Booked

Horace slunk down the alley and escaped the night's brutal wind that blasted off of the frigid Hudson River. The narrow lane reeked of garbage and filth that years failed to wash away. He had much in common with the alleys that hid from the main streets of the city.

The torn black boot on his left foot trudged in front of the oversized brown shoe on his right. The door to his destination shone in the dark lane. A worn placard read, Brothers of the Word.

The sign represented his last chance to gain shelter for the night. Anxious, his dirty knuckles tapped the wood door through torn gloves. A few minutes passed and light broke through a seam as the door opened.

A thin faced man stood in the gap and asked, "Yes?" as the cold wind surged through the doorway.

"Do you have a space for me?" Horace asked.

The child-sized man dressed in all black met his eyes and responded.

"I am Brother Francis." He paused. "This must be your destiny for we did not earlier but a room just came available. Please come in." The host stepped back with his invitation.

"I'm Horace," he said.

He stumbled over the threshold and entered the warm foyer and the monk -like man slammed the door to winter night.

Francis nodded and said, "Follow me!"

They walked down the short hallway of three open doors, all on the right, and stopped at the third.

"You can sleep here. Breakfast is in eight hours. Good night!" said Francis.

Horace entered the room, closed the door, and wondered about the odd man. Exhausted he fell on the single bed and was asleep in less than a minute.

He woke in a delirium at 5 a.m. and had to pee. A glimmer of light from a small window reflected off the base of a brass lamp on a table beside the bed. He pulled the cord and its dim glow threw more shadows than illumination.

The small spartan room contained a bed, table, and a toilet in the far corner. Under the light lay a pencil on a black book the size of a large wallet.

Curious, he lifted the book and laid down on the bed. The exotic leather Moleskin fit in his hand and he opened it.

Horace expected to see The Holy Bible engraved on the cover page and instead found blank lined pages. He understood this book better than a bible.

Memories flooded his mind of years past when he reported crime news for the New York Post and journaled like a man in therapy.

His world had crumbled one night when he learned too much at the peak of a murder investigation. The information he discovered had almost cost him his family their lives.

Energy surged from the journal like an shock and jolted through his arm to his brain. Frightened, he tossed it on the table, turned off the lamp, and collapsed back into sleep. Nightmares filled his mind in the hours that remained of his troubled slumber.

Sharp knocks woke him and Francis announced, "Breakfast!"

Horace followed him to the middle door. The room contained a table, two chairs, and a countertop with a hot plate. A corner sink completed the small room. On the table rested two bowls of oatmeal and two glasses of water. They ate in silence. Francis gathered the dishes and washed them and said,

“The black book and pencil are for you to use as you like,” he said. “You can stay as long as you like. Lunch is at two."

Horace took that as a dismissal and went back to the room. Still exhausted, he laid on the bed and thought of the return of his nightmares. He picked up the black book to touch the leather and inhaled the earthy fragrance that had once brought him comfort and peace. The classic scent contrasted the rancid decay of his own hygiene.

He thought, In another time, I would have penciled in this journal my dreams. Those were good times.

He picked up the pencil and opened the cover to the first page. Tell your story! had been written at the top.

Horace jumped from the bed and dropped the enchanted journal on the floor then rushed to the door. Shaken, he turned and stared at the mysterious book. “Who wrote on the page?”

“I must be mad," he said, as his heart raced and blood flooded his brain like a cleansing force.

“Francis is playing a game with me, I will rest until lunch, eat, and leave. That will give me time to find somewhere to shelter before nightfall."

Inexplicably, a few minutes later he changed his mind. Drawn like a moth to a flame he picked up the book and opened it. He would notate under Francis's entry. "Screw you!" before he made his escape.

Instead, the wood implement scratched words onto the paper under its own power. The pencil wrote of its own accord. First one sentence then two and three until a paragraph flowed from his hand to fill the lines on the once blank paper.

Horace inspected the point of the pencil, the tip had worn to the wood. He placed the wood nib back to the page. The magical process resumed. The thoughts were his, but he didn't understand how the pencil captured and wrote them.

The first sentence read....The night started like any other night... Soon pages were filled with his story. The more he relaxed the faster the words inscribed.

Lost in time, a sharp knock on the door broke his hypnotic state. Francis called out, "Lunch!"

After lunch, Horace had forgotten his plan to escape and rushed back to his room and worked until he filled the last page. Then slept in deep peace for the first time in years.

The following morning a second Black book lay on the table beside the first and he began again. The more it wrote, the stronger he felt. He reviewed the pages and knew it to be the best work he had produced.

Over the next weeks he wrote, bathed in the sink, ate with the almost wordless Francis, and slept. Twenty completed Black books were stacked against the wall. His story told the tale of betrayal and murder among the elite of the city that could compete with the Godfather Saga.

On the fourth week Horace woke to find only one black book on the table and the twenty others gone. In a panic he ran down the hallway to the first door and pounded on it. The door opened.

"Where are my books Francis?" he said.

“They are here," and swept his hand toward a desk with a typewriter, “for you."

Horace's panicked demeanor turned to surprise, he asked,

"Why are you doing this? How is this possible? I don't understand."

“Lili St. Crow wrote, 'Discipline allows Magic, couldn't the inverse be true that, Magic allows discipline?" Francis said.

Two months later, Horace, awoke to find his four hundred page manuscript in a box by his bed. A suit, shirt and tie hung on a hook on the back of his door. Beside the box sat a new pair of shoes. On the table, the black book and pencil were gone and in its place a typed note, a train ticket, and a certified check for twenty thousand dollars. The note read.

“Horace, your stay here is finished. You have an appointment in Boston at three p.m. with an old friend at Liberty press. He is a publisher of note, a former FBI Special Agent and a longtime friend of the Brothers of the Word. Upon reading your manuscript he forwarded an advance of $20,000 with the hope to become your Publisher. Please rest assured that you will be kindly received and proper security, due to the nature of your situation, will be provided. The room needs to be readied for Virgil, its next guest.

May Good words follow you.

Good Bye.

Francis, Brothers of the Word.”

Nine months later, Horace walked onto the set of the Tonight Show, with the introduction,

"Please welcome New York City's newest Best Selling crime author of Booked, with a million copies sold, soon to be a Major motion picture.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the man who cleaned up New York City, Horatius (Horace) Flaccus, a direct descendent of the ancient writer, Horace of Rome.”