New Eyes of Old: Quince Años - Part II

PART II

I

Quince Años. Twelve years of sand have plummeted through Padre Tiempo hourglass since last I placed pen to paper in any literary endeavor, let alone believed that that I ever would again.

The year 2012 had proved a crossroads within my life. Within the wake of certain social and legal stigmata given nascence in my “Bad Boy Rock N' Roll lifestyle,” I'd made the conscious decision to stop living within those shadows, sober my brown-red ass up, and pursue that "Apple Pie" life I had always longed for.

In one last HOO-RAH! to the beautifully desolate barrens of the American Southwest I'd interred that man, TL Hutton, deep below the dirty Phoenix desert grit alongside la Oscuridad, killing off my beloved Protagonist, Thaddeus L. White, bringing an end to both the Darkness Writhing Mythos and my not quite amateur but nowhere near professional writing career.

For any artist - the writer, the painter, the musician, any lover and practitioner of the Creative Arts – to lay their Muse to rest of their own volition and accord, to lock those demonios away deep within that forlorn closet, such an act of Creative Suicide is far greater an agony than any reaping of the soul that Muertes sickle keen could ever instill.

Many years ago I attended the funeral of an viejo amigo and an experience occurred which served as - for lack of a less profound phrase - a proverbial "Kick in the Dick." Frighteningly enough and blatantly so, I was reminded that once both the simplicities and complexities which constitute my character were stripped away, all that remained was el Escritor. The Writer.

And though (at that time) five years of sand had plummeted through the hourglass since last I had placed pen to paper in any literary endeavor, deep down below the layers of carne, sangre y hueso I knew that I had a story to tell.

I could feel it eating away inside me like a goddamned cancer – festering, growing, consuming. Volatile fucking growth for the sake of volatile fucking growth.

Yet - yet I had far greater demonios pressing on me at that point in time...infidelity, lies, deceptions in my marriage (one reason I harbor no faith in mujeurs Americana) - did I truly wish to set these new demonios of old free as well?

But writing for me had always been my truth. The fact behind the fiction that only I knew. A means to live in relative harmony with mis demonios.

In 2012 I attended the funeral of an old amigo who had met his untimely death that summer about the lovely tropical isles dotting the Southwest Pacific we know as the Philippines; but one of the few who had, some twenty years prior, bore witness to those endless reams upon reams of college-ruled MEAD notebook paper that had given nascence to both Thaddeus L. White and the original Darkness Writhing Mythos.

Myself, I just don't fare well at funerals. Let alone, standing among those sprawling Acres of the Dead for any period of time.

Sé, sé: Irónico! The author of Dark Fantasy, Historical, Horror, Speculative and Supernatural Fiction having no desire - if not trepidant - to step one foot within graveyards.

Interpret such as you please, Dear Reader, as I assure you that it is not what you are thinking.

Truth be told, I have always found a certain solemnity, a reverie, within those Acres de los Muertos. A beauty, though melancholy such may be, which one can beset the eyes upon nowhere else in all the Wonders of the World. Intrigue in the lost art, the pride and dignity in the master craftsmanship, of those ornate headstones and mausoleums born of those centuries now past and forgotten by most today. Curiosity, if not respect, within the stories - the truths - to be reaped from those lain within those Midian plots.

Still, I do not fare well at funerals nor merely being within a graveyard - and I have my reasons. But one more facet of my madness.

I suspect that I could feed you the whole trendy pop-culture, Sixth Sense, "Veo a gente muerta..." line in my best perturbingly melancholy matter-of-fact whisper, but -

- Well, that would just be a blatant line of bullshit.

It is a very rare occurrence that the dead manifest themselves to the living in our reality. They are more apt to do so within a dream or nightmare; the plane of the human subconscious is phenomenally akin to their plane of existence, thus requiring them less energy to manifest. Truths and Para-physics overlooked, if not blatantly ignored, and grossly embellished upon within the musty pages of Victorian-era literature's Gothic Romanticisms, as well as contemporary Horror Fiction.

I could proffer the whole Hollywood line of mierda to you, Dear Devoted Reader. I could. And not so many years ago probably would have. But such deceit, even for the sake of maintaining that literary integrity I am known for, is the furthest thing from my modus operandi with this specific text.

I shall, however, elaborate upon my reasons.

First and foremost, once you have come to know the infinite manifestations of Muerte as intimately as I, once your eyes have borne witness to more death within the meager span of forty-five years than most ever shall within a lifetime of attending the funerals of friends and loved ones, well -

- Well, you just become rather fucking numb to not only the ‘ol Reaper’s presence, but his machinations as well.

Such tends to make the solemn endeavor of displaying the slightest sign of emotion among those emotion-stricken mourners a mite difficult, if not seemingly heartless, uncaring and disrespectful.

“Sad but true,” to quote Metallica.

Secondly: Well, the majority of the dead at any given gravesite, let alone, other locales outside of traditional burial sites - that house down the street where the stray dog dug up the dismembered remains in the backyard; any battlefield where it was far more cost effective for the Federal Government to toss the fallen brave into a sinkhole or trench rather than to send them home, afford them a proper burial; those sacred sites belonging to those here long before the plague of American Cultural Imperialism, the cancer of Western expansion and the steel-and-concrete of Urban Sprawl spread across the land; those random, often desolate and remote, locations employed by madmen to dispose of their mad acts - are never truly at rest.

While it might prove a very rare occasion that the dead do manifest themselves to the living, it is nothing for them to let their voices be heard. And the dead are not too terribly keen on being ignored when they know one of the living can hear their pleas.

For myself, it is sometimes next to impossible, if not futile efforts altogether, to completely shut out those voices - usually whispering, sometimes SHOUTing, occasionally threatening, yet always begging for their truth to be heard and told - while among those Midian plots of so-called "rest."

Sadly - and I employ that adverb due to the fact it has always pained me deeply - I am but uno hombre, uno escritor; there is no way I could ever tell all their stories, ALL their truths. I learned to avoid those Acres of the Dead for that reason alone, lest there be a respect I just absolutely had to pay.

Suffice it to say then, it had been many, many years since last I buried anyone. And in all honesty, I had hoped that it would be many, many more before I ever had to do so again.

Prior to the services beginning - such was a modest gathering of sorrow-plagued faces I had not seen in as little as five, others in as many as twenty years or more - there came the general "Good to see you's" and "How have you been's?" to reluctantly engage in, the unavoidable (and again reluctantly to engage in) somber reminiscing’s of my old amigos life, his untimely passing.

Then there were those others present. Those voices - most whispering, some SHOUTing, others threatening, all begging for their truths to be heard and told - of the others present who could not be seen nor heard by that modest gathering of the living.

They are not actual voices, but more like a feeling that tells a story. That is the only way I know to explain it. An overwhelming feeling of the most intense emotion you can imagine. A feeling of the most intense emotion you can imagine that always begins with a tear.

When among those Midian plots of so-called "rest" it has always taken some effort on my part to effectively shut out those voices while in the presence of others. Especially on that overcast summer's morn amidst the gently rolling Ozark Hills (again, it had been many years since last I had willingly placed myself in such a position) as I, at that point in time, hardly a year into my marriage, had yet to confide within my wife this...blessing? This curse of mine.

Regardless, I must have fared well in my efforts that day, considering.

The truth about people is that we are by nature alone, stubborn, emotional creatures. As a result, we allow ourselves in the instance of death, a funeral, be governed by emotions alone. We mourn over our dearly departed in fits of seemingly endless weeping and falling tears or bouts of uncontrollable rage as the casket is slowly lowered into its earthen sepultura; we fall prey to that dark cathartic wave of depression, of disbelief, detaching ourselves from the vital comforts of familia y amigos - and reality - so consumed by that antagonist of grief we become. We even, in those most extreme cases, elect to join the dearly departed, convincing ourselves that we cannot live without them, through such selfish means as taking our own life.

I assure you, Dear Reader, that the dead do NOT desire any of this. Although there are those exceptions who want nothing more, if not far worse. For the most part, however, the majority merely desire to be remembered, to not be forgotten, to know that their lives did matter.

The majority simply want their stories - their truths - to be heard and told.

I simply converse with them. As I always have.

Whether or not my ex-wife or anyone else had noticed this, I cannot honestly say; never did she - nor anyone else - inquire as to what or to whom I was mumbling too under my breath that morn, my face placid yet intently set as if engaged in deep thought, as I stared upon the oversized portrait of my old departed amigo that loomed in memorial aside the eloquent Filipino-crafted urn that had carried what remained of his physical self back State-side.

I know that my ex-wife had happened upon me before while I'd sat at our front porch partaking of my beloved espresso and post-joint Pall Mall, staring blankly yet intently at seemingly nothing, engaged in the whispered rapture of such conversations of the ever-darkening dusk. Our neighborhood had resided upon what was once the vast open prairies of both the Cherokee and Kickapoo, later the Osage and Delaware. From that side of my bloodline mis antepasados, though angry they might still be at their usurpation by that cruel Federal hand, most continue to roam those prairies now entombed beneath the cancer of residential and commercial "Urban Sprawl". I suspect she had always concluded that I was merely loco talking with none but myself, such as crazy people are reputed to do.

Initially, I cursed mi viejo amigo for having again fallen prey to what I suspected was the true catalyst of his demise – a meth overdose - despite what the obituary had stated. I laughed, in nostalgic reminiscence at the many loco, if not fucking insane, adventures we had shared in our "Rock Star" days of seemingly eternal and untouchable youth. And I said my "Despedidas," wishing him well on his new journey.

I knew not to expect an answer, however; of all the dead present that morn mi viejo amigo was not.

There was no possible way he could have been present; his body had been cremated in the Philippines. Ashes were all that remained.

If there is one thing to be learned from Torquemada and his Spanish Inquisition, in its cruel, unholy methods to instill Holiness throughout the land (more specifically, mi pueblo y Cem-Ahuac), it is that the one sure method to ensure that the dead were truly lain to rest, it is to first salt and then burn the physical remains, especially the bones. It is a method of Papal purification.

And today cremation practices at furnaces the world over “unofficially” follow this same process.

Aside from all its unnecessary bloodletting in the name of a long-haired Jerusalem-cruising hippie throughout those centuries past, at least Christianity got this one thing right.

That fact considered, I have found solace in the knowledge that mi viejo amigo had found peace and was able to eternally rest, among those tropical isles dotting the Southwest Pacific that he loved so much.

About this time the madre of my old departed friend, along with the remainder of his immediate family (whom I knew rather intimately, otherwise I would have never willingly subjected myself to stepping one foot within that Acre of the Dead) pulled up to the service site, one-by-one stepping out of a gleaming pearl white SUV.

Again, came the general, yet somber "How are you's?" and "I'm sorry for your losses," the expected and unavoidable sorrow-stricken embraces sealed in welling tears and melancholy handshakes substantiated with half-hearted nods of the head from that modest gathering of faces as the poor woman clearly struggled to gain, if not maintain, her composure the best she could.

My ex-wife, the caring and compassionate woman that I remember she had once been (before pharmaceutical narcotic addiction dug its talons into her soul, turning her into one of the Walking Dead as it has most of America these days) inquired as to whether or not I wished to stroll over and greet her, proffer my condolences? I shook my head in reply - in hopes of tossing some of those other voices from it in the process - electing not to harangue the woman, overwhelm her any more than I’d suspected she already was.

I have known her and her husband for over half my life, far more intimately than the majority of those faces present and had given my condolences a week prior. Not twenty-four hours after learning of mi Viejo amigo passing and having spoken with his brother in the Philippines via Facebook Messenger, I called her, engaging in a heart-filled conversation for over an hour with the poor, grieving woman.

Nada. I saw no point in perpetuating her suffering, to make it harder on her than I already knew it was. What, with that modest gathering of faces pooling around her like sharks catching the wafting scent of blood within the shallows. Vain, if not selfish and disrespectful, attempts to gain acknowledgement as the "most concerned" or the "best friend."

Yet another blatant truth about people, about all mankind, is not only are we stubborn, emotional creatures by nature alone, but exceptionally vain and selfish creatures as well, believing that the world revolves around us. And we have mastered the portrayal of such shallow, appalling convictions so it might appear that we are genuinely concerned about another, when in all reality, we are merely feeding our superficial ego.

The "Marshy Brady Syndrome" - ME ME ME! - as I like to refer to it.

The living make mi corazón hurt, at times, even more so than the dead.

That modest gathering of faces I hadn't seen in years eventually grew silent, one-by-one trickling back to the masses, letting the poor woman some room to finally breathe.

She allotted herself some moments to regain her composure, steel herself to a degree, allowing a wan smile to stretch her weary face. A trembling hand wiped the tears that glistened on her cheeks. She then began to verbally acknowledge and introduce others present. Such had always been the woman I knew, the good hostess and all, no matter the occasion.

Standing hand-in-hand alongside my ex-wife off of that modest gathering's western flank, I happened to be the second she espied.

"And - ohh! There is Terry Hutton, I see," she started, that wan smile stretching her wearied face just a mite more. "And the lovely lady beside you, Dear, is...your wife?"

I concurred and introduced my wife, proffering some smart-ass chide - in hopes of maybe lightening the mood a little - to the extent that I was "tricked" into marrying her. But then, such had always been my way with my ex-wife, a little game I had always played with her; I always seized the opportunity to embarrass her in public.

Either she had loved me for it or, if not, then surely she had been secretly plotting my death for the entirety of our marriage. I like to believe the latter.

"If you don't know Terry," she continued, addressing that modest gathering of faces pooled before her, "or have never read his work, then you should. He is one of the greatest writers I have ever known, and one of the greatest I have ever read..."

At this time my ex-wife had squeezed my hand, as she so often did to convey or emphasize certain feelings, turned to look at me (which I am certain my face was frozen in the rictus of maybe not quite shock, but disbelief, just then), a wide teeth-barring smile stretching the Seraphim's symmetry of her face, a sense of pride glowing brightly within the azure liquid depths of her eyes.

In all honesty, I do not consciously recollect exactly how I reacted to such praise, if not free advertising, of both my craft and talent, especially five years (at that point in time) after the fact of my producing any work of literary value, let alone, trying too. I do recall my head beginning to violently swoon as if suddenly swept by a tempest, a painful palpitation of seismic proportions splitting through my chest, my flesh warming and palms going wet with sweat as my pulse began to race and my blood boiled. Innumerable fretful notions, resentments, anxieties, and fears ignited within my synapses like in those days when I would take a highway stripe of the "shit that killed Elvis" up my nose.

Her words, not unlike those last words spat in my cocaine-numbed face twenty-one years prior by mis hermanas upon that fretful winter's night I'd unknowingly sent them away to their deaths, instantly manifested into raw physical matter, providing me that proverbial "kick in the dick" with numbing results.

And then I felt it, that overwhelming emotion, the words roiling and churning within it oozing up though my gut, its weight so immense it took my breath, and the tear welled in the corner of my perpetually sad brown. The tear. Singular. Always that feeling and the single tear. Like a Spidey sense. It is how I know others are present and demand my ear. Or harm.

I remember an older hidalgo next to me, whom I did not recognize. Considering (I am certain to this day) he was clad in a rather plain brown cotton suit and derby hat more common of the 1930's than the more alluring contemporary attire of our times, and I do not recall seeing him again throughout the services, was he of the living or the dead? One those rare occurrences when they do choose to manifest themselves.

He turned to me and inquired ever-so-excitedly in a slight Irish lilt, "Himself is the auth'r, yes? How parfec is tha? An' whad is it, Sar, tha himself wri's?"

I remember rising whispers, my name mentioned some number of times, like some tumultuous tidal wave of elocution, rising to a tremulous crescendo of eerie jubilant revival. This rousted long-repressed memories of those loco Pentecostal tent "revivals" mi madre would drag me and mi hermana to as children, the parishioners screaming and weeping and laughing in some rapturous trance, "talking" in tongues and indiscernible gibberish while dancing around with poisonous snakes. It was as if the words of my old, departed friend's mother had just validated that their pleas had been heard. That I would be taking with me their stories, their truths, immortalizing them in written word so as to never be forgotten and share them with the world.

Years ago I would have reveled in her words, seized upon the moment. And arrogantly so. Stealing the very limelight from not only her, but from the entire service of mi viejo amigo and his memory. Back in those "Bad Boy" days, living my "Marsha Brady Syndrome" Rock Star lifestyle merely for the moment, and loved the attention, the notoriety. And (appallingly) fed off of it like a goddamned famished vampiro lapping every last drop of sanguine libation from its unwitting prey.

Thus that proverbial "Kick in the Dick." Those innumerable fretful notions, resentments, anxieties, and fears.

I was not that person, that escritor, anymore. And I had not been him in a very long time.

I was simply Terry Hutton, husband, family man, ex-writer, proprietor of Ozarks Exotic Scapes, LLC, self-proclaimed nerd. Just another face within that sociological cluster-fuck of faces doing his best to live that "Apple Pie" life he had always longed for, not -

- NOT TL Hutton, "Bad Boy" escritor, Voice of the Darkness, procurer of those tales macabre, eccentric, if not FUCKING loco, materialistic, narcissistic, egotistical, law-breaking, chemically dependent author of Specualtive Fiction.

Nada, I had worked so damn hard to get out from living within the social stigma of that particular shadow, as well as those other shadows that came with it. I had buried him deep below the dirty Phoenix desert grit alongside the Darkness when I had killed off Thaddeus White, bringing an end to the original Darkness Writhing Mythos.

As I stated at the beginning, fifteen years have now plummeted through the hourglass since last I had placed pen to paper in any literary respect. And, I had then believed, I never would again.

But then, at one point or another, and be it benevolent or malevolent in its revelation, the truth always rises to the surface, SCREAMing over all those other voices to be heard, regardless of what fiction we might attempt and conceal it behind.

It was then that yet another sound - a truly harrowing sound that, though I had not heard it in years, I was by no means a stranger too - seized my ears, my mind. A sound, perturbingly enough, that has always made me to think of what the wet TEARRRRing of flesh must have sounded like to my Azteca ancestors as their Tlatiani, looming atop the blood-sloughed plinth of the Templo Mayor, obsidian blade in his hand giving a cold vorpal wink in the waxen moonlight, flayed the skin from his living sacrifice in honor of Xipe Totec.

That hauntingly familiar tearing and ripping of this world's fabric as la Oscuridad - those dark truths that I, Dear Devoted Reader, have passed off as mere fiction for far too long - again clawed and gnashed its way through it, its rejoicing akin to some Hellish bastardization of Angels lilting, demanding the warm coppery tang of mi sangre, mi sudor y mis lágrimas to satiate it salivating maw.

II

III

IV

V

April 6. 2025

Springfield, MO

Retrato Ella (2024) by Enrique Pichardo Mexico City