Long Hard Road Out of Hell (11 page)

“I told you not to do the nasty. And now I catch you doin’ it on your sister. What can I do with such a disrespectful boy?

Her rhetoric frightened him. What if she took away the television? What if she made him take those pills again—what had she called them? Saltpeter? He could fix that though. He was good at hiding them under his tongue and then throwing them out his window.

Although Teddy was taller than Mother, she overwhelmed him with her presence. She stepped over Angie and raised her cane to his head; she was varicose in her elegance.

“Bad boys have to be punished. That’s how we keep a family together.”

Sharply, and with surprising force, she bludgeoned his head repeatedly until he collapsed, limp and denigrated on the carpet.

When Teddy awoke, he winced at the tugging pain at his eyelids—they wouldn’t open no matter how hard he strained. Atop his naked groin he felt the cold security of Peg, and beneath him the gritty soil. Damn Mother and her sewing. He touched his eyelids and knew he would find the tiny knotted stitches binding his vision.

“Teddy,” she called from above. “You’ve been a bad boy. You won’t be looking at Angie anymore though, I’ve seen to that. Just like your father you are. I had to teach him a lesson too.”

He heard an earthy scrape from above and pleaded for forgiveness. “Mother please, I didn’t mean to look. I’m sorry. Please, Mother–”

A scoop of dirt landed on his face, covering his nose and mouth; his arms were squeezed too tightly into the grave to protest.

“Got to keep the family together.”

Mother continued to fill in the grave as Teddy struggled to free himself; he wanted to spit but his mouthful of dirt prohibited any such action. Above, Mother babbled about discipline and Teddy’s punishment led to suffocation as his eyes seeped tears of blood.

March 15, 1988
           

Night Terrors Magazine

1007 Union Street
        

Schenectady, NY 12308

Brian Warner

3450 Banks Rd. #207

Margate, FL 33063

Hey Brian,

Thank you for “All in the Family.” I like the idea, but I prefer something a little more involved. However, you write very well and very convincingly, and I’m anxious to see another submission from you. But, Brian, I would first urge you to acquaint yourself with the unique type of fiction we publish by purchasing a subscription to
NT
. I can send you the next four issues for only $12 for your first year and $16 each year afterwards. I hope you’ll take advantage of this savings—more than 35% off the cover price—and join our bloody little gang. If you’re serious about selling your work to
NT
—payment is two and a half cents per word—then getting to know the mag is your key to a quick sale.

Till then,
                     

John Glazer
                 

Editor
                         

March 28, 1988
        

Brian Warner
           

3450 Banks Rd. #207

Margate, FL 33063
   

John Glazer, Editor

Night Terrors Magazine

1007 Union Street

Schenectady, NY 12308

Dear John Glazer,

Thank you very much for your encouraging response. Enclosed is a check for four issues of
NT
. I am eager to receive my first copies. In the meantime, I am sending you three new poems I wrote, “Piece de Resistance,” “Stained Glass” and “Hotel Hallucinogen.” I hope that you’ll find them more to your taste.

Thank you for considering these submissions, and I’m looking forward to receiving my subscription to
Night Terrors Magazine
.

Sincerely,
                

Brian Warner
           

PIECE BE RESISTANCE

When the fork eats the spoon,

and the knife stabs

the face reflected in the plate,

dinner is over.

STAINED GLASS

In the wooden silence

genuflecting fornicators

seek penance and

false-toothed idealists

throw grubsteaks on the offering plate.

light a candle for the sinners

light a fire

Self-pronounced prophet, parable-speaking Protestant

preaches his diatonic dogma,

disemboweling indiscreetly.

supplicate

congregate

the world looks better through stained glass

light a candle for the sinners

set the world on fire

Falsities

Falsities

Falsified factualities;

All sitting like eager sponges,

soaking up the tertiary realities of life.

HOTEL HALLUCINOGEN

Lying in bed contemplating

tomorrow, simply meditating,

I stare into a single empty

spot, and I notice a penetrating

of two eyes looking up and

down and at various odd angles

secretly inspecting me; and I

feel my stare tugged away

from the blank screen in

front of my eyes and directed

at the eight empty beer cans

forming an unintentional pyramid.

And I close my lids to think–

How many hours have passed

since I constructed such an

immaculate edifice of tin?

Or did I create it all?

Was it the watchers?

I open my eyes and return my stare to the pyramid.

But the pyramid has now

become a flaming pyre, and

the face within is my own.

What is this prophecy that

comes to me like a delivery boy,

cold and uncaring of its message,

asking only for recognition?

But I will not fall prey

to this revelation of irrelevance

I will not recognize this perversion

of thought.

I will not.

I hurl my pillow at the

infernal grave, as if to save my

eyes from horrific understanding,

and I hear the hollow clang

of seven empty beer cans,

not eight–

Was it fate that left

one to stand?

Why does this solitary tin soldier

stand in defiance to my

pillow talk of annihilation?

Then, for some odd, idiotic,

most definitely enigmatic reason

the can begins to erupt in a barrage of

whimpering cries.

Does he lament because his

friends and family are gone

or that he has no one

with which to spawn?

They were gone…

But no, that’s not the reason.

It is a baby’s cry of his mother’s

treason.

The screaming fear of abandonment.

And this wailing, screaming, whining

causes the dead cans to rise

and I can’t believe my eyes,

that this concession of

beverage containers is chanting

in a cacophony of shallow rebellion

to my Doctrine of Annihilation

that was discussed in my

Summit of the Pillow (which is now

lost among the stamping feet of the

aluminum-alloy anarchists).

I am afraid, afraid of these

cans, these nihilistic rebels.

As the one approaches–the baby cryer,

I suppose my fear now

escalates, constructing a wall

around my bed, trying to shut

everything out

but without a doubt

the cryer casually climbs what

I thought was a Great Wall

not unlike the one in Berlin.

He begins to speak.

His words flow cryptically from

the hole in his head

like funeral music: deep, resonant,

and sorrowful.

He says to me: “You must

surrender to your dreams it’s just.

We sit all day planning for your attendance

and upon arrival you

very impolitely

ignore us.”

In awe, I nod involuntarily

and he closes my eyes.

No.

He gives me a pair of aphrodisiac sunglasses,

and I fall asleep in the shade.

Asleep in a field of hyacinth and jade.

When I crawl out of my sleep

I get up,

my hair a tangled mess of golden locks.

I enter the kitchen,

and go to the icebox.

I pull out a single can of beer,

and as I begin to drink

I hear

The weeping of an abandoned infant.

June 5, 1988
            

Brian Warner
           

3450 Banks Rd. #207

Margate, FL 33063
   

John Glazer, Editor

Night Terrors Magazine

1007 Union Street

Schenectady, NY 12308

Dear John Glazer,

I received my first copy of
Night Terrors
in the mail two weeks ago, and have now read the entire issue. I enjoyed it, particularly the story by Clive Barker. I haven’t heard from you, and wonder whether you received the poems that were included with my subscription request. I am more eager now than before to be published in
Night Terrors Magazine
. I feel that it is the perfect place for my work. Please respond soon and let me know if you received my last submission, or if you’d like me to send it again.

Sincerely,
                 

Brian Warner
            

July 8, 1988
                

Night Terrors Magazine

1007 Union Street
        

Schenectady, NY 12308

Brian Warner

3450 Banks Rd. #207

Margate, FL 33063

Hey Brian,

Nice to hear from you. Thanks for the nice words about
NT
; yes, I read your poems, and enjoyed them, but did not think they were right for
NT
. I’m sorry; I must’ve forgotten to respond to them. But please submit again soon; I’m really enjoying your work.

Till then,
                     

John Glazer
                 

Editor