Screams in the Madhouse -- A Sequel to Janus House by Jacob Francis Malewitz

Screams in the MadHouse

By J.M. Francis

Copyright Jacob Malewitz

jfmalewitz@gmail.com

Book 1: Back to Hell

CHAPTER 1

“I want to stay mad. They take care of you. They feed you and let you eat ice cream all day. And pills. Oh-my-God. The pills!” Alice Amy laughed, looking at Zebra across the table. It was a round table, enclosed by several walls, where you occasionally could see people playing ping pong in the other room; sometimes there would be a movie on and she always had the best angle to the TV in the corner. But who was Alice Amy, really?

#

Paul Light walked into his parent’s—his father’s—home and yelled out. “Hey dad, where’s the damn music and beer for your son?” After walking into the living room he stopped, dropping his bag, the cigarette falling out of his mouth and hitting the cheap carpet. Christopher Light, his father, was sitting in a pool of blood with a gun on the table and a note scrawled in crayons on top of it. From here, Paul could see the big letter A on the paper, but little else. He stepped forward, his heart racing, only to fall flat on his face in tears. He wept for several minutes, but this day had always been on his mind. He grabbed the paper, put it into his bag carefully without even glancing at it, pacing himself all the way; he then went to the phone and called the East Lansing police.
                “911 emergency.”
                “Someone died on Cedar Street,” and he dropped the phone in time to see a reddish figure, at the top of the stairs, appear and disappear. At that moment he didn’t mind his eyes playing tricks on him, because now that his father was dead and mom long gone, back in the glory days she passed, he knew he was finally on his own. “It had to happen, it will happen, it happens.” And he laughed for a moment, scared and hopeless at the same time.
                He sat down, pulling a cigarette to his mouth and lighting, only to throw it to the ground. He went back to his father’s swollen body, and saw something in the color of the blood which immediately reminded him of the figure he saw upstairs. “No time for chasing ghosts,”  he said to himself, but couldn’t get past the letter. Finally, he pulled it out, noting a picture of exactly the creature—creature?—he had seen waiting for him at the top of the stairs. The words above it were scribbled in haste with a blooded hand, and looked quite like another language. But it was English. It said “Tell no one my secrets, and my ideas, for ideas are the true beasts.”
                “What did you mean—“ A knock at the door.

2

Paul Light watched them leave, taking the body, asking little if any questions. All he could think of was why, why he died, why they didn’t even same to scare. Did they expect it as much as he did? This could have been a murder; the figure at the stairs might have been--
                And—
                Slow down. Slow down.
                He stopped thinking and went to his bag, passing the table without thinking. He wanted a cigarette so bad, but they were quite unhealthy especially when you smoked 2 packs a day. Disgusting. Remembering the red image dashing, he slowed at the stairs. This house, built back when building was the A-Business in Mid-Michigan, had an odd arrangement. Its stairs were right there when you opened the front door; they happened to be next to the phone as well. You went up, two bedrooms, one for mom and dad, one for the best son who-did-some-dope-but-recovered Paul Light. He almost laughed, thinking of the apparition. It came down to mom: neither of them could ever let go, but Paul was better at blocking it out than dad.
                He went to the bathroom and washed his hands, spotting his somewhat dirty complexion in the mirror, remembering so long ago putting water on the toothbrush so dad would think he did in fact brush his teeth. It was quite the ruse.
                Again he laughed, and surveyed his father’s bedroom, or what was left of it. There were books all over the bed; barely enough space to lie. The TV, oddly, was on with MSNBC filling the screen; dad liked news. The radio was rewired and the rest of the clothes were tossed all around, dirty or clean Paul could only guess.
                He went to the books on the table. “Madness in Babylon.” “Secrets of Madness.” “Hanging onto Guilt.” “Handling Schizophrenia.” “Send Down Fire.” “Artists and Their Worlds.”  A different compilation of books; what was dad searching for? Again, movement with a dash of red to it, but again he second guessed himself looking at the TV screen and seeing a Child Alert hitting the screen; a six year old missing. Amber Alerts always disturbed Paul.
                He repositioned the books, but kept them close. A writer, but failed college student, Paul worked as a part time journalist and aspiring non-fiction million dollar bestseller; he knew good books. Who better to teach him than dad? Dad would send him boxes full of arcane books by oddly named authors like Lovecraft and Jung and Rand; he had different tastes. Laughing at this, he stepped on another book on the ground and picked it up. It was almost finished, the bookmark on the last chapter; “The Demons Within Us.”
                “Odd.” And he put the book on top of the others.

3
The police came back on a rainy night—it was so cold at night in Michigan rain—and Paul could hear them walking up the stone steps to the solid oak door, pounding it and making jokes to themselves. “Kid couldn’t kill a fly.” “What if he did kill a fly?” “No jokes, bro, he’s had it fucked.” He opened the door, pretending pain when in fact he was feeling downright happy.
                “Hi. “
                “Paul, may we come in?”
                He recognized him. Joe Santiago. Went to school together. But he didn’t know the other one.
                They sat at an old gold and white couch, the kind you hang onto and make sure stays in good shape; Paul went to work. A cup of hot black coffee for Joe, and the partner who never gave a name asked for nothing.       
                “Paul Light. Resident non-fiction writer. How you been, bro? Ah shit, man, that was stupid.”
                “No, Joe, I’ve been good. My dad really hasn’t been alive for a decade.”
                “So you’re a writer now?”
                “Journalist, just a typist.”             
                “Any books? Any big deals? Movies?”

Delany's About Writing: Seven Essays. Four Letters, and Five Interviews --- A Rare Science Fiction Novel Escape

----- Samuel R. Delany, Acclaimed Science Fiction Novelist

----- About Writing, a how to on what you might understand on science fiction and to write your own epic

----- Dhalgren Theory, an upcoming Persian novel of science fiction

Delany is a science fiction novelist of screen legend who has an awesome and concise novel of interviews and letters that I screen on Dhalgren theory for a narrative on science fiction epics from times before, how we might do them, and how you can maybe look at the next science fiction epics that are coming out. My novel soon coming up, Dhalgren theory, isa  fun look at genre breaking science fiction narrative. 

Delany’s About Writing:

How to write escapist fiction, from a science fiction master

Seven Essays, Four Letters, and Five Interviews

A science fiction writer shows his talents in other fields

Intensely

Samuel R. Delany, currently a professor of English and Creative Writing at Temple University, has been an icon of science fiction literature for years. For a while, his career was solely found in his novels.

In About Writing, he tackles what makes a writer who he really is, and has notes on how to get rewarded the most for the simple act of reading. Paramount among the pages is Delany’s genius with thoughts, ideas and words.

In the beginning of the book, Delany writes that there are good writers and talented writers. Often the talented writers are the ones you would least expect. Delany offers an example of a woman with low English scores in schol, but had immense talent when it came to stories.

Delany notes that inspiration is a writers greatest asset, and that art which doesn’t entertain disappears.  He gives a list of works written for writers that had a deep effect on him; for instance, Ezra Pound’s ABC of Reading.

Delany offers many valuable lessons for writers in his book. He subscribes to Gertrude Stein’s thought that, when deciding to choose a new paragraph, a writer should get all the emotions down into one paragraph and when you run out of words begin a new one. This is helpful advice for aspiring writers, and it continues.

He does make some content mistakes, by choosing to give every detail and listing things. This can be forgiven because the ideas in the text are sound. When Delany gives examples of writers who influenced him it takes up a page; some readers could find this dull.

Delany offers explanations on technique and what to avoid in fiction. He believes most published writing is illogical, and the same for TV shows, action movies, and comics – the stories do not develop.

Delany strikes some chords when he writes that stories should be about money or how to acquire it.

He explains his experiences in the renowned Clarion Writers Workshop (a workshop for short story writers of the Sci-Fi and fantasy, formerly at Michigan State University,  now to be in California). He offers some of the exercises he gave at these classes.

Perhaps the most stark example from this book, came from when Delany offered his first essay. In this essay he brought out an excellent metaphor on painting that applies to writing: “The eye is what need to learn; not the hand.”

He also offers what is needed from a writer in terms of description. A writer’s main job with characterization is what needs to be described more and what speaks for itself.

There is also plenty of background information on Delany given in his essays. As an African American homosexual writer, his background is sure to fascinate any reader.

In the fifth essay, Delany discusses what to do about doubts when writing fiction. Sometimes abandoning a story might be a major mistake. Another option to rejuvenate writing is to take all the characteristics of a scene and write down what the character might notice.

In essence, Delany keeps everything simple; and for a master of the craft to do so – when he could just as easily over-complicate – is a refreshing moment. “Without this moment,” he says of good writing, “this series of moments, this concatenation of doubts about language shattered by language the text is only a document of time passed with some paper, of time spent pondering a passage through a dream.” He does, obviously, show is genius constantly.

He writes that not every is suitable to be a writer. If you can’t learn how to write interesting text and subtext then maybe you should find another profession. And the inner critic needs to be small but sharp.

All sound advice from a successful writer. About Writing is a perfect entry for any dedicated writer into thinking beyond just putting words to paper, but making them shine. As Delany might say, there is enough bad fiction for all of us, so your chances of being a writer might be better than you think.