The Writers' Club

I. Ernest Barroca

The middle-aged writer sat facing the bartender who served him a Negroni. Despite his age, Ernest looked older than he is from years of cigarettes, booze, and drugs. By the time he reached his forty-ninth birthday, Ernest hair was mostly white, the face wrinkled, although he still possesses traces of the handsomeness of his youth.

He received the cocktail and sipped the red liquor, his throat welcoming the mixture of bitter and citrus taste rolling on his tongue. "Ah, you never fail me, Gustav. You always make the best cocktails."

"Anything for the satisfaction, sir," Gustav replied, smiling in acknowledgement. He gave Ernest another serving when the latter was motioned his hand for a second glass. "How's your new book, sir? Doing well with the next project?"

"Yeah," Ernest lied, "I'm halfway. Just need to find a good publisher that will pick me up."

"I'm sure somebody will," responded the genial bartender. "People still respect the value of art."

"Do they?" Ernest wondered. "Mr. Gustav, with all due respect, your skill with the liquor is beyond this world, but your ability to conjure bullshit is dismal." The bartender just laughed heartily and walked to the other side of the bar, where he wiped several glasses. Meanwhile, Ernest returned his focus to his drink, thinking.

-

With ten critically-acclaimed novels, Ernest Barroca was a genius of his time, a promising young novelist who broke the literary world with his new take on the crime genre, featuring a neophyte police detective who rose in ranks, solving one mysterious crime after the other. In his novels, Ernest pictured the main character as a man with grey morality: not purely evil and not purely good, just a man doing his job with no overly sentimental notions. His world is David Fincher's world, dark in color with only a little shine of hope glimmering at the sides.

It took him a long time to find a publishing house that will launch his first novel. This young writer walked inside a publishing house office, only to be rejected and then he went to the next, and the cycle went on. He pitched his manuscript to five publishing houses until one dared to take a risk, and the rest was history.

Ten novels earned ten movie adaptations, and a production company even pitched the idea of rebooting the series for a Netflix adaptation. "Ernest Barroca is the next George R.R. Martin of the crime fiction", the critics branded him, and he will be an icon of his generation.

The novel saga ended ten years ago, with Ernest killing his titular character. He did what Arthur Conan Doyle did with Sherlock Holmes, although the latter relented and revived the detective. Meanwhile, Ernest killed his own hero because he had no idea what else to do.

Stars fall, and Ernest with it.

-

"Did you read my books?" Ernest asked Gustav, who now poured Jack Daniels to a glass with three ice cubes, then handed it to the writer who was now drunk. "Yes sir. Nice touch with the political commentary in line with the story's plot."

"How about the way I ended the series? Was it cool that I killed my man?"

"Personally, I found it a poignant conclusion to your novels. A reminder that the world where your story was set is an unpredictable world. That even the mighty can fall," Gustav answered. "Others however, were attached to the protagonist. Too attached, I daresay. That's why the last novel was not well-received. It's hard to part ways with a character who became a part of their lives for decades."

"I see," Ernest mumbled. "The thing is, I don't have any idea on what to do with the story, so I ended it."

The ice on the glass became partially melted,mixing with the golden-brown whiskey. "I don't want to be associated with that work alone. I had written better works, and they recognize only that. That's why I ended it that way. I don't wanna be Smells Like Teen Spirit, or Stairway to Heaven. Go figure why Kurt Cobain and Led Zeppelin hated those songs respectively."

Silence. Only the twinkling of glasses and the occasional murmurs were the only sounds in the room. Gustav was about to serve one more serving to Ernest's glass but the latter covered the brim with his hand. "I think that I have enough."

"Are you sure, sir?"

"Yeah. I have a manuscript to finish."

"Good luck with the project, sir."

Ernest stood from his seat, drunk but still well-postured. "Adieu, Monsieur Gustav."

"Adieu, Monsieur Barroca."

-

The walk to Ernest's apartment is not very far, and the man endured the cold on his stroll home. He loves walking. Ernest found it a more effective way to think, since he was never idle. Strangely, he was not as drunk as he thought and can still see the neon letters on the lining establishments. Maybe I could write a scene about this, he thought.

Ah, his new novel.

His first work after his famed series- that is if you exclude his lesser known literary pieces and collaboration with other writers. For years he kept secret of what his new novel is about, but Ernest only told the press this: It's different.

How different, the world wondered? Ernest wonders as well, but he would stray far from his previous novels. He does not want to be associated with one series only.

Ernest Barroca's apartment is not one of the most luxurious in the city, but comfortable at best, befitting for a man like him. With yellowish-white walls, a varnished wooden floor, a handful of framed newspaper clippings of the old-day successes, the apartment gave the appearance of intellectualism, an old-time writer who was the legend of his time.

Was.

The typewriter rested on the table in the living room: an Adler Universal 39 typewriter. It was the one used by Jack Torrance at "The Shining". Ernest couldn't help but smile. That movie was the reason why he started to write. A writer has a demon in his head that wants to dominate his body. With this reason in mind, the man wrote his first words as an author.

"Tap-tap-tap. Ting!" greeted the typewriter. Ernest sat and looked on the paper attached to the instrument's mouth. He started to type at the keyboard, the mechanical sound of the typewriter the only sound in the room. Hours passed and time flowed.

-

Three o'clock in the morning. The window of Ernest Barroca's apartment was open, overlooking the road below. Meanwhile, the typewriter was quiet at this hour now, with the washed-up writer nowhere to be found. There were curious passersby who heard a strange thud and there they saw a body lying on the road, a puddle of blood surrounding him like a rose bath.

The great Ernest Barroca fell to his death one year shy of his fiftieth birthday.