turning him upside down and
Lifting his jowls.

Whump!

I laughed.
Then my vision went blurry.
And I could tell
By the look in his face
That he regretted his decision

I was only trying to help.

I went to the ER
And all the Doctor's laughed at me.
I made their nights.
The pharmacist
Laughed at me too.
So did the ophthalmologist.

That's what i get for loving
Animals
A little too much.
One eye normal.
One eye that's halfway
To blood red.
There's a small scratch
On the white of my eye.

It's a word I've never said before.

I've had enough of waiting rooms.
With screaming kids
And slurring men
Reading the travel magazines out loud
All the while bitching about how poor they are.

When i finally got home,
My wife to be
Fixed my a gauze eye patch and taped it over my tell-tale flaw.

She's always prepared.
A real good woman.

She finds it sexy.

I feel like James Joyce.
Or some great gladiator
But only when my shirt's off.

Perhaps it's a good time to write
My own Ulysses.

Or try rabbit stew
For the first time.

___________

"I can see clearly now--the rain is gone..."

~Torres