𝐂ⓗค𝕤м ㄖ𝕗 𝐌άⒹ𝕟𝐞𝕤ⓢ

℃нαⓢ๓ ๏ғ ᗰค𝐝η𝐞ⓢˢ

ⓒ𝔥𝐚ⓟ𝐭𝔢𝐫 ❶: ♗ ฬ𝐑ⓘᵗⓔ Ｃ𝐋υв ♗

Eliot Richards never suffered fools gladly. I always did. To say that I envied him would be a gross understatement. Yet, as much as I longed to be like Eliot, I also resented him. With all of my heart, I did. He represented a part of me that had long been stifled by corporate America – slowly killed off to fit in this dog-eat-dog world of journalism.

Eliot lived his life with no regrets and without apologies. His cavalier attitude, raw emotion, and brutal honesty were as emboldening and soul-nourishing as they were foul and offensive. Eliot, quite simply, didn’t give a damn who he pissed off. He was a free spirit, and nobody was going to tell him what to think or how to write – least of all some bootlicking Ivy League pinhead.

It was that untamable spirit that drew me to Eliot, and that same free spirit that had also gotten us both canned quite unceremoniously from the Mercury Times. Yet, try as I may, I just never could bring myself to be bitter with him. In fact, I was honestly relieved. I hated that place – perhaps as much as Eliot did! It was a soul-snatching, brain-eating parasite of a job.

After the debacle at the Times, I lost touch with Eliot for a spell, and we went our separate ways. I revered Eliot; he was my favorite drinking buddy. However, for my own sanity and the sake of everyone else, I needed to distance myself from him.

Hard times visited upon me in bursts and waves, and I spent six months in therapy. I managed to give up the bottle for a short while, but it didn’t last. When I wasn’t lip-tickling the bewitching spout of a bottle, I was nursing on the cold, hard business end of a Beretta.

I tried to make a go of it as a freelance writer, but the only real freedom I discovered as a freelance writer was freedom from a paycheck. I exhausted the small inheritance left to me from my mother’s passing. I could sense her scornfully shaking her head with bitter disappointment: “Dammit, Sam, I told you to get a real job. Writing is a hobby; it won’t pay the bills!”

I was nearly to the point of surrender and back deep into the bottle when I once again crossed paths with Eliot. He arranged a job for me as an investigative reporter with an online news agency. It wasn’t going to make me rich, but it at least paid the rent and put some dinner on the table. Moreover, it afforded me some of the freedom I’d been denied while I was at the Times.

What still lacked, however, was an outlet for my creative side. I tinkered with writing a novel, but writer’s block laughed mockingly in my face. That creative lobe of my brain had been systematically euthanized, and though I tried in earnest, I was simply unable to revive it. I toiled endlessly in the ominous shadow of self-doubt. I stared deep into the abyss of my laptop monitor night after night. It stared back, taunting me. I varied my routine. I tried writing in pubs and coffee shops, on park benches, and even while riding the train, but inspiration eluded me. I had this strange sense it was always just beyond my reach, reveling in my desperation, taking sadistic delight in my struggle.

Like a zombie, I wrote investigative reports, submitted them, and then moved on to my next assignment. My existence was a nauseating, dissatisfying loop, reminding me daily that my life was a dismal failure.

Day after day, I went through the motions, fulfilling my assignments, and night after night, I stared alternately between my floundering novel and the bottom of a bottle.

A string of curious missing-persons cases across the city provided a surplus of human fodder for my journalistic cannon. I spent many long days and nights along the cold periphery of the city hunting monsters and chasing down clues of the whereabouts of a bunch of no-name strippers and drug addicts.

“Who the hell truly even cares about these ladies?” I wondered. Their tragedies delivered some intriguing stories for a twisted public mind. Like the sight of a gruesome car wreck, the masses simply could not resist the morbid spectacle. Honestly, however, very few people truly cared about these women. Hell, even I was finding it difficult to care, and, in a sense, these were my people — fellow wanderers of the night. They disappeared like they lived: under a shroud of mystery. The more I dug, the less I cared. I was seeking inspiration and hope; instead, I found desperation and despair.

Unlike me, Eliot never seemed to lack inspiration. He was driven by a bundle of emotions. He shared several pieces of his dark fiction with me. It was chilling. It was the kind of writing that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up and take notice. He had a dark gift. Or perhaps it was a dark curse.

Such evil could only be conveyed by one who had ventured so deep into the depths of fright as to become intimately familiar with it. Fearful words danced effortlessly from Eliot’s cursed pen like fire.

Eliot was obsessed with death, and its grimy, malevolent fingerprints were all over his work.

“What is the source of your creativity?” I pressed Eliot. “Where do you find your inspiration?”

His response surprised me, and, ultimately, it would prove to be life-changing!

“Stop seeking inspiration from this pathetic, uninspired world.” The words rolled slow and deliberate from Eliot’s lips with a very serious tone, his pensive eyes peering into the depths of my soul. “When has that ever inspired great works? True greatness looks beyond the boundaries of our corporeal existence. Stop suffering just for the sake of suffering, Sam! Embrace it, and turn this world’s wretched suffering into literature. I know that there’s a great story bottled up somewhere inside of you, Sam Pickman. Let it out!”

I had to allow Eliot’s words to settle into the deepest recesses of my mind before I even began to scratch the surface of their deeper meaning. I’d sell my soul to the devil himself for even a small portion of the inspiration Eliot enjoyed, but fame and prosperity loomed hopelessly out of my reach beyond an impenetrable wall of writer’s block.

Eliot sensed my desperation, but he let me toil for a few more weeks while his words percolated deep into my soul. “Stop suffering just for the sake of suffering.” Those riddling words reverberated through my mind. What the hell did he mean? If suffering was the key to success, hand me my trophy. I’d already paid a steep toll.

Alas, Eliot asked me to join him for a drink. “Let’s talk, Sam,” Eliot messaged me. “Meet me at the pub on Brassel Street Friday night at 7:30.” Eliot was referring to Dunker’s Pub – more affectionately known as Drunkard’s Pub, a beloved hotspot in the art district that was a favorite among struggling artists, musicians, and writers. I knew the place well. Hell, I was practically a fixture at Dunker’s! It was my home away from home.

When I arrived on Friday evening, Eliot was already situated at my favorite corner booth. “Sam I Am!” Eliot greeted me from across the barroom with a debonair smile befitting his rugged good looks. “Have a seat. What can I getcha to drink?”

“Whiskey on water, thanks.”

Eliot was in his typical cheerful mood. He returned with a drink in each fist. “Sam, how the hell’s your novel coming?” he asked, with a tone of genuine inquiry as he set both drinks on the table in front of me.

“I wish I could report otherwise,” I said as I drew a long, nourishing sip, “but I’m still struggling just to get started.”

“It happens to all of us, Sam — all of us,” Eliot offered. “Don’t sweat it. Let it come to you.” He paused. “I have a proposal of sorts for ya – if you’re game.”

I deliberated on his words momentarily. I didn’t want to seem too eager or desperate. “Sure. Tell me more.”

Anything was almost certain to be a welcome deviation from my current routine. I had come here hoping to unravel Eliot’s riddle, but this promised to be even more enticing.

“I trust you, Pickman. You’ve always been a straight shooter.” Eliot smiled at me. “I’m starting up a Writing Club; a place where a very select group of talented authors can collaborate, motivate and check in on one another, and there will even be weekly prompts and challenges. A little homework!” Eliot slid a Fight-Club-style poster in front of me. “We’ll meet at sunset every Friday night, but this is a ‘by-invitation-only’ club — very exclusive. I need your vow of secrecy! What do you think? You in?”

I had dabbled online with some writing prompts and challenges on vocal.media, and although I’d never won anything or even made much more than the cost of a cup of coffee, I found the camaraderie and encouraging atmosphere to be soul-satisfying and even motivational. I was intrigued by the exclusivity of Eliot’s Write Club. “This all sounds quite fascinating, Eliot. Who else have you invited? Where will we meet?”

“I know you remember Ashley Martin,” he began with an ebullient grin.

I nodded in approval. Ash was my kryptonite. She was irresistible. A gypsy junkie with a genius IQ and a balls-to-the-wall philosophy to life. She was a badass, and her writing reflected it!

“She’s in,” Eliot continued. “Phil Howard is also a yes.”

I’d known Phil for the better part of a decade. He was a real salt-of-the-earth kinda guy and a helluva writer, but he struggled mightily with addictions. He had fallen pretty hard since his divorce. “How is Phil?” I inquired. “I ain’t heard scratch from him in several months. It’s like he disappeared.”

“Phil went away for a while. He had to face his demons.” Eliot had a warm but somber tone to his voice. “He’s fragile – always on the verge of collapse, you know. He needs this as much as we need him. He can be trusted, though.”

Eliot could be a bit rough around the edges, but he would walk through fire for his friends. I admired that quality in him.

“The rest we’ll pick up along the way,” Eliot added confidently. “Do you recall that old warehouse in the Bottoms across from old man Worthy’s body shop? It used to be a boxing gym. You remember the place don’tcha?”

“Sure, sure, I remember,” I said reminiscing back.

“We can meet there for the time being. I know the realtor who’s listing the place. It’s been on the market for several years, and there’s no mad rush of people moving into that neighborhood. It’ll remain empty for some time.” Eliot wagged two fingers in the air toward the barmaid who responded with a nod.

Eliot shifted his attention to more immediate matters. “Now, tell me this, Sam I Am: have you gotten any better at shootin’ pool? I got twenty bucks that’s dying to find out!”

“I’m good enough to whip your ass,” I snapped back confidently. “Rack ‘em!”

We closed down the bar that night, and I didn’t give my novel another thought for the rest of the evening.

I spent the next week in euphoric anticipation, like a kid waiting for Christmas morning.

Eliot had hand-selected the founding members carefully. You’d have more success gleaning secrets from the mob than from any one of us four. Eliot was serious about his vow of secrecy. At first, I thought it was just a clever play on the Fight Club rules, but Eliot repeated his request several times throughout the night. He must have his reasons, and that was good enough for me. I didn’t share a word about Write Club with a soul. Ashley and Phil would no doubt have that same mindset. There would come a time for inviting guests, but not at the inaugural meeting.

The week dragged on for what seemed like a month. By the time Friday eventually visited, I was giddy as a schoolchild.

The old warehouse chosen as our Write Club headquarters was brimming with nostalgia and intrigue. The building was situated near the railyard just south of the Ohio River. It was constructed back in the latter part of the nineteenth century and originally served as a shipping house. It came complete with horse stables and a buggy shed. The dirt floors in the attached stables were eventually bricked over, but they still exist mostly in their original design today.

The building was repurposed after World War 2 as a boxing gym, but the building had fallen into some disrepair since “Mick’s” closed down following his death back in the early nineties.

The dimly-lit warehouse clutched onto its storied past. The walls wept the sweet smell of blood, sweat, and tears. “Oh, the stories these walls could tell,” I marveled as I pushed open the outer door. Awaiting inside was Ashley. She gazed out through one of the giant windows at the sun setting upon the distant, muted bustle of the city. A notebook and small bag were haphazardly strewn on one of the nearby tables. I plopped my own bag alongside them and joined Ashley.

Ashley must have been deep in thought, and I startled her by my approach. “Hey there, Ash.”

“What the hell, Eliot,” Ashley snapped at me, emerging from deep thought. “Don’t go sneakin’ up on people like that!” Ashley thumped me in the chest with both fists.

Ashley’s deep brown eyes were thin and fragile and streaked with red. It appeared that she’d been crying.

Eliot? Hmmmm. “You mean . . .” I began. Just then, I sensed Eliot’s approach behind us.

“. . . Sam I am,” Eliot finished in playful Seussical banter.

“Yeah, right, whatever,” Ashley said, rolling her eyes. There seemed to be some odd tension between Ash and Eliot. Or perhaps it was being directed toward me. “Have you got a smoke?” Ashley asked.

“Sorry,” I replied with a shrug patting my pockets, and Ash returned to staring into the distance.

“Phil will be along momentarily. Let’s get started,” Eliot proposed.

Right on cue, Phil quietly slipped in from an exterior room. He was pale as a ghost. He had lost a few pounds and didn’t look well. He shifted his eyes uncomfortably toward me, watching my every move.

“I’ve already spoken with each of you individually, so we’ll cut straight to the chase,” Eliot suggested, breaking the tension. “You represent the best-damned writers this city has to offer, but I want to see us take it up a notch, and I want to see enthusiasm for writing catch like wildfire across the city.”

Eliot paused to assess our reactions. I was dangerously pushing the limits of the edge of my seat.

“Let’s review the ground rules,” continued Eliot, pushing copies of the “Write Club Rules” in front of each of us.

Eliot cleared his throat and began reciting the rules adapted from Chuck Palahniuk’s popular novel “Fight Club”:

“The First Rule of Write Club is . . . you don’t talk about Write Club. You know the saying: what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Well, the same goes here. I hope these sessions will be soul-baring. Confidentiality matters.”

“The Second Rule of Write Club is . . . don’t fucking talk about Write Club! What we do here is our own damn business.”

“The Third Rule of Write Club is . . . keep things positive and encouraging. The world dishes out enough shit. Be brutally honest but constructive here.”

“Fourth: We’re gonna have weekly challenges. I wanna see us push the outer limits of our creative abilities. You’ll have one week to put together your best response to each weekly challenge.”

“Five and Six: One Entry per week per Author. Either go solo or collaborate, but don’t even think about bringing any AI crap here; I can spot that souped-up garbage a mile away.”

“Seven: You are the judge, the jury, and the accused. Be fair, but select a weekly winner.”

“Finally, Eight: You’re encouraged to invite guests, but if this is their first visit, they gotta either write or take a hike. We ain’t runnin’ no daycare.”

“Since this is Week One, I’m gonna mix it up a bit and pair us off for the first challenge.” Pointing toward me, Eliot assigned the pairings, “Sam, you and Ash team up, and I’ll work with Phil. The Challenge for Week One is simple: Write an obituary or eulogy. It can be for yourself, for someone you know, or for a famous or fictional character, but it doesn’t have to be for an individual, either. Be dark or humorous, or be solemn and reverent. Be creative. Be out-of-the-ordinary. Help me understand who the departed is, or rather was. Let’s pair up and brainstorm.”

“I guess that’s us,” Ash said turning to me. “Grab your shit!” Ash snatched up her notebook and motioned for me to follow her toward some better lighting.

“Have I done something to offend you?” I pressed Ashley. “I’m sensing some serious back-the-fuck-off vibes from you. Let’s clear the air.”

Ash stopped and let out a deep sigh, looking deep into my eyes like she was peering past them into my very soul. She asked with a hint of melancholic desperation, “Do you ever get a feeling you’re just going through life’s preset motions — as if you’re living out some disinteresting late-night black-and-white rerun? I have this deep unsettling sense of déjà vu, and I feel adrift in its dark shadow.”

I stood looking at Ash in astonishment. “You’ve just described my very existence. I’m intimately acquainted with that lost, numb feeling. Ash, this may sound like sheer insanity, but I hope it makes sense to you: Some nights, I have to find a familiar point of reference from this world to tether myself to reality and avoid slipping into some dark beyond. I routinely tether myself to the ticking of my clock or the glow of a small light in my room. It’s the only thing that keeps me from being swallowed up. Find that tether, Ash, and cling onto it like a buoy – like your life depends upon it!”

Ash nodded as if she understood. “I can’t recall why, but I have this strange sensation that I should be angry with you,” Ash let out a big sigh as if a monumental weight was being lifted. “Perhaps it’s just the latent memory of a bad dream. I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s like I’m wandering in that disorienting veil of fog you experience when you wake abruptly from a dream that’s still clinging to the outer fringes of your mind.” Ash’s sad eyes had lost their usual fire.

In silence, we both stared at one another with a profound understanding, immersed in the moment.

“Let’s just get to work on this obit,” Ash prompted with a bit of a contrived laugh trying to lighten the mood. “Perhaps you can convince me why we shouldn’t write your obituary,” she continued, trying to summon a smile.

For the life of me, I had no clue what I could have done to upset Ash. Perhaps it was, as she said, just the hangover from some crazy dream, or maybe even some drug-induced hallucination. Hard to tell with Ash. For the time being, I decided to push this aside, and we retreated to a small work desk beneath an old pendant light. “Let’s do this, Ash!”

We outlined some rough ideas and made plans to brainstorm and each jot down our ideas then meet back at the warehouse Monday night to discuss it further.

☢☢☢

Musical Interlude: Passenger | Remember to Forget (Acoustic)