Tony Nesca's free-flow writing draws the reader into a tragi-comedy of
epic proportions.
Calabritto
by Tony Nesca
Genre: Literary Fiction
Written in Tony Nesca’s classic free-flow, stream of consciousness, the prose itself mesmerizes and captivates, drawing the reader into a tragi-comedy that unfolds an intricate tapestry of human experience.
About a Girl
by Tony Nesca
Genre: Literary Fiction
About a girl is a short novel that begins with two strangers, a man and a woman, who meet at a bus-stop and go on an impromptu bar-crawl on a cool, winter day. Taking place in twelve hours it recounts the oddball, hardcore, characters they meet and their increasing emotional connection as they fall for each other almost immediately. Infused with sexual energy, pop-culture references, intellectual debate and literary allusions this is an unapologetic, uncensored look at our society through the eyes of the outsider.
It is written in a free-flow, spontaneous style with long unhindered sentences that enable the reader’s eye to glide down the page as the story flows and moves to an urban beat of strippers, punk rockers and nightlife happenings.
Tony Nesca was born in Torino, Italy in 1965 and moved to Canada at the age of three. He was raised in Winnipeg but relocated back to Italy several times until finally settling in Winnipeg in 1980. He taught himself how to play guitar and formed an original rock band playing the local bars for several years. At the age of twenty-seven he traded his guitar for a Commodore 64 and started writing seriously. He has published six chapbooks of stories and poems (which he used to sell straight out of his knapsack at local dives and bookstores), seven novels, six books of poetry and stories, a spoken word album, a graphic novel co-written with Nicole Nesca, and has been an active contributor to the underground lit scene for 28 years, being published in innumerable magazines both online and in print.
Tony Nesca and his wife Nicole I. Nesca have one question – where have all the fearless artists gone? Unable to find a mainstream publishing outfit that suited their taste for grittier writing, the Nescas formed their own – Screamin’ Skull Press where they have published 19 distinct works through their Indie Press, and their journey toward a more rebellious future for literature continues.
Screamin’ Skull Press exclusively publishes the worrk of the Nescas - raw, electric and with a free flowing mix of prose and poetry, their books are explorations of freedom, art, death, love, literary experimentation and living how one chooses.
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CALABRITTO BY TONY NESCA
He drives into town at the mouth of the village just where the mountain curves its way around the seven hills and faces Naples and all that ancient wonder and everywhere is that lush green forest with colours bloodshot auburn emerald mixing into the early evening sunlight drooping Westward timeless and gone already, the occasional house dots the road or hides in the trees as it pears out at you through the thick purple foliage mixing with the mountain sounds of things alive and far away and Ruggiero’s sport car bright red with hard earned money and all else lost turns round and round hugging curves that just a few feet away drop down in straight line for thousands of feet, after that comes the gravel road easing its way into the Piazza with shops and cafes and bars and people and outcrops of rock where young people sit and smoke cigarettes scowling at the world everything roving moving cascading drumming up and around spinning and raising the volume loud and up-tempo with that vigor and aggressive love only found in Italy scorched and conquered and reclaimed…it was summer holiday school out as kids of all ages ran around the horseshoe-shaped Piazza and Ruggiero eased the red nose of sport car forward weaving slowly around the throng of people grooving with the hot summer evening and lazy-slow-beauty of Calabritto, he moves slowly past Mascanzone and Troisi sitting on curb drinking chocolate milk and talking all kinds of shit then parks his car in usual spot, sees someone and waves as he gets out in short-sleeves and pressed beige slacks with black dress shoes and cigarette dangling from mouth…
She downed her Cognac and her ass wiggled out of the room a few whistles and smiles and “madonna mia!” “jesu christo!” “whoohooo”, she smiled, she dug it, she moved like a snake her body gliding through the streets with electricity and certainty and the older town ladies eyeing her with disdain and suspicious jealousy as she began her trek up and up and up moving away from the village piazza and into the trees and the cobblestone steps of Calabritto jagged and wide at parts narrow and shaded in others, splitting, forking, twisting, winding its way around Calabritto, sun setting behind the mountains you could hear the wind moving around its peaks Graziella took a deep breath, held it, then expelled and felt it all, stumbling up the steps past the shacks and huts and two story buildings all attached like in Brooklyn New York row houses and there were roving dogs and the occasional house light and the darkness that concealed all the life-dance and beauty and futility and lost grins on the horizon, her high heels banging and sliding and groovin’ and she took off the heels and continued barefoot toes painted deep red shining in the mountain moonlight and lantern sadness past the butcher’s, the bread shop, a tavern, a few stone huts that lined the winding stairs, then stopped in front of a broken down hovel all grey and silent-tragedy silent-blindness, it was one room, hanging carpet for a door, plywood for a roof – she paused – then came the sadness – she crumbled knees hitting rock floor – she sat there for a while hugging her legs then reached inside her top and slid some money under the curtain – then she continued and there goes Anna-Maria balancing the usual wood-piles on her head, and Guglielmo running with the dogs, and old guys drinking at small tables in the open mountain air waiting for the sun to go down, Graziella’s plump long thighs full of all things wild and alive, one easy step after the other – there were stone huts on the side with wooden doors arched and ornate designs carved by artists long dead, outhouses in the woods among the trees and the wild dogs howling through the cool nights, lanterns hanging from awnings casting shadows long and wide so strange to see when alone and faded, suicide corners in the gloom at the edge of cliffs overlooking Italy worn and ancient and still in the game…
Warning: Language
About A Girl by Tony Nesca
Winter day at bus-stop hands in pockets puffing smoke thinking ‘bout a bike I had as a kid in this very neighborhood, retarded boy named Ken used to challenge me to race wobbling from side to side as he rode making car sounds on that old fucking thing basket in front, “rooom roooom” “come on retard boy, that all you got?” racing down Garwood Avenue that crazy loon flying right by me up to corner then back and forth laughing like the world is all right and it’s there just for us my mother on front porch shaking her fist at me “beep beep” goes Ken, I’m thinking about this at bus-stop mid-day streets alive with furious wanton music, young woman shows up out of the darkness “hello” lights cigarette, winter day gray and shady,
“So who are you?” she says as the lights go wiry,
“Uh-huh, oh yeah”
“I turned 23 yesterday”
Old lady walks by well-scrubbed pink tragic like the sun she smiles at us young woman beside me we’re talking high-speed ‘bout local bands booze on her breath I should be going home on call for work security guard at downtown high-rise she’s smiling big black hair we’re on the bus going through little Italy restaurants bars cafes go by in a blur I’m telling her I used to play guitar in a band her green eyes light up “should have known” she says,
“Why, cuz I got long hair?”
“Yes”
She pulls a mickey out of her knapsack takes a swig hands it to me I decline, think about it, then I take a sip bus racing through The Osborne Village artsy part of town funky shops black clothes mohawk kids begging for money guy with glasses throws up on corner, “Where you goin’?” she says I explain the work thing gotta sit by the phone in case they need me, got an hour to kill she’s looking for CD’s, likes That Petrol Emotion and The Violent Femmes, going to that second-hand music place downtown lady on bus starts singing Old Man River I laugh alive in love, my friend beside me laughs too applies deep red lip-stick snow piled high on the boulevard cruising down The Osborne Bridge sweating in our winter jackets bus cramped and tired nippin’ vodka between the sheets my friend looking brave and thinking, she’s reciting a Black Flag song whistling in the wind, howling at the septic tank says she used to live in Toronto hates it grew up on Indian Reserve called Pukatawagan says Winnipeg really works for her, really like The Peg she says, guy snoring behind us, bus-driver taking crazy turns announcing each corner with lame-ass joke crowd laughing like derelicts my friend looks at me crosses her eyes sticks her tongue out I feel my ass-cheeks rumble, damn…
“Ever been to The Canadian Shield?” she says,
“Oh yeah”
Gust of wind gives Cocker Spaniel on corner a mouth full of snow few guys on bus start laughing shiny hair suburban nightmares my friend comments on them doesn’t like that type big fucking deal I say do you listen to Brave new Waves? Sure thing she says, new band called The White Stripes pretty good love that three chord unorthodox rock and roll…similar to what The Pixies did I say,
“No one’s as good as The Pixies” she says
Approaching downtown the drunks come out middle of the afternoon stumbling through parking lots and construction sites she digs it says life is about this takes another sip of vodka I join her people on the bus take notice driver looking at us in mirror let’s get off I say…heel-toe-express down the downtown streets chinese guy parking car reminds me of something I can’t remember my friend exactly same height as me short parka with hood tight blue jeans beautiful winter I’m thinking breath comes out in clouds we live one step at a time caught in the shit of things stick and move monkey man on high wind tears out brain things as usual he says, business guy walking fast briefcase dangling I point to a mall then past it to a small bar hungover mohawk-kid in front wrapping his jacket around him lighting cigarette,
“Let’s go there” I say,
“Juicy” she says….
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