Hell's Mouth is a piece I'm fiddling with. It's far from finished and I have no idea when I might finish it. I'll post it here now for all to see (probably a mistake) but maybe if some people read it and tell me what they think, I might consider expanding on the idea.
Here we go:
Hell's MouthThe old man slipped out of his worn leather bedroom sandals and under the cool warming covers of his bed while the mouth of hell widened in his closet. He was used to it now. He had grown accustomed over the years to the feint scent of brimstone that crept over him and into his dreams; that slow slithering smoke climbing up his nostrils and wrapping his brain. The soft far-away siren songs of terror and pain that once kept him up quivering through the night now sung him sweetly to sleep -- a grotesque lullaby of the damned. It was only the eyes that still got to him, those burning floating embers of wickedness watching over him as he slept.
As a younger man he would close the closet door. Shut out the demons and their world. But he decided that it made no difference. Open or not, the portal remained. Every night as the clock hands turned upward and the moon swung across the starred sky his closet would glow crimson and his room would warm.
The old man had lived in this house his entire life. It was his parent’s house and their parents before them. The home, standing atop a hill overlooking farmland and seemingly endless fields of grain, was an heirloom of great significance. He could not just abandon it. He inherited the house as he inherited the duty that came with it. Groundskeeper to the gates of Hell was a grand title. A smile crept over the old man’s face as the portal opened each night. Pride overcame the fear and soon his dreams ran rampant over his history.
A young son runs through the fields of grain, arms imitating an airplane’s wings, as his father watches from the old house’s stoop. The runners of the rocking chair creak and moan as the father sways back and forth, calm.
Tom Gillian owned all the land his eyes could see in all directions. He had inherited it from an ancient chain of fathers going back longer than he could count. It was a vast circular plot of land in the dead center of the country and it held all the resources he and his family could ever need. The land was handed down over with the sole agreement that it never be sold and that it never stand empty.
“Careful!” Tom called out to his son. His son Arnold had ventured out so far that Tom could only make out his location by the way the grain twisted and turned. “Don’t go too far now ya’hear? I’m not comin’ out there to get’ya iffin ya get lost!” Tom leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He could hear his wife Mary-Lynn somewhere in the house rustling around with her chores. He heard her broom pushing dust and dirt around on the old wooden floor boards. Tom drifted off to sleep.
“Dad,” Arnold’s voice startled him awake. The sun was setting, the horizon burned a deep reddish purple as night approached. “Wake up. It’s starting.” Arnold offered a hand to his father and helped him out of the chair.
The old man woke startled from his dream. His eyes darted unseeing across the room. The closet door stood gaping, a black abyss seeping into the bedroom. The glowing orange eyes stared at Arnold from deep within the closet. They hovered, disembodied. He grasped at his glasses on the night table.
“Be gone, Demon. I see you.” Arnold’s voice cracked; his vocal chords not yet fully awake. He fingered the silver cross hanging from his neck. Sweat beaded on his brow, he wiped it away with the cuff of his flannels. The eyes blinked. Somewhere deep in the distant void Arnold could hear a child’s sobbing.
Arnold’s brow furrowed. He sat up against the headboard and ran his fingers through his gray hair. He met the demon’s gaze with a steady authoritative glare.
“Look you son of a bitch. I’m not going to take your shit tonight. I’ve got things to do in the morning,” said Arnold. He folded his arms over his chest. The eyes flickered and brightened. As Arnold’s eyes adjusted he began to make out the creature’s features. Above its eyes he could see the shadows of horns, huge twirling pointed horns like those of mountain ram. The flaming pupils illuminated the beast’s seething nostrils. Cool tendrils of smoke billowed up and dissipated with each heave of the creature’s chest.
Arnold shook his head.
“If you don’t leave me in peace I’m going to have to get my gun.” Arnold’s eyes flashed to the left-side bureau. On top of it sat piles and boxes of shotgun shells. Leaned up against the wall next to the bureau, under a hanging black and white photograph of Arnold’s late parents, sat Beatrix. Arnold’s Remington 870 Shotgun. “We both know how that’ll end.”
Fire blazed from the bowels of the closet and lit up the bedroom. Arnold could make out the entirety of the beast. It was a huge hulking mass of muscle and fur. It stood straight up in the center of the closet gate on the second stair of hell’s staircase. Its arms, tattooed with intricate scars, stretched out as it leaned its weight on the frame of the closet. The creature’s fingers gripped the crown molding of Arnold’s closet door and drummed sharp black fingernails against the wood. He hung there, almost casually, staring forward at Arnold in his bed. It breathed slowly; watching.
Arnold gripped his bedding, at the ready to throw it off and lunge for Beatrix.
“Now, I’ve warned you once,” said Arnold. “I’m going to give you to the count of five to crawl back down those stairs. If you ain’t down in that fucking hell hole by the end of my count, Lord knows what’ll happen to you.”
The beast snorted. Its head turned to look back down the staircase it had climbed. Arnold knew what lay beyond his closet doors. He’d been there once before. He’d ventured once in arrogance in his prime. He’d climbed down that winding twisted stair. He’d past those prison cells and hanging cages. He’d even crossed the river in the ferry man’s boat as the forsaken lost souls clutched and moaned at his ankles. He watched the beast cautiously.
“Get back down there you fuck. Don’t make me get up.” Arnold snapped. The beast looked back at Arnold and then released his grip on the closet frame. It turned slowly and slunk back down the steps until Arnold could no longer see it. He sighed and slumped back into his pillows. His heart raced, thumping against his rib cage and pressuring his temples. Thank God. He thought to himself. Thank Christ.
Arnold woke to the sound of the grandfather clock downstairs. Another night over, only clothes and storage bins stood in his closet now. He drew back the shades and let the sunlight flood into the room. He blinked until his eyes adjusted and then he grabbed some clothes from the hangers. Dressed, he went downstairs.
The old house had seen better days. The plaster on the walls was thinning and in some spots it had fallen back to expose the brick and boards underneath. The carpet, where there was any, was thin and grayed out from over use. On the bottom level, where the grandfather clock stood bellowing the morning alarm, the wooden floorboards creaked and lay dusty. The whole place was dusty. Cobwebs formed in the corners of the ceilings and in all those spots unreachable to a lazy housekeeper. The fireplace, which stood empty across from the clock, looked as if it were frowning at the white covered furniture. Arnold hurried into the kitchen and promptly stuck his head in the fridge.
“What’s good today for breakfast?” he said to himself as he rummaged through Tupperware filled with left over shepherd’s pie, corn beef hash, and moldy lasagna. Arnold’s nose curled and he tossed the lasagna over his shoulder into the trash bin, now overflowing. He kicked the refrigerator door closed and headed to the kitchen table clutching a half empty carton of milk and a bowl. Placing those items on the table he went to the pantry and grabbed a box of Cheerios from the top shelf and went to sit down.
Arnold sighed as he munched on his breakfast. This house has seen better days he thought as he looked around. He planned to go to town today but the close call last night wasn’t helping his motivation. He finished his cereal and tossed the dirty bowl in the sink where it sat among a graveyard of used dishes. Muttering he dragged the bulging tin trash can out to the porch. He stopped for breath and ran a hand down his face.
He looked out over his land. Snow covered most of it now. His pick-up truck sat quietly in front of the garage, its bed filled with over stuffed trash cans. Enough space for just one more, thought Arnold as he hauled his can down the porch steps and onto the truck. He shook his hands to warm them after slamming shut the truck bed door.
The winter had been mild this year, which was unusual in these parts. Only a few inches of snow had fallen and it was already late February. The air was cold but not biting. Arnold’s breath clouded in front of his face as he jogged back inside the house to grab his jacket. He had been tempted to light up the fire place the other night during a rather bad storm but decided against it. Who knows what kind of little critters have found a home in his fireplace since the last time his father stoked a fire in there? Arnold didn’t have the heart to ruin their lives just so he could have a bit of heat. Sweaters were just as good and they weren’t nearly as violent.
The pick-up started rough. The chugging sounds of the engine filled the empty plain and startled a flock of crows. Their black bodies splashed the baby blue sky. Arnold smiled as he pulled away from his garage and started down the long dirt road toward Harlow.
The truck’s shocks were wearing out. Arnold bounced around in the driver’s seat as the truck rumbled down the road; the trash cans in back clattered and clanged. They spilled some of their contents out onto the snow banks, empty cereal boxes and old shoes found new homes in frosted gravel. Eventually, after what always seemed to Arnold like hours of snowy plains and rusted farm machinery, he burst through a string of green trees and the truck smoothed out onto the main road.
It was never a busy road, though the State had kept it up well. He drove south past tree after tree, only the occasional abandoned farm to break up the monotony until he crossed the Earbrooke bridge and drove under the arches of Harlow. A billboard to his right read: Welcome to Harlow. We hope you enjoy your stay. We sure do. It had one of those population counters on the bottom but no one had taken the time to adjust it since the billboard was erected. Any newcomer reading that sign would think Harlow was a ghost town. Population zero.
Harlow was a straight forward town. In its prime it was a bustling way-station for highway truckers and passing through tourists. Every building in Harlow stood on one side or the other of the main road. The two-pump gas station stood empty as Arnold past by it on the left. He could see Henry in there, the retired grease ball who owned the place, reading one of his outdated Playboys. He’d stopped buying new copies once Bettie Page stopped showing up on the front covers. Henry wasn’t too much interested in the new style of porn, raunchy and classless.
Arnold’s pick-up creaked as it made the only turn in the entire town. He drove by Michelle’s Diner and his stomach growled. He’d return for lunch as was his trash day ritual. There was the town hall and church a ways down the road after and not much else save houses. One restaurant, one gas station, one community center. That’s all the town ever needed. He drove up a bit of a hill and the trash can’s in the truck bed shifted and slammed against one another. He was almost to the dump.
Arnold made the trip about once a month. His trash cans in tow he would follow the same path through Harlow, drive about half a mile out and then stop at the trash compactor. It was one of those huge do-it-yourself compactors, a huge trough filled with all sorts of used up filth. Arnold parked his truck and hopped out. He winced and stretched his arms out to the sky and then bent over to try and touch his toes. He bounced his spine a few times but never could quite touch them. He stood upright and cracked his back, did a few twists of the hips, and went to work on unloading the trash cans.
It was an arduous process. He only had the strength to carry one can at a time up the rusted out iron stairs and onto the suspended galley. He’d heave a can over the ledge and shake it a bit; the garbage rattled out and found new refuge in the compactor. After each can was loaded up he was forced to take a five minute break, he leaned against the driver’s side door of his truck and took deep breaths to calm his heart. Then, up and at it once more. Six trips for six cans. When he was finished he closed the truck bed and clapped his hands together to knock off any garbage dust that might have built up on them.
“Time for a burger,” said Arnold. He got back up behind the wheel of his truck and pulled out just as the compactor began smashing and crashing its four walls together.
There was only one other vehicle in the Diner’s parking lot and Arnold recognized the beat up navy blue Chevy as Bill’s. He especially liked eating at Michelle’s when Bill was working behind the counter; the burgers were always a little bit thicker.
A bell chimed and jingled over his head as Arnold came through the door. The diner was small and old fashioned, like most places in Harlow. There were booths under all the windows along the wall and stools at the counter. All the furniture in the place was done up with the same cracking up worn out maroon leather. Arnold found his usual seat at the foot of the counter as Bill came out from behind the kitchen.
Bill was a large man. The sleeves of his dirty white collared shirt were rolled up to expose the black matted fur on his forearms and the grooved smooth bulging muscle of his biceps. Bill had a nasty habit of smoking in the kitchen, a cigarette hung from his bottom lip as he spoke.
“Hey Arnie,” he said, shaking Arnold’s hand. He had one of those knuckle grinder handshakes that showed the men he met each day who’s boss. “Trash day again, eh?”
“Yup, let me get the usual if I could,” said Arnold. He flexed the fingers of his hand under the counter.
Bill went about setting up Arnold’s place at the bar. Coffee cup, sugar cubes, spoon. Napkin, fork and knife. As he filled Arnold’s cup with black decaf he delivered the bad news. “No can do, we’re outta burger this week. Shipment never came by.”
“No burger? Give me a turkey salad then I guess.” Arnold plopped two sugar cubes into his coffee and stirred it a few times. He watched as the sugar melted and swirled, turning his drink into a cool mocha brown. “Any idea what went wrong?”
“Dunno,” replied Bill. He walked back into the kitchen to prepare Arnold’s food. Arnold could see him through the fry-cook’s window underneath the hanging order slips. “The guy usually comes by on Mondays but I guess he got tied up or something.” Ash dropped from Bill’s cigarette onto the glop of turkey salad. He swore under his breath and tossed the whole sandwich into the trash. He assured Arnold his food would be right out with a spatula salute and a grunt.
“Not too busy today,” Arnold said as he glanced around the room. “Where’s Michelle?” Michelle owned the place and hardly ever missed a day’s work.
“Comes in at two o’clock,” Bill said. He came back around to the front of the counter and set Arnold’s sandwich down with a bag of salt and vinegar chips.
“Think I could get the plain ones, Bill?” asked Arnold. Billed swapped out the chips with a grunted apology. He leaned back against the wall and went to work rubbing down a few of the dirty glasses.
“Seen any ‘demons’ lately, Arnie?” Bill said with a smirk.
“There was one last night. Thought the son of a bitch was going to jump me,” replied Arnold. He took a big bite out of his sandwich and nodded appreciation to Bill who nodded back. “He went back down though. They know better than to mess with me and Beatrix.”
“I bet they do,” said Bill, the smirk still gleaming on his mug.
Arnold was half way through his sandwich when the Diner door swung open, the bells jingled. It was Henry. Bill greeted him with a wave.
“Hey there Henry,” said Arnold. “No burgers today. Can you believe it?”
Henry’s face drooped a bit at the news. He sat down two stools from where Arnold sat. “I guess I’ll have what he’s having then, Bill,” he said.
“Comin’ right up.”
Bill went back behind the kitchen and put together another order of turkey salad. He made sure to toss out his cigarette this time before hand.
Henry sat with his arms crossed up on the table, leaning forward and toward Arnold.
“Seen any demons lately?” Henry asked almost in a whisper.
“I was just telling Bill,” said Arnold in between mouthfuls of chips. “There was a big one last night, I thought he was going to come out and fight with me.”
Henry snickered; he locked eyes with Bill as he came back out to the counter with the plate and motioned a thumb jab to Arnold. Arnold took no notice, sipping from his coffee.
“What kind of chips, Henry?” asked Bill.
“Onion,” said Henry. “I like the onion ones.”
“Yeah, me too” said Bill. He grabbed a bag of Sour Cream and Onion chips and set them next to Henry’s sandwich before dropping the plate on the counter.
“How’s the gas business, Henry?” asked Arnold. “I saw you sitting in there reading earlier. Got anything new yet?” Arnold grinned and popped another chip into his mouth.
“Same as it ever was I ‘spose” said Henry. He picked up half of the sandwich and held it before his mouth as he spoke. “Nothing new worth noting. Just me and Bettie, all day everyday.”
“I don’t get that,” Bill said. “There are some fine lookin’ women out in the world and you’re still pining over some long dead broad.”
“You’re too young to understand,” said Henry. His eyes seemed to glaze over in remembrance. “I met her once y’know. She was a beaute. I had the pleasure of pumping her gas.”
“Yeah?” said Bill, his eyebrow raised. “What kind of car did she drive?”
Henry closed his eyes for a moment and set his sandwich down. He scratched his chin a bit before answering. “A corvette. No roof. Baby blue.” Henry sighed and opened his eyes. “Nice lady, too.”
Bill chuckled.
The following is a poem I wrote for an interview. That's right, as my task to prove my chops as a competent writer in the world of copy, I was asked to write a sonnett about Guinness. I chose to write it Petrarch style. It's by far one of the greatest assignments I've ever been given and I had a lot of fun completing it. 
