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.