Tony Nesca's free-flow writing draws the reader into a tragi-comedy of epic proportions.
Calabritto
by Tony Nesca
Genre: Literary Fiction
Calabritto is a novel about a mountain village in central Italy taking place in the early seventies and the eccentric characters that weave their stories in and around each other.
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.
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Searching for Rebellion: Two Indie Authors Form Edgy Publishing Company
Tony Nesca and 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.
For the Beat Generation, controversy
was the norm, not the exception. Creators like Jack Kerouac, William
S. Burroughs and Lucien Carr courted debate and made careers out of
pushing the proverbial envelope with their poems, books, music and other
creative expressions. Living on the fringes of society was considered to
be more exciting and fulfilling than conforming to the mainstream.
Authors and married couple Tony and
Nicole Nesca feel connected to that Generation through their own work, and
their innate understanding of what it means to be artists whose work
cannot be deemed ‘conventional’ by anyone’s standards.
Currently writing, editing and
publishing their works through their self-publishing venture, Screamin’
Skull Press, Tony Nesca and Nicole Nesca have both cultivated individual
styles but have the same mission.
“To be frank, we see too much pushed
out into the world today that is bland and formulaic,” says Tony Nesca,
whose unique, humorous and lyrical sixth novel, ‘Hobo’ is out now. “Every
other book is a rip-off of another rip-off. The bookstores are packed with
these endless vampire stories and dystopian fairy tales. Where is our
Anais Nin? Our Hunter S. Thompson?” Our Virginia Woolf?
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.
“We knew that mainstream publishers
wouldn’t have the courage to publish the kind of work that we want to
create,” says Nicole Nesca. “It’s interesting – sometimes we wonder, could
Henry Miller or Hemingway find success in today’s market?
It’s as if bravery is a dirty word in
literature. Fearlessness, to me, is everything to a writer. Although we
have our own styles, I think that’s one thing that Tony and I saw in each
other when we met – that drive to find truth and peel back the layers in
our own work.”
“I think we first fell in love with
each other’s writing,” says Tony. “Which was a fitting beginning to our
story.”
Tony Nesca and Nicole I. Nesca have
published 19 distinct works through their Indie Press, and their journey
toward a more rebellious future for literature continues.
Excerpt
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….
Book Links:
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Calabritto-Tony-Nesca-ebook/dp/B0BFQVXRGF
Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/calabritto-by-tony-nesca
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/62844209-calabritto
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.
EXCERPT
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…
Book Links:
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/About-girl-Tony-Nesca-ebook/dp/B0BJVFMS6Y
Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/about-a-girl-by-tony-nesca
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/71849320-about-a-girl
Book Trailer:
About the Author
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.
Website
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Author
Links
Website: https://screamingskullpress.net
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100010030449370
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100064031138040
X: https://twitter.com/ScreaminSkullPr
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/screaminskull.press
Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/tony-nesca
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1071188.Tony_Nesca
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