If you're ravenous for good writing ...

You may have noticed the raven's head logo at the top of my right sidebar. Its visual appeal may have even been strong enough to attract a mouse click from you. In case you haven't yet given into that urge, however, I strongly recommend that you check out the new MW Society Press website to which it's linked.

The site evolved from the Society of Midnight Wanderers, which was founded by JD Beaudoin and Michael J. Kannengieser earlier this year as a community of top-notch writers. It's an association to which I'm very proud to give my support, my poetry and my art.

Below is a wonderfully written introduction to the MW Society Press, which I took from the site's Welcome page. You can learn much more, including how to join and submit your own work, by exploring the site in its entirety.

We’re excited to bring you the newest incarnation of the Society of Midnight Wanderers: The MW Society Press. Since the beginning, we have sought to create a web presence for our writers’ association. This presence has taken the form of an online artistic journal, created to promote the thematic and eclectic works of the Society of Midnight Wanderers. The MW Society Press is not a personal blog but a quasi publishing venue for the many creative voices of its members. We are devoted to our members who seek publication outside the traditional means of brick and mortar, paper and ink venues, or even outside their mundane commonality of personal blogs. Their voices are as valid as the voice of any “published” author who sits at a table autographing their books.

Variations on a book meme (bilingual)

I have been twice tagged with book-related memes by two fellow devotees to the art of virtual writing.

First, Patricia at Jane's Writing passed along the Page 123 Book Meme. Here are the rules:

1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.

And here's the relevant passage from the top book on my nightstand pile -- No Country For Old Men by Cormac McCarthy:

I know they's a lots of things in a family history that just plain aint so. Any family. The stories gets passed on and the truth gets passed over.

Next, Hanna from Amori, Poesie Arte, Chat called me out for the Page 161 Meme with the single charge of "selecting a book, opening it on page 161 and choosing a complete sentence." To honor Hanna's native tongue, I'll switch to Alberto Moravia's Il Conformista (The Conformist), which was a little lower in said pile:

Allora, improvvisamente, Marcello capì perché la vista della donna gli aveva ispirato quel doloroso sentimento di rammarico: in realtà, come si accorse, egli non voleva che ella facesse il piacere dell'agente e vederla subirne l'abbraccio l'aveva fatto soffrire come di fronte ad una profanazione intollerabile.

And here's my probably faulty translation (I'm sure Hanna will correct me in the comments):

Then, suddenly, Mercello understood why the sight of the woman had inspired that painful feeling of regret: in reality, as he realized, he didn't want her to have pleased the agent, and to see her subjected to his embrace made Marcello suffer as if facing an intolerable desecration.

Since both of these memes have been circulating for a while, I'll resort to my all-too-frequent tactic of the anonymous tag. If you (yeah you reading this) haven't done either of these yet and would like to, please have at them.

Birthright: Final Chapter

By Francis Scudellari

Jacob's Reward

There was a loud knock at Jacob’s door. Bang. Bang. Bang. Jacob sat hidden in the dark. He cowered before an inevitability. Bang. Bang. Bang. Its steady beat echoed throughout the building.

Jacob knew who it was. Jacob knew that he wasn’t going away. Bang. Bang. Bang. The door bulged with each blow; a worn-too-thin wall waiting to burst and release the ever stronger pulsing blood behind. The loudly repeated stresses began to warp the door jamb.

Fearful for his damage deposit, Jacob staggered to his feet. He flipped the light switch behind the couch. He walked unsteadily toward the incessant thundering.

The door squealed as he slowly pulled it toward him. There on the landing stood Edom. Twin licks of flame, his eyes burned with an anger Jacob had never seen. In his left hand, Edom held a rolled up copy of the current Grounds. The moist warmth of his beer-soaked breath brushed against Jacob’s cheeks.

“I warned you Jake. I warned you not to write it.”

Jacob closed his eyes in shame. He bowed his head, silently seeking forgiveness; a presumptuous pardon he knew that he would never receive.

There was a rush of movement in the doorway, and Jacob felt Edom’s thick knuckles strike his gut. The wind in his lungs escaped through his throat in a sudden gust. His knees buckled and Jacob crumpled to the floor. The stereotypical fish out of water, his mouth gasped greedily at the stale air.

“Why don’t you write a story about that, Jake.” Punctuating his words, Edom tossed the newspaper on Jacob’s pale face. He bounced down the stairs and left Jacob on the floor prone -- his knees clutched fast to his chest.

As the air gradually filtered back into his stomach, Jacob rolled on his back. Still, staring up at the shadowed ceiling, he saw a gathering shape. A seeming shift that floated vaguely in the orange lamp light. Her thin, sharp outlined arms reached down to him. Lifting him up closer to her, she breathed renewed life into his trembling body.

Jacob, finding his feet beneath him, walked over to the table. Sitting down at the typewriter, he cracked his knuckles. He stretched his arms over his head and let out a guilty chuckle as he began to type: “A smug smile crept across Joseph’s face as he climbed the musty staircase. His dirty blond hair was a tangled mess.”

Birthright: Chapter Fourteen

By Francis Scudellari

Jacob Betrays Edom

“Last night topped them all Jake.” Edom pushed the door closed behind him and made an immediate right. He walked straight into the kitchen, calling out in solo sing song as he examined the contents of the refrigerator.

“The lead singer was trashed. He was feeling no pain. He had stripped down to his boxers and in the middle of the song he leaped off the stage. The kids caught him and held him up, and he kept on singing, screaming out the lyrics, while he rode the crowd. All these hands tried to push him back on stage, but he didn’t want to go. He just wanted to surf. The band kept playing, they didn’t give a shit. It was incredible.

"That’s how the show ended. He surfed, kicking his legs wildly, spinning the mike, until he was done singing. Then the lights went out. The band walked off. And the singer disappeared into the audience. You should have been there, Jake.”

Edom walked into the living room, a beer in one hand, a bagel in the other. Seeing Jacob, he stopped in his tracks like a cartoon character hit with a clichéd case of déjà vu. As if transported back into the recent past, Jacob sat sulking with his head in his hands.

Back at the beginning of this old-timey loop, he cast a similar blank stare at an equally empty page tonguing out of the typewriter. The crumpled sheets of paper had reappeared on the floor. The empty gin bottle rematerialized at rest sideways by his feet.

“Hey what’s with the mess? What’s wrong Jake? I thought all your troubles were behind you. You were on your way. Catch a recurring case of writer’s block?”

“You gotta help me Ed. You gotta let me do another piece about you. I’m desperate. They gave me an advance for another story, but I can’t come up with anything they’d like without dragging you into it. This whole counter-culture, alternative rock thing is very popular right now. They want me to do a series of stories about it. Unfortunately, I only know what you’ve told me.”

“Forget it Jake. I’m still not happy that I let you write that first one. If you write another, it’ll never end.”

“I’ve got no choice Ed. They’ve already given me the money. I’m gonna write it; whether you want me to or not.” Jacob stared straight ahead. He couldn’t look at Edom. The path forward was pretty clear, and whatever detour he might take, the final resting place always smacked of betrayal.

“Listen, Jake … if you write that story … it's over.” Edom left the half-eaten bagel on the table. He left the half-full bottle on the floor. He turned calmly toward the door and walked out of the apartment without turning around or making a sound.

Birthright: Chapter Thirteen

By Francis Scudellari

Fruition

“Well? What do think? Do you like it? Is it any good?"Jacob paced nervously around the chair as Edom silently read the typewritten manuscript. “There’s this coffee-house paper -- Grounds -- they said they’d give me fifty bucks for it. It’s not much, but at least I’ll be published.”

“I don’t know, Jake. This hits a little too close to home. All you did was change my name and my hair color. Everything else is the same. You even used my own words. You’re ripping off my life. You’re using it to make a buck.” Edom tossed the pages on the milk crate.

“Come on Ed. You agreed to it. It was a fair deal. It’s just one story. No one will even see it. Cheer up, can’t you see that it’s the break I needed.” Jacob almost skipped to the window, unable to contain his glee. His every movement shouted to the world: “I’m on my way.”

Birthright: Chapter Twelve

By Francis Scudellari

The Pact

“Hey Jake I got your message. What’s up?”

The smell of deep-dish pizza greeted Edom as he stepped through the door. He hadn’t eaten all day, and his stomach grumbled uncontrollably at the herbal aroma. His mouth watered as he watched Jacob bite into a dripping red piece of pie. It was pepperoni and mushroom, Edom’s favorite.

The path to the couch had been magically cleared, and his conditioned feet suddenly recalled the missing small impacts of former impediments. Jacob had cleaned the apartment. The dust, the old food, the wads of paper, the cigarette butts and ash -- all had been swept away.

Edom didn’t see a single Gregor crawling about. A pine-scented air freshener sat on the windowsill. It purged the room of its recent foul odor. Sun beams reflected off the newly pristine floor boards.

Jacob smiled at Edom. His clean-shaven cheeks bulged with cheese, sauce, and bread. He used a paper napkin to wipe the greenish grease from his chin. “Come on in Ed. How was the show last night? Anything interesting happen?”

“Yeah, plenty. Hey, give me some of that pizza, Jake. I’m starving.” Edom tried to grab a slice from his friend's lap, but Jacob pulled the box away from him.

“How much is it worth to you, Ed?”

“Quit joking around, Jake. Give me some. I’m dying of hunger. I’m all out of food at home.”

“I’ll make a deal with you, Ed. You let me use your time at the Pit to write a story, and I’ll give you all the pizza you can eat. If you act now … for the same low, low price I’ll even throw in some frosty brews.”

“I’m really not in the mood Jake. Quit goofing ...” Edom tried to lunge for a slice, but Jacob was too quick.

“I’m serious, Ed. Is it a deal or not? I don’t want to unduly influence your decision, but this is a great pizza. Just the right amount of sauce. The dough is cooked perfectly. Each bite melts in your mouth. You better hurry up and decide, Ed. I might eat the whole thing myself.” Jacob took a large bite of another golden-edged square.

Edom was near tears. “Yeah, Yeah, it’s a deal. Now give me a slice.” Jacob handed him the olive-oil-stained cardboard box, and Edom inhaled the first piece in large gulps. He fell back into a chair and grabbed another, this time savoring each bite.

“Let me get you some beer, Ed. You’ve got a lot of talking to do, I don’t want your mouth to get dry.” Jacob raced into the kitchen and returned with two cold bottles. He handed one to Edom.

“Tell me about the concert last night, Ed. Don’t spare any details. I want to know everything that happened.” Jake grabbed a pen and a spiral notebook. He awaited Edom’s tales of the hunt.

Edom ignored Jacob. Self-absorbed, he munched his red prize contentedly, oblivious to all else around him.

“Come on Ed, fire away. A deal’s a deal. You owe me.”

“Leave me alone Jake, can’t you see I’m eating. Why don’t you play one of your jazz records? Go do the dishes.”

“I already did the dishes. I cleaned the whole freakin' place. Now spit it out. What happened last night?”

“All right. All right. I’ll help you out. But only 'cause you’re so pathetic. You can write one story. After that you’re on your own. What do you wanna know?”

“Everything. Tell me about last night’s show. Tell me about all of the shows. Describe what the club's like … what the people are like. Paint me a picture.”

“I don’t know what to say, Jake. I’m not a writer. The Pit is just a long dark room, like a dank basement with a full bar. The walls are painted black. It’s smoky. It’s loud. It’s packed with hundreds of kids. Some are there just because its trendy, but most come there because it’s the only place they fit in. There’s a sense of freedom … of tolerance there … a feeling that you can do anything you want … be anything you want.

"A lot of the kids try to create their own look … to express themselves through their hair style or clothing. Some cats are bald … some wear their hair long. Mohawks, dreads, and flat tops. Dyed all colors of the rainbow. Some wear T-shirts or flannel. Some come in leather. You see ear rings, nose rings, lip rings -- any part of the body is fair game for piercing. Tattoos are everywhere -- arms, legs, backs, chests, even heads.

“I usually stand up close to the stage, where the action is. Before the bands start to play, while they’re still setting up, you can hear a chorus of voices clashing in the room. Hundreds of people talking at once … anxiously waiting … anticipating the chaos about to erupt … about to swallow them up.

"The sound of breaking glass -- beer bottles tossed in trash cans -- cuts the constant hum. You’re brain's numb from the alcohol and pot, and time slows to a crawl. You still sense sights, sounds, and smells, but you don’t analyze them anymore.

“Suddenly, a drumbeat booms from the stage … guitar chords lash out ripping through the air like chain saws. You can feel the waves of sound passing over you … passing through you actually. Hundreds of bodies, packed tight, bounce up and down. Fists pump in the air. The band and the crowd ride the same wave.” Edom paused. He finished his beer.

Jacob wrote feverishly. “Great, Ed. Now tell me about some specific shows. Give me some info on each band. What about last night? What about your friend’s group -- Blowhole.”

“Bunghole.”

“Whatever.”

Birthright: Chapter Eleven

by Francis Scudellari

Jacob’s Muse Returns

Jacob languidly pulled open the medicine cabinet door. The gaunt face staring back at him was slowly replaced by a miniature mandibled visage. Gregor sat perched atop a stick of deodorant in the midst of various scattered toiletries on the middle shelf. Fearless from familiarity, its antennae twirled expectantly. The insect stood upright on its hind legs, as if a dog bent to please its master.

Jacob reached for the shaving cream and gently closed the front pane of the mirrored box, careful not to frighten the cockroach. The surface began to mist over as steam rose from the absurdly hot water filling the sink.

Spreading white-foamed lather on his stubbly face, he studied his too blank reflection. Searching the blood-shot brown eyes, he wondered where the fire was he had seen in Edom’s gaze? Where was that life's passion? Jacob needed to find it. If he was ever going to be a writer, he had to capture that spark.

Jacob dragged the too-dull blade across his cheek and down his neck. Each stroke revealed another thin strip of suddenly smooth, pink flesh. A bit too careless at the crown of his chin, he opened up a small cut. A droplet of blood beaded there, before slowly transforming into a streaming drip. Jacob watched the thinning red streak wind it's way toward his chest. As it reached its target, a vision caught the corner of his eye in a light-bulb flash.

Jarred by the sudden insight, Jacob dropped the razor into the sink. The vague shape of his muse slowly resolved itself in the mirror behind him. He imagined her eyes aglow, lit by a seductive smile. She reached her alabaster white arms around his chest, and clasped him tightly to her. Bringing her soothing lips to his ear, she whispered words only he could understand. Then, she stepped forward as if to enter his body and disappeared.

Jacob felt himself filled with a radiant light as the thought formed in his head. An idea so simple and so obvious he marveled that it took so long to dawn on him. He splashed his face with the now lukewarm water and grinned broadly.

Birthright: Chapter Ten

By Francis Scudellari

Jacob Flees

The shades rustled announcing the warm breeze about to carom through the cluttered room. Duke Ellington’s “In My Solitude” skimmed the current of fresh air. Jacob tapped his foot. He bopped his head to the saxophone’s sultry sway. His two index fingers kept rhythm on the cradled glass of brown-tinged tap water. A fly circled its lip, then flew off with a disapproving buzz.

The typewriter gathered dust in front of him. One Gregor examined the moldy crust at Jacob’s feet. Another crawled among the crumbs on the table. Jacob had surrendered. His muse had fled before ever arriving. Without her, it was pointless -- he had nothing to say. He would never be a writer. Not everyone had a destiny. Not all dreams went fulfilled. The world teemed with also-rans; it was rank with the unsuccessful. Soon, Jacob would have to start looking for a real job.

Jacob stared at the wall. Miles Davis, his musical idol, sat facing him. Precariously perched -- his knees together and legs twisted askance -- it seemed that Miles might slide off the low-backed orange chair. Always the embodiment of cool, even now as his horn rested carelessly against his thigh, still Miles's penetrating eyes fell like a rebuke on Jacob for giving up.

The knob turned and the door swung open, breaking the spell. Edom's large, tanned, woolly form adorned only in long black shorts and sandals, hovered in the door frame. He bounced a tennis ball on the floor to punctuate each sentence he spoke.

“Hey Jake, what’s the good news? You’ll never guess who I saw just now. Your goofy neighbors. I was coming up the stairs and there was short, bald Sluggo with fat, hairy Nancy. He was trying to unlock the door but he was having problems getting at his key because he had a bunch of junk in his arms -- old shoes, a broken radio, a golf club, a purse. It looked like they'd been rummaging through the dumpster in the alley.

"He got nervous when he saw me and dropped this tennis ball. It was pretty freaky. They opened the door and scurried into the apartment just as I was passing by. I heard them mumbling something behind the door; it didn’t sound like English. Hell, I’m not even sure if was human.”

“That’s a very interesting story Ed. Do you mind if I use it in my novel?”

“Just stopped by to say hello, pal. Maybe grab a beer. How’s the writing going? Doesn’t look like you’ve gotten very far.” Edom looked over Jacob’s shoulder at the white sheet of paper, then disappeared into the kitchen. Shortly after, the refrigerator door slammed shut.

“I give up, Ed. It’s not gonna happen. I can’t think of anything worthwhile. Everything I’ve written so far is garbage. I wrote about the neighborhood. I wrote about the trains. I even wrote about the cockroaches. It was all shit.”

“What about your customers at the bar? I thought you were gonna get lots of material from them?” Edom threw himself on the couch. A glass ashtray toppled on the floor spewing a cloud of gray ash that hung in the air. A stream of brown butts bounced on the floor, then rolled against the dark blue milk crate serving as an end table.

“They’re a waste of time. They don’t have any real stories to tell. Nothing exciting ever happens to them. They lead very dull lives. All they do is whine all night: ‘My job sucks. … My boyfriend is a jerk. … The boss is an asshole.’ Who cares? I don’t get paid to listen to that crap. Why don’t they go to a damn shrink and unload it all on him.” Jacob walked over to the window and lit a cigarette.

“Maybe you shouldn’t try to write about other people's lives. Maybe you should write about your own. Write about your childhood. Write about college. Write about an old flame. Something interesting must have happened at some point in your life.”

“Nothing’s happened to me that hasn’t happened to hundreds of thousands of others. I’m just your typical zero. Nice home. Nice parents. Good schools. No tragedies. No thrills. Just dull, tedious existence. Eat, drink, fuck -- if you’re lucky -- sleep, then die.

“I’ve always been on the outside looking in. Life's rich pageant passed by and I watched it from afar. I wanted to get a closer look. I wanted to get a better angle … a new perspective. That’s why I moved into the city. That’s why I rented this dump. That’s why I started drinking and stopped bathing. I wanted to endure some squalor … some poverty. I wanted to meet some new people. People who’ve had to struggle to survive. People who live on the edge. People who don’t worry about implications and consequences. People who think ‘tomorrow’ is an empty word. All the things I’ve only read about in books.

“Well, if such marvelous beings exist, I haven’t found them. Everyone I’ve met here is just a bland replicant. They’re in the bars. They’re in the cafes. They’re in the corner store buying a newspaper. Transplanted suburban kids trying to be hip -- spending a few years here acting irresponsible, as if on an extended vacation. Eventually they’ll return home to suburbia. They’ll settle into careers. They’ll find plastic spouses. They’ll buy comfortable houses. They’ll duplicate the shallow lives of their parents. They’ll breed more drab automatons like themselves, and the cycle will continue ad infinitum.” Jacob took one last drag from the butt and flicked it out the window.

“I’ve been deceiving myself, Ed. All of this is just a sham … an illusion. I might look different. I might smell different, but I haven’t changed. I’m still boring. My place is among the dull. I’m going to call my dad and ask him to help me find a job. Mom always said I looked good in a suit.”

“Come on Jake, don’t be stupid. Don’t do anything rash. You’re a little stir crazy, that’s all. You need to get out of here and clear your head. Go to the show with me tonight. Maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for there. Bunghole’s playing. I know the lead guitarist. We’re gonna get high before their set. You’ll do a couple hits with us. I’ll buy you a couple drinks. You’ll be a new man. What do you say?”

“Nah, I need to clean this place. It’s a pigsty. Besides, you know I don’t like that kind of music. It’s too loud. It’s just noise.”

“All you hear is noise because that’s all you want to hear. Give it a fair chance, Jake. Listen to it. Listen to the passion, the rage, the bitterness behind it.”

“I don’t want to listen to passion, rage and bitterness. I want to listen to music that helps me forget my problems. I want to listen to music that soothes.”

“This music is cathartic, Jake. It soothes after the fact. It’ll help you exorcise those demons. The songs are about real emotions. They're about the things you're feeling right now … the restlessness and self-doubt, the yearning and fear, the isolation and desire. Open your mind to it, just once.”

Hoping the enthusiasm might rub off, Jacob sat next to Edom on the couch. “Ok, make me a tape and I’ll check it out.” It was the only concession he was willing to make.

“You can’t just listen to a tape. This is something that’s got to be experienced, Jake. I can’t even describe it to you. It’ like youth: You’ve got to live it and you’ve got to live it now because you’ll never get another chance.” Edom’s eyes lit up.

“I don’t want to live like that. Not now. Not ever. Music is something very personal for me, Ed. I can’t listen to it while a hundred kids are slamming into me. I’m not into that whole mob mentality. Can’t you understand that? Is it such a difficult concept to grasp?”

“Yeah it is. I can’t figure you out. You complain about how dull your life is, but you don’t want to do anything about it.” Edom got up and walked toward the door. “I’ll tell you one thing Jake. You need to change your attitude. You’re really starting to piss me off. I don’t know why I keep coming over here.”

“Well, Ed, it might be the beer. It might be the food. But I like to think that it’s the witty repartee.” Jacob swallowed a sip of polluted water and winced.

Birthright: Chapter Nine

by Francis Scudellari

Edom Returns

Its cilia-like appendages rippling up and down in unison, the bug glided across the ceiling. A small self-contained, thousand-legged wave, the millipede undulated back and forth through Jacob's fuzzy field of vision. It seemed a thin tan scar that magically had lifted itself from the white-painted, dry-wall's skin and scampered at full gallop in no particular direction and for no real purpose -- simply reveling in the joy of first-time movement.

Jacob watched it quickly crawl in an unimpeded, militant march toward the ceiling fan's base. It circled the fixture confused by the chrome reflection, then darted suddenly at the window, as if in sounded retreat. The insect was Jacob’s sole entertainment as he lay stretched out on the couch.

His head pounded violently suffering the affect of the prior night's binge. The shades were drawn against the penetrating, now-orange sunlight. The stereo had been muted all day. Jacob wanted to do something productive, but he didn’t have the strength to stand up. He had a good excuse for not writing today.

A train rumbled by yet again and the screech of its wheels pierced Jacob’s skull. He clenched his jaws and waited for the agony to pass. As the noise and pain slowly subsided, he swore a mild oath to give up drinking -- at least for a little while.

The sound of familiar footsteps rose up the staircase, and the door shortly afterward swung open to reveal Edom's vibrant silhouette, as expected. Jacob's friend's face was lighted by a brilliant smile. His auburn locks hung freely about his shoulders and his green eyes glistened with excitement.

In a seeming moment's blur of movement, Edom entered the room and pulled a chair up next to the couch. “You should have been there, Jake. It was completely intense! Man, guys were going fucking nuts … slamming into each other … jumping on the stage … diving into the crowd. It was a riot. The band was so wasted that they started tossing full beers out into the audience. All hell broke loose.”

“Calm down, Ed. Check the voice -- can’t you see I’m hurting here? It’s bad enough these damn trains roar by every ten minutes, now I gotta listen to you screaming in my ear.”

“I guess you had a pretty eventful night, too.”

“No, just the opposite.”

“Well, you should have been hanging out with me, Jake. It was awesome. I wish I could describe it to you … the sensation of total recklessness, of letting yourself get swept away by something much bigger than you. It’s like your mind’s not there anymore, just your body. You don’t think; you feel. You feel the sweat dripping down your face. You feel your neck snap at the jolt of banging into some guy who’s drunk off his ass. You feel your chest vibrate, and your heart beat to the pulse of the music. It possesses you. It takes you over.”

“Look, Ed, it may be cool for you, but that’s not my scene.” Jacob rolled on his side and pulled a cushion over his head.

“What is your scene, Jake? Sitting in this apartment all day getting pickled? Your mind’s gonna rot if you don’t get out and live a little. How are you gonna be a writer after you kill off all those brain cells … and no real pleasure to compensate for it”

“My brain’s fine. I get out plenty. I spend half my time at the damn bar. If you’re so concerned about my health, why don’t you be a bud and get me some aspirin out of the medicine cabinet. Watch your step … Gregors might be snooping around in the bathroom.”

Edom dutifully got up and tramped into the hall. Jacob could hear him carelessly rummaging through the odd bits randomly stacked on the warped particle board shelves. After a few minutes, his large shadow was back looming over the couch.

“Hey I saw your neighbors today. They just came back from the store. I must have scared the shit out of them -- maybe I surprised them. They saw me and each let out a little squeal before running into their apartment. They slammed the door in my face just as I was gonna say hello. I gotta a pretty good look at them before they disappeared. They were all bundled up like it was winter -- jackets, gloves, hoods pulled over their heads. Their faces were snow white and they had those dark circles around their eyes like raccoons.”

Edom handed Jacob the plastic bottle uncapped but still stuffed with cotton. “I think you should invite them up for a pot luck dinner sometime. I’d love to see what they eat.”

Birthright: Chapter Eight

by Francis Scudellari

Purgatory

Cryptically back-lit, the jumbled numbers hovered in the blackness before him. Like glowing glyphs in an endless void, the haloed digits refused Jacob's every attempt at translation. The blurred amalgam of twos, threes, and fives bled into each other; sometimes multiplying, sometimes dividing when Jacob's tired eyes tried to focus in on it.

Unable to decipher the clockwork green figures, Jacob finally turned his head toward the shadowed doorway. His body lay angled on the mattress: his arms spread toward the far top corner, and his legs sprawled over its near bottom edge.

Turning on the faint light of a side lamp, Jacob saw the ceiling, the walls, the floor -- the whole room -- spin wildly. When he closed his eyes, it was Jacob himself who spun, seemingly picking up speed with each passing moment.

Taking a quick peek again, he glimpsed a small, fuzzy shadow move across the vertiginous facing wall. It was probably just Gregor. Then, Jacob pulled shut his bloodshot lids once more, squeezing the surrounding muscles with a force of will to fight the dizziness and slow the uncontrolled spiraling.

The Miles Davis record playing on the phonograph did its part to calm the storm. The throbbing bass, up-bounced down, down-careened up, out-ebbed in, and finally in-faded out of his revolving head. The fluttering piano nestled in one corner of his mind, accompanied by the saxophone's slinky swing and by the drum’s steady pulse.

Over top of it all, the sleek, plaintive trumpet snaked in from the living room and through the hall, before it slipped into the bedroom. It undulated over Jacob and wrapped itself around him. Its cool, soothing scales, coiled tightly about him and up-lifted his frame securely below the rotating ceiling.

One by one the instruments trailed away. Their final notes lapsing into silence, each released its grip on Jacob. Last to go, the trumpet unwound itself and let Jacob drop heavily back onto the bed with a thud -- the record needle rubbing roughly against the label’s edge.

The speakers emitted a circular crackle and hiss, and Jacob had to get up. His stomach howled angrily -- the vengeful rumbling of a wounded beast. It churned violently, rolling the rest of his body off the edge and onto the floor.

Clambering over various strewn shoes and bouncing off half-unpacked boxes, Jacob crawled out from the bedroom on his hands and knees. Reaching the bathroom, he blindly felt for the toilet. With both hands, he gripped the cold porcelain bowl and thrust his mouth into its larger one. His poisoned belly heaved. All of the day’s frustration, bitterness, pizza and gin poured forth, corrupting the clear blue water.

Jacob sat back against the wall. Things were going to get better … they had to. They couldn’t get any worse. Soon, he would find his muse. Soon, he would seduce her to his side. Soon, he would be a writer. “Soon. Soon. Soon.” He repeated the mantra in a slow whisper until he lost consciousness.

Birthright: Chapter Seven

by Francis Scudellari

Edom Visits Jacob

The doorknob smacked into the wall with a dull thud. Edom stood on the landing clad in black. “Hey Jake, aren’t you going to invite me in.” Edom walked in uninvited. “How’s the great American novel coming? Written anything about me yet?”

“Fuck off, Ed. I haven’t written anything about anyone yet. All I’ve done all day is waste paper.”

“Hope you don’t mind if I help myself.” Edom wandered off into the kitchen. The refrigerator door squeaked open and slammed shut. Edom re-emerged with a bottle of beer in one hand and a cold slice of pizza in the other. “Jesus, Jake, you oughta do some dishes some time. It’s pretty gross in there. I’ve never seen so many roaches. You’re violating some major health codes.”

“Lay off the roaches, they’re my pets. That bastard Virgil won’t let me keep a cat or a dog. The fucker won’t even let me buy a goldfish. He says it’s in the lease. The roaches were my only option. I tried to name each of them, but they all look alike, so I just call them all Gregor. They’re easy to take care of. I don’t have to buy them any food or anything. Don’t have to bring them to a vet. They’re not so ugly when you get used to them.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe you can teach them some tricks. Maybe you can teach them how to sweep.” Edom shuffled toward the couch, kicking the balls of paper. “You must have destroyed a couple of forests today. Greenpeace is gonna come after you if you keep this up.” He fell back into the pink and green floral cushions.

“Fuck Greenpeace. I gotta find something to write about. I’m going nuts. I can’t even get started. I’ve tried everything. My head hurts from thinking so much.”

“Maybe it hurts from all the gin and smoke, or from being locked up in this stale apartment all day. You need to get out of here for a while, Jake. Why don’t you come with me to the show tonight? Scour is playing down at the Pit. It should be pretty wild. You could get inspired.”

“I’ve got all the inspiration I need in my jazz and my gin. Besides, I’m not leaving this place until I write something, anything.” Jacob drained his glass.

Edom got up. He finished his beer and tossed the empty bottle on the couch. “Suit yourself. It’s your loss. I’ll let you know what you missed tomorrow.” Edom walked to the door stroking his beard. He grasped the doorknob and turned back toward Jacob.

“Hey, Jacob, do yourself a favor and open a window. This place reeks.” He slammed the door behind him. Footsteps cascaded down the stairwell.

Birthright: Chapter Six

by Francis Scudellari

Jacob Wrestles

The elevated train rushed past Jacob’s window; a periodic and brief mobile earthquake sending tremors through his room. Marking another unproductive twenty minutes gone by, the card table trembled, rattled and coughed beneath the empty bottle of gin and the butt-lipped ashtray. As he had all day, Jacob sat unmoved.

He stared at the blank sheet of paper facing out from the antique typewriter -- his prized find from the local thrift shop. The white leaf was a tabula as rasa as his stubbornly uncooperative mind. Its predecessors, filled with varying degrees of gibberish, lay crumpled at his feet.

A jazz standard favorite, “I’m Old Fashioned,” drifted from the stereo speakers. John Coltrane’s tenor sax crooned softly, painting the room with its blue mood. Despite a track record for becalming his scattered mind, in this current spasmodic fit of blocked writing the music had lost its power to soothe.

Jacob’s fingers hesitated over the keys, unsure which to stroke and in what order. The slender pink digits reached timidly toward the neatly ordered black tiles and stopped. They yearned to caress the smooth square surfaces. They longed to confidently jab at the raised-letter targets and engender the staccato rhythm of creativity. But each time they neared their goal, they were abruptly called back by Jacob’s misguided thoughts.

Half-formed ideas jostled his mind. Opening lines became unctuous demons that taunted and tested him. Like dancing wraiths and piping shadows, they lured him to their lair. As writhing specters, they defied him to clasp their oily hides and wrestle. Vague and vaporous shades, they tempted him to vainly clutch at their gaseous shapes.

Trying to capture some meaning, Jacob fought with the slippery and misshapen demi-phrases. His eyes squeezed shut, with gritted teeth, he figuratively jumped at them. He grasped them only for a moment, and then they dependably broke free from his embrace. His hands were always left groping at the barren air.

The paraded words would not come except costumed in well-worn clichés. Jacob’s mouth fidgeted. His lips sputtered as he tried to sound out a potential starter sentence. “‘The night always scared him.’ No. ‘The rain lashed against the glass.’ Come on. ‘Virgil hated life.’ No. Fuck, no. Dear God, just give me one damned line. I’ll take it from there.”

Jacob waited. His pained eyes turned heavenward. His pliant arms dangled helpless at his side. He pined patiently for the divine muse he'd so long imagined to possess him. He offered himself up to her. He willed her to direct his hands as she saw fit, but she didn't come.

He could see her there, in his mind's eye. Hovering above his head, she smiled. She laughed coyly. She teased him: “Not today, Jacob, but soon. When I choose. Not when you demand it.” Her fiery mantle faded. Her glowing eyes darkened, and then she disappeared.

Jacob ripped yet another stillborn opus from the machine. Cursing, blaming and despising his vision, he crushed the loosed paper into a ball and threw it at the ceiling. The unstained wad bounced off the gleaming white surface. It fell to the floor welcomed by its brothers.

Jacob took a long drag from a fresh tarring cigarette. He breathed deeply the thick black, calming smoke and leaned back in the metal chair. Studying the poster-sized, bulging cheeks of Dizzy Gillespie, he hoped his hero's bent horn might blow him some answers by morning.

Birthright: Chapter Five

Jacob and Edom Arrive

“Almost there. Watch out for the light.” Gripping one end of the mattress, Jacob backed into the living room. “We can just leave it here. I’ll move it into the bedroom later.”

Edom, holding the other end, followed Jacob into the room. Rings of red hair fell over his eyes. Auburn drops cascaded down his back — a lion’s mane. A diabolic goatee framed his mouth, menaced his gentle features, his innocent green eyes.

Jacob and Edom flung the mattress to the floor and collapsed on top of it.

“That’s everything. Where’s my beer?”

"Give me a minute. I gotta catch my breath.” Jacob’s greedy mouth gulped the stale air. His straight chestnut locks dripped salted tears, tangy drops that stung the corners of his muddied eyes. Propped on his elbows, he scanned the box-cluttered living room.

“Man, I’m beat and I’ve still gotta unpack all this shit.” Jacob struggled to his feet, leg-wearied, light-headed. “If you’re hungry, I can order us a pizza. There’s a cool place down the street.” He stumbled into the kitchen.

“Maybe later, I just wanna rest for a few minutes. Why don’t you put on some tunes? Something mellow. Maybe some Sinatra.”

Returning, Jacob handed Edom a beer. Hugging a bottle of gin to his chest, he sat on an overturned crate. He uncapped the glass-encased spirits and took a swig of the captive soul. A grimace softened to a grin. “Can’t play any tunes until I hook up the stereo. If you’re desperate, I can sing to you. I know all the words to ‘New York, New York.’”

Edom closed his eyes. He pulled his hair back from his face. “No, thanks. I’ll never be that desperate. Did you find a gig yet?”

“Yeah, at a bar a few blocks from here. ‘The Green Boar.’ Catchy, huh? It should be perfect. I work nights, four days a week. Eclectic clientèle. I should be able to get lots of material.” Jacob took another shot of gin, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“What do you mean by 'material'?”

“Material for my stories. I’m gonna milk the customers for ideas. I told you before, I’m gonna be a writer. I’m gonna be famous, Ed, so you better be nice to me. Maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll let you be in my entourage.”

Birthright: Chapter Four

By Francis Scudellari

Jacob’s Muse

“I know I got it here somewhere.” Virgil fumbled with a clutch of keys. Singling one out after another, he tried and erred three times to turn the deadbolt barring their entrance. The fourth steel jigsaw piece met its mated hole and the tumbled bar rolled back with a screech. “There she is.” He turned the loose brass knob and pushed open the heavy wood door with a flourish.

Jacob entered first, walking to the center of the uneven, bare floor. His head turned slowly to drink in the room’s battered décor: the broken light fixture, the bent nails projecting from mildewed walls, a bathroom door unhinged.

The apartment was just the sort of dive that Jacob had expected. The perfect down on its luck launching pad his up-coming artist's mind had conjured from the classified.

She was here. Jacob could feel her warmth. His beautiful muse floated about the ceiling. She waited to descend, a tongue of flame to lick, to crackle, to burn in his soul until her blistering breath coursed through his veins, sered his chilled flesh, sparked his inert mind.

Soon, her fervent voice would fill his head. Soon, her ardent song would leap from his mouth. Jacob longed to feel her inside of him. Soon, she would lustily sow a seed and Jacob would give birth. Soon, he would create, undisturbed, absorbed.

Jacob walked toward the front window now tinted by a blush-red sunset. He looked out at the pigeon-dotted tracks, the debris-cluttered alley. This would be his neighborhood. This would be his home. Virgil joined Jacob by the sagging sheets of glass and lowered the jaundiced shades. "Not much of a view, but who cares, right?” Jacob cared. He cherished the view.

Jacob turned around and glimpsed a cockroach scurry out from the kitchen. It paused in the hallway, eyed him, then slipped into a crack in the wall. “Don’t worry about them. We’ll have someone come by and spray the place before ya move in. Whatcha think, kid? We’ll get her cleaned up real good. You gonna take it?”

Virgil stood before Jacob, his lips twisted in a sleepy smile. His seeming tenantless eyes fixed ahead. His drooping body teetered toward Jacob, awaiting a decision. His tar-stained, six-fingered hand scratched the black stubble of his cheek. “Do ya wanna look around s’more. I got time. I got nothin’ but time.”

Birthright: Chapter Three

By Francis Scudellari

The Light

“Hang on a minute. I’ll give these heads a couple turns.” Virgil paused on the landing; his body folded unevenly to fix the railing.

Jacob straddled the top step and waited; his eyes captivated by a blue light, a flickering wedge that poured from the breached wall ahead. A still life’s dust-dimmed fruit danced within its sparkling kiss. A potted fern’s drooping fronds stiffened, stretched, aroused by its tinted touch. Jacob was also attracted to the cool glow, but before he could reach out to it, Virgil’s voice tugged him back.

“They tell me this area’s becoming sorta trendy. Couple neighborhood joints are real popular …” Virgil's words walked Jacob through the neighborhood; stepping him past the bars, shops, cafes, diners, and churches.

Jacob attended the coarse ramblings at first, but soon lost patience. His ears lost their grip on the hoarse-throated gurgle, and let it amble by into the darkness. His attention refocused on the light emanating from the cracked door. The muted sounds of televised laughter, ritual applause, erupted out into the stairway. Faint, irregular breathing filled the short spasms of silence.

Curious, unable to resist its pull, Jacob craned his neck past the molding. He thrust his head toward the pale rays and pressed his eye into the two-inch gap. It met its veined reflection; its stunned, disembodied twin that floated alone above a steel chain. In an instant, the laughter stopped, the light ceased, the door slammed shut.

“That’s Wilson. You won’t see much of him or his wife. They keep to themselves. They’re a little strange, but harmless. I think he’s, how d’ya say it, you know, a little slow.”

Virgil winked at Jacob, sheathed his tool and continued his ascent. “I gotta get in shape, these stairs are killing me.”

Birthright: Chapter Two

by Francis Scudellari

Jacob and Virgil

“Yeah, this railing’s a little loose, but I’ll tighten ’er up, don’t you worry kid.” A hairy hand slapped Jacob's shoulder, jarring him from the vision. Reverie removed, the booming voice disintegrated into a low, gravelly rasp. The pale god-like face melted. It morphed into the dirty, earthy smirk of the landlord.

Jacob squeezed the fat, sweaty palm extended to him.

“How you doin’ kid, I’m Virgil. I talked to ya on the phone yesterday. I live on the first floor right here. I look after the place, make sure everything’s workin’ okay. Y’ever got any problems you just call Virgil and I’ll fix ’em right up. Follow me, I’ll show ya the place.”

A thick cigar pried Virgil’s smile — an unlit prop, a half-smoked pacifier that he chewed between words. The smell of vodka clung to his breath. This morning, every morning, Virgil tapped the bottled vigor. He looked to, through, the cool, clear liquid. It restored his world’s lost sheen. It quickened his sapped strength. It bandaged his proud wounds.

The liquor lent him a mirthful mask, a canned chuckle — saccharine outer garments to cover his bitter heart. The alcohol spread through his soulless shell. It animated his numbed flesh. It made taut the strings that lifted his flabby limbs and walked him through the routine stumble of his day-to-day chores.

Virgil was to be Jacob’s escort up the narrow stairway. Lagging behind, Jacob watched the lump of a man climb. Rusted tools and a shiny flask bobbed in his rear pockets with each step. Jacob tried to dodge the tumbling, thudding words of dull banter that fell to his ears.

“You’ll like it here, kid. Good location. Cheap rent. Quiet neighbors. You’ll get used to the trains.”

The cigar attached itself to Virgil’s hand, a sixth brown stub. Shaking and fluttering, it pointed Jacob’s gaze toward the bent shadows, the cobwebbed corners where sinister spirits sat poised to drop on his guide's haunted shoulders.

A serialized killing of time: Introducing my Birthright

I'm going to try something different for the new year and post an old short story of mine in serialized fashion. Several of my favorite blog writers have been doing the same, and I thought I'd take their ingenuity as inspiration for a change in direction and format here.

Of course serial fiction dates back to the novels of Charles Dickens (pictured here perhaps working on one of those stories) and other writers of renown who got their start in periodicals. I think it's fitting that the form be adapted to what's becoming our modern Internet-based equivalent of popular journals: the Web log.

Below you'll find the first chapter of my story Birthright. It was first conceived in the mid-1990s and I've tinkered with the language over the years before settling on this final version. I'll keep an index of the chapters, as their posted, in this blog's sidebar.

Birthright: Chapter One

by Francis Scudellari

Jacob’s Daydream

Jacob’s lips spread slowly, smugly, in a grin. A gleam. A glint. A glimmer flashed in his eyes. The wood, with warped moan, received his weight. A crack. A sharp creak. Shrill cries echoed up the staircase -- musty trumpet blasts to herald Jacob’s arrival.

The beige walls swelled inward to embrace him, to welcome him, as he prepared to mount the knobby spine. The three-story pile of yellow brick whispered to him, promised him shelter, offered him winter-suffocating warmth, summer-shading cool. It longed to nurture him, to rear him through his writer’s infancy.

Jacob’s foot rested on the first step, his ladder’s first rung, anticipating. He trembled, anxious to run ahead, to leap forward into the so certain future. He daydreamed. He saw, thought of a time when college students, tourists, the idle curious, would mimic his journey. He thought, saw the bodies stream up the weed-choked pathway, feed the pool of well-mannered admirers paused at the crumbled, time-neglected, concrete steps.

The front door squeals open; it snaps shut. The hallway spits out one cherubic youth; it ingests another. One by one, they ascend, descend, in perfect balance.

Presiding over it all, a scholar, a guardian, with white bristled chin and all-knowing eyes. His gray, aged voice thunders down through the timbered bowels, it rattles up the fragile bone planks.

“Jacob Bethel scaled this very staircase each day, the images of the street dancing in his head. The faces of beggars, prostitutes, hustlers; the sounds of sirens, gun shots, screeching tires; the smell of urine, vomit and spilled whiskey; all spinning franticly, pounding violently, waiting anxiously for him to give them life -- the eternal life of the written page.

“This railing, this sad ribbon of wood that you use for support, undeserving, felt his firm hand clutch it, rub against it, caress it. Those very hands that hammered out such vivid tales of the city, such passionate portraits of modern pain and isolation, grasped this loose railing.”

Beowulf: Fleshing out a hero

The new movie treatment of the Old English epic Beowulf is a superficially interesting but ultimately flawed creation, just like the hero whose exploits it portrays. The retelling is very modern in its sensibilities and techniques, but it can't quite capture the magic of the source verse. It tries to flesh out the man behind the ancient warrior, but lacks the warmth and insight to add depth to its special-effected vision.

The major selling point for the film is that it's the latest generation of 3D technology shot using performance-capture-suited, big-name stars. Unfortunately the theater near me wasn't equipped to show it that way, so I didn't get to experience the movie as the director intended. I've read that the switch to digital projection is becoming more economical, but in the big city of Chicago a large majority of theater owners still haven't done so.

In 2D, the movie's visuals aren't strong enough to counteract the sophomoric humor and sight gags into which its story occasionally devolves. The screenwriters do attempt a post-modern spin on the hero's legend, but the ideas aren't weighty enough to lend it real heft. The animation in fact robs most characters of their humanity, reducing them to smoothed over, plastic action figures. In many ways, Grendel, Beowulf's troll-like first foe, has more physical and emotional depth than any of the leads.

One of the film's major themes is the disparity between myth and reality, and how the power of legend often trumps the need for truth. That's not a new idea, but it is a clever justification for the writers' twist on the traditional telling of Beowulf's story. They undermine the glory of his youthful acts in order to endow his final self-sacrifice with more meaning. Given the span of time the action skips over in the interim, it's hard for the audience to buy into that spiritual growth.

An interesting subtext is the tension between Pagan and Christian beliefs that bleeds through from the original epic poem. Beowulf is a pre-Christian Germanic tale that was passed down orally among the Anglo Saxons before being codified in written form with religious embellishment, perhaps by an 8th century monk. The film's grayed and weary Beowulf laments the lapsing of the age of heroes to a time dominated by martyrs. Ironically, at story's end he seems to embrace the very role he deemed shameful, as the distinction between martyr and hero becomes blurred.

The film isn't the most thoughtful meditation on the nature of heroism, but it should bring renewed attention to an important piece of our literary heritage, and that's a good thing. The Answers.com article on Beowulf has a nice summary of the original plot and great background information, including several external links to the full verse.

L'Etranger: Avoiding an absurdist fate

Anticipating the anniversary of Albert Camus' birth on November 7th, I decided to re-visit his short novel L'Étranger (The Stranger) and its disturbing portrait of modern alienation.

Written during one of the bleakest moments in Western history, when Europe seemed on the brink of falling under the brutal rule of Fascism, Camus' work is in form a sparsely worded crime story, but with content informed by a deeply dark philosophical argument.

Considered a quintessentially "absurdist" story, those who have read it will always remember its first lines, which speak to the narrator's apparent indifference:

Aujourd'hui, maman est morte. Ou puet-etre hier, je ne sai pas.
(Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don't know)

The unsympathetic voice is that of Monsieur Meursault, a man whose first name we never learn, and a character very difficult to understand. The events that flow forward from this pivotal moment of the announcement of his mother's death seem in some sense predestined, but that's an easy conceptual trap to fall into when listening to this retelling by a doomed man mentally retracing his steps.

Within the foggy recollections of his condemned mind, often more aware of the heat and monotony of the fateful moments that propel him toward his end, Meursault can't clearly discern his own motives and emotions. The people around him wait for him to react in a certain way, to feel and believe the things that imbue their world with order and meaning, but in his dedication to a kind of pure metaphysical honesty, he remains always outside those expectations.

Rejecting religion and social custom, he strikes more fear in the hearts of those trying him than the father-killer whose case is being prosecuted at the same time. The human mind can easily grapple with the concepts of good and evil, love and hate, guilt and redemption; but we all recoil from a moment's glance into the depths of utter ambiguity. Society prefers stereotypical villains with clear-cut or ill-willed agendas, rather than the more monstrous prospect of actors who force us to peer with them into the moral abyss of an uncaring universe.

Meursault finds significance in his memory of a Nurse's comments to him during the long and oppressive funeral march:

Elle m'a dit: "Si on va doucement, on risque une insolation. Mais si on va trop vite, on est en transpiration et dans l'église on attrape un chaud et froid." Elle avait raison. Il n'y avait pas d'issue.
(She said, "If you go slowly, you risk getting sunstroke. But if you go too fast, you work up a sweat and then catch a chill inside the church." She was right. There was no way out.)

It is that sense of hopelessness that pervades Meursault's story, and it makes Camus' novella a very uncomfortable read. In dark times, it's easy to fall victim to an alienating sense of powerlessness. I think it's Meursault's passivity throughout that condemns him, however, and not the fickle and chaotic workings of a meaningless world. The truly noble course to take is the one in which we pursue what is good and just, even without guarantee or solid expectation of success.

Sleepwalking our way through life, making only those choices that fall to us as we bounce from moment to moment side-stepping the obstacles that fate tosses in our path, will inevitably lead us to sadness. We can avoid succumbing to that black trap of meaninglessness by choosing instead to willfully commit ourselves to acts of love and compassion.

Meursault sees only a universal absurdity as he tries to accept the randomly cruel happenstance that led him to tragedy. I choose to believe that our world takes on the shape and meaning we creatively imagine for it. Hope and meaning are intertwined, and Meursault's life has lost both by the end of this tale. I don't know if that was Camus' perspective, but it's what I'll take away from the experience of reading his words.

Note: The English text used here is from the Matthew Ward translation of the book.