Teddy Bear Heads: A Collection of Dark Poetry and Flash Fiction

Teddy Bear Heads

  A Collection of Dark Poetry and Flash Fiction

  by N.R. Allen

  Copyright 2012 by N.R. Allen

  Cover Art by N.R. Allen and Brian Early

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons or events is purely coincidental.

  The author would like to thank Brian Early and Ellen Krupar.  Thanks for your continued support and editing.  Also, the author would like to thank Barbara Allen for being a sounding board.

  If you enjoy Teddy Bear Heads, check out these other works by N.R. Allen:

  Blood of the Revenant (A Young Adult, Dark Fantasy Novel)

  Cemetery Dreams (A Collection of Short Horror Fiction)

  Coming soon: Lott’s Mountain (A Young Adult Urban Fantasy Novel)

  Table of Contents

  Teddy Bear Heads

  Alone

  Feeding the Dead

  Talking to Dead Things

  Carving Pumpkins

  Dreaming

  Ouija Board

  Burying Ligeia

  Dead Roses

  How Familiar

  Mother

  October

  Burning Incense

  The Lamia

  Beltane

  The Careful Art of Drowning

  The Reason of Madness

  . . . and We Linger

  That House at the End of Carver Street

  Lost And Found

  A Grave Matter

  About the Author

  TEDDY BEAR HEADS

 

  I love teddy bear heads,

  With their cute little glass eyes.

  I know they watch me when I’m sleeping;

  They think I don’t know, but I do.

  And I really like their fluffy fur,

  Their fuzzy, round ears,

  And the little stump of stuffing,

  Where their necks should be.

  I whisper my special secrets to them,

  Because I know they won’t tell anyone.

  I love teddy bear heads,

  Especially when they start talking back to me.

  ALONE

  I'm lonely,

  That is, until the voices come;

  Slowly they seep and drip,

  And slither through the walls,

  To pry at the mortar of my mind.

  FEEDING THE DEAD

  There are dead things in my attic,

  That play jump rope with cobwebs

  And bounce on old furniture

  Just to make the springs creak.

  I can hear them at night and during the day,

  Even when I’m asleep,

  Scratching at the floorboards in my head,

  To remind me they’re still waiting,

  And that they’re always hungry.

  TALKING TO DEAD THINGS

  No Ouija boards.

  No robes or candlelight.

  Just soft whispers,

  And bones stabbing through dirt;

  There's always the smell--

  Thick and heavy like old grease;

  And I worship,

  On my knees,

  In the dark;

  It's ok to whisper.

  It's even okay to scream,

  Because the dead always listen.

  CARVING PUMPKINS

  I let someone in my head once.

  She reached in deep, past pulpy memories

  And pulled out the slimy parts

  To make room for her

  To slide in and dance with my thoughts

  And squish through what was left

  So she could fix me.

  She pried out the bad things.

  And left hollow, empty things

  But she didn't know that

  In my head there is always music

  Now she can move and sway

  And look out through my milk-grey eyes

  As she tries to claw out of the lonely places.

  But I need her.

  She's the light

  --Warm and flickering--

  Behind my rotting, October smile.

  DREAMING

  Sometimes I pull back my hair

  And open that little trapdoor in my head

  The one with the stairs

  That go way down

  Into very dark places

  OUIJA BOARD

  oh y Es

  w E ARE wAtch ing

  YOU

  BURYING LIGEIA

  Poe couldn't.

  Not with shovelfuls of words

  And a handful of crushed roses

  So she remains

  As always, patient and cold

  In the mausoleum of my thoughts

  And guards a place

  So dark and quiet and lonely

  Where the ravens gather in their murder

  And the black cat with the glowing eyes

  Chases the ghosts through my memories.

  DEAD ROSES (Or A Letter From an Admirer)

  bE my PreTtY roSE

  HanGiNG frOm my WaLL

  sO I cAN watCh yOu

  And CouNt your breAtHs

  AnD fill your hEAd witH

  My voiCEs

  mY DrEAms

  One pEtaL saYS “I LOvE YoU.”

  Two:  “Why DiD yOu LEt me in?”

  THrEE:  “I’ll MaKE yoU SO speciAL.”

  mY preTtY liTTle rose

  oN my SpecIAL waLL

  NoW I’LL never be alone.

  AnD neitHer wiLL yOu.

  HOW FAMILIAR

  It isn't about sipping wine

  Or watching you while you sleep:

  I do those things.

  It isn't about fingers gliding down your back

  Hungering for that bit of warmth

  Or skin glowing like porcelain in the moonlight

  Or moving close enough to drink in your breath:

  No, it isn't about that.

  Not draped velvet

  Or cemetery stones

  Or poetry in the darkness

  Or teeth so close.

  Wonderful teeth and other sharp things.

  Waiting and so hungry.

  It’s never about how it begins.

  Only about how it ends.

  And it will.

  Tonight.

  MOTHER

  She has fishhooks for fingers

  And knives for eyes

  To slash and slice and cut

  Compliments from my skin

  OCTOBER

  Soot and cinders

  Dance and pinwheel

  While pumpkins grin

  And fingers of fog

  Twist and dance with the

  Trees and dying things.

  BURNING INCENSE

  The red eye of fire

  Eats away the deadness

  As it leaves a trail

  Of gray behind

  That drifts

  Lazily forward

  Like slender hands

  Dancing slowly

  While they spiral together

  To form a woman of smoke

  That twists

  And curves

  As she rises before

  My longing eyes

  Like some silken genie

  Slipping from

  Its amber lamp

  Summoned by a

  Brush and a kiss

  From the sputtering match

  Gray legs

  Stretch upward

  Into sleek, moist arms

  As wisps of warm smoke

  Swirl into swaying breasts

  While pearl fingert
ips

  Kissed to ash by the sick air

  Reach for me

  A dead fire

  Fast within each touch

  Her hair fans into a pool

  Of gray

  That cascades down

  Her velvet shoulders

  To then slip down

  Her smooth back

  As her lips

  Part in a teasing

  Promise to drown me

  In their dying warmth.

  --and then I reach for her

  THE LAMIA

  Night is a woman

  With fist-sized breasts

  And bronze skin soft

  Like dusk’s lavender wine.

  Her polished-bone eyes

  Are the white haloes

  That encircle the moon.

  Her fingers,

  Strong, gentle, fierce,

  Web across the sky

  Like the bleak, barren limbs

  Of a wintered tree,

  Enclosing everything,

  Locking it in her touch.

  Smooth, milk thighs

  Lengthen into rounded calves

  As her back arches, and she

  Leans against the horizon

  Tossing her thick, auburn hair backward,

  So that it shimmers across the ocean,

  Tickling the somber water into gentle fury.

  She drips lazily across the treetops,

  The stars balanced on her fingertips

  Like a thousand silver razors.

  Her tight, velvet skirt

  Blushes the black mountains in liquid crimson,

  As her arms, like a noose of ice,

  Slip around my neck.

  And I dream.

  BELTANE

  She's not afraid to dance

  Naked in the rain

  Because sometimes

  She needs to feel that little kiss of lightning

  And to show the teeth hidden

  Behind her smile

  As she rises

  Above the trees

  To claw

  At the black clouds that

  Bubble and twirl

  And blister

  The sky in night's elegance.

  THE CAREFUL ART OF DROWNING

  My mind is a casket

  --reddish brown mahogany with golden hinges--

  Locking away all that I'm not supposed to be

  So I can sink deeper into the voices

  Into the tides of normal

  And watch its blackness lap at my eyes

  It's time to be perfect

  To give into that image of baby doll perfection

  To drown in the voices

  And endure the sweet suffocation

  Of how you see me

  As whispers that no one else can hear

  Fill up what's left of what I once was.

  THE REASON OF MADNESS

  There are little monsters living inside my head that sleep inside reason’s rainbow and blow bubbles in cemeteries and giggle when the lights go out and run with scissors up and down the stairs in my brain -- up down round round sideways -- until the landlord calls the police.

  I like monsters.

  . . . AND WE LINGER

  We are soft, warm smoke

  With soft tissue paper voices

  Like the tickle of a spider web

  On your face

  --not seeing

  --but feeling

  We are the little whispers

  And echoes of what you really want to do

  And you hear us

  Like mice scurrying through the attic--

  All sharp claws and gnawing teeth.

  And we know

  That sooner or later,

  You'll give in.

  THAT HOUSE AT THE END OF CARVER STREET

  There's a house at the end of Carver Street—

  All broken windows and boarded-up doors.

  An old, rusted van sulks in the driveway,

  With its small, black windows all covered in tape,

  To hide things.

  There's a chimney on the house at the end of Carver Street—

  A few of the bricks have fallen out,

  So that it looks like it's smiling through rotten teeth;

  But the backyard is nice and has lots of trees and little white flowers,

  And bones sticking up through the grass.

  It's not like all the other houses;

  No, something lives in that house—

  It creeps behind the curtains,

  Remembering and watching,

  And it's lonely.

  They get worse after dark—the noises—

  Because the little white fence can't keep them in,

  Not the crying,

  Not the whispers,

  Not the cutting sounds.

  We all remember Carver Street,

  And that house.

  Yes, we've all been there before—

  Down the rotten stairs,

  Through the cobwebs with the fat, black spiders,

  In the very, very dark room in the basement,

  With all of the knives and sharp things.

  And in the backyard.

  We all know that house at the end of Carver Street,

  Because we're the ones who have never left.

  LOST AND FOUND

  I just woke up and my foot's missing.  I've looked in the most obvious place, of course, but it's just not there.  Darlene'll be here in fifteen minutes.  What am I going to do?  I shouldn't panic . . . but where is it?

  And then the phone rings.  You'd think I wouldn't answer it.  I should be looking for my foot, but if I act normal, then maybe everything'll get back to normal, right?

  It's my mother.  I should have just kept looking for my foot.  She's prattling on, wondering if am I still going out with Darlene tonight.

  "Yeah, yeah I am, Mom."

  What I want to say . . . is . . . Sure, IF I CAN FIND MY FOOT . . . But I don't say that.  I give an uh-huh and an um where I'm supposed to.   Gotta be normal.  Have to pretend everything's okay.  My mother keeps asking questions. Am I wearing a tie?  All the young professionals wear ties.  The blue one, dear.  Not the red.  And she finally let's me give an answer . . . "Yes.  The blue one."

  Why does she stay on me like that with the questions if she doesn't want me to answer?  If she won't wait for a simple little answer . . . Inside I'm screaming.  Inside I'm yelling.  But to her, she gets the calm uh-huh, then the um, and finally the yes, Mom.

  And she keeps saying how I need to impress Darlene.  Everything has to be great.  Everything has to be perfect.  Just like always.   Perfect.  PERFECT.  She wants to know if I got reservations to the fancy, expensive restaurant downtown.  Only the best for Darlene or something like that is what she says.  And that I should wear the brown shoes, not the black.

  She says I'm distracted.  She'd sounded distracted, too, if SHE'D LOST HER FOOT!

  I hang up, but only after saying the usual.  How I love her.  How she's right.  And then I notice something.  My hand's missing now.  It disappeared somewhere between the bathroom and the bedroom, while I was hanging up the phone.  It's usually hard to miss those things, you know.  Just have to stay calm.  There's bound to be a reasonable explanation.  WHERE'S MY HAND???  Calm.  Yeah, calm.  Have to stay calm . . . calm—

  This is not a dream.  It would be nice to know I'm going to wake up, but I'm already awake.  This is my apartment.  Every room is immaculate.  Every room is perfect, just like my mother likes it.  She never comes to visit.  She says she will, but she doesn't.

  But there's my one messy room.  The room where I don't have to be so perfect all the time.  I can ball up paper on the floor.  I can throw my jacket across the chair with the large stains on it.

  Was that the doorbell?  No, nobody's there.  It's just the dog down the street barking.  I hate that hairy little . . . One more minute.  I just have one more minut
e . . . until . . . Everything'll be all right in my messy room.  In that room I always keep locked.

  And now it's my legs.  Gone.  Just gone.  Hands gone.  Feet gone . . . legs, just gone . . .

  Right now, I'm crawling on the freaking floor looking for my legs.  I know they just didn't get up and walk away.  I laugh a little and then a little more.

  Maybe Darlene'll be late.  No, that's her.  Always miss prim and proper.  Always getting things her way.  She'll be on time.  Never early.  Never late.  On time.  Like clockwork.  You can tell when it's her because she always taps on the damn door with that cutesy little knock.  Knocking out some tune.

  She's a real Ice Queen, that Darlene.  She thinks everything's about her.  But it's about me.  It's always been about me.

  I want to curl up in my messy room, with all the sharp things.

  The Ice Queen . . . Wait.  Yeah, that's right.  I put everything in the basement because my messy room's too full.  That girl last night, she was a real keeper.  I had to keep every piece of her.   It's all about me.  She's mine to keep.  Her legs.  Her hands.

      I'm much more of a leg man, but hands do make the best keepsakes—they use up less freezer space.  Everything is tucked away safe and sound.  Just the way I like it.  Just in time.  After all, I want my messy room to be ready.  There's the knock knock knock.  Like always.

  "Hi, Darlene."

  Tonight's going to be special.  Very, special.

  A GRAVE MATTER

  My uncle always preferred the thought of cremation.  You know, an urn full of fake flowers on a shelf or scattering his ashes over the ocean.  A quiet kind of farewell--graceful and dignified without taking up a bunch of space.  He didn't want to be buried, but they didn't listen.  The funeral was really nice, though.  There were lots of flowers--daffodils, roses, lilies.  My mother had grown them inside.  We don't have much space in the house because of all of Mother's flowers.  Then again, she says it keeps things nice, like they used to be.