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« on: November 29, 2006, 03:37:54 am »
Woot! I finally got it published...at the high school level!
My school operates a literary magazine every few months, and my previous English teacher is running it. After all the entries are collected, it's sent off to a publisher, and we get a few hundred copies made (you can only get them at our school though). In anycase, my now totally finished short story, The Epilogue (ranking in at about 7 pages and 4 chapters) is one of the featured works. I could have written a full length novel if I wanted to, but my goal was to have something short enough to actually fit withen our page limits. I welcome any constructive criticism, self improvement. My grammer isn't the best in the world (especially in the last few paragraphs), but I think you'll enjoy it. Without further ado, here it is.
btw, plagerism is a crime
The Epilogue
?? Andrew Hoffman 2006-2007
Finished 2-23-2006
Chapter I
In the embrace of the night, the full moon shone down brilliantly through the cloudless sky. Unobstructed by anything in the heavens, its soft light fell down upon the sleeping city of Chicago. The streets, however, were darkened by the lofty buildings, looming ominously overhead like sentries. A stray dog ran across the shadowed street, barking at some ghost of a figure, and barely dodged the head lights of a truck in the process. The screech of break pads followed by a horn and the echoing bark faded into the distance, and the city became quiet again. In truth, nothing ever slept n this city: be it a dog or a man, something was awake. That was why he was up late that night, or so he liked to believe anyway.
Under a streetlight and leaning on the chain-link fence in front of an old warehouse smoking a cigarette was a man by the name of Arthur Dinnocenti. The smoke swirled around him with a light breeze, eddying about his long nose, and under the sunken, but keen, green eyes that looked as though they had been hewn from a chunk of emerald. His face was rough with the stubble of many late nights, like this one, when he was on the job. He was also an Italian immigrant from Sicily, which didn???t exactly make him ???out of place??? in this city, but this fact was sometimes more of a bother to Arthur than a relief. He stood there, under that street light, in a long brown trench coat. He was an imposing figure, much like a modern Sherlock Holmes, only without a faithful Watson to back him up.
He was reading yesterday???s issue of the Tribune, the Headlines running rampant with titles like, prohibition and murder, greed, and crime.
???The Roaring 20???s I guess?????? he thought sarcastically to himself as he turned the page, taking a lengthy draw on his cig. That night was like many others for our hero, only it was much later. The last time Arthur checked his watch, the small face read 11:45 PM. He looked down again, this time reading 12:06 AM, and it still wasn???t time yet. He sighed, thinking heavily about what happened that led up to tonight. So many headaches, but he didn???t have the relief. One thing after another, boom, boom, boom, they all came crashing down around him: the divorce, the death, the jury, the gun, the death, the betrayal, the police, the death, and the Mafia, not to mention the death. The thing that started it all and what kept it going still, only adding fuel to the fire that was his tragic sing-song story of a life.
Arthur took another long drag on his cig, the faint embers glowing brightly against the dark city backdrop, only to fade out again in another puff of smoke and a deep exhale. It wasn???t a normal a thing for Arthur, or Att as he was sometimes known (which is quite a long story indeed), to be anxious, but there was something about tonight that had him on edge. He shuffled his feet, and then threw the paper into a nearby trash bin. He looked down at his watch once more: 12:20 AM. He looked about nervously, thoughts racing in and out of his head like bees, buzzing with commotion. You see, Att was in the Mafia. At first, he started out slow, helping the lower members from time to time with things like with avoiding the law during illicit alcohol transports, but when the Don started noticing him, he was hired to work at a local speakeasy. Now, he was riding the underground alcohol trade like a train, and he wasn???t about to get off at any station. Then again, from time to time, trains got de-railed. He shuddered at that disturbing reflection, and then looked back down at his watch. It was time. He was supposed to meet with some of the higher ups in the gang tonight. He wasn???t quite sure why, but nightly assignments weren???t an uncommon thing, so maybe he was being put on another delivery. ???But at this hour???? he thought. Something was definitely fishy, but he put it in the back of his head.
The name of the man he was supposed to be meeting was James Mac??o: a cold and ruthless man that would no sooner shake your hand than shoot you and your family in the face with a laugh. Att knew this all too well, as it would turn out. He sighed again, and took one last puff on his cigarette before dropping it on the ground and stomping it out; its ashes crumpled and dried upon the cracked sidewalk. He turned towards the abandoned warehouse, and neatly hoped the fence, the weight of a cold metal precaution in his inner pocket hitting against his chest as his feet touched the ground. Landing with a cat-like grace, he started walking coolly towards the building, a small swagger in his step. The crisp night air flowed through his veins and with it a sort of energy that crackled around him despite his tiredness; his mindset was solid as a rock, save for the tiny pebble of doubt that kept him worried. You see, Arthur Dinnocenti was more like Sherlock Holmes than one would imagine. For one thing, aside from being in the Mafia, he was also a cop. And so, under the shining light of the full moon, Arthur Dinnocenti walked towards the abandoned warehouse.
Chapter II
Crash! And the vase hit the wall, the pieces falling, shattering, to the ground. Having thrown it at Arthur, Kate stood yelling again since she had missed. It was two months prior to that night under the streetlight, but Arthur Dinnocenti wasn???t much better off. For one thing, he was crouched over, dodging flying vases, in a corner of their house???s living room, which was covered with an assortment of everything that had once been his. There was yelling, and anger, and sadness in her voice; a voice that was once beautiful and sweet, but now filled with distress. Her formerly flowing, silky brown hair was now messy and split into ends with grief. Tears streamed down her face, all the while sobbing with short gasping breaths. It was all because of what happened, and Arthur???s involvement. It was a shame I guess, that he couldn???t tell her the truth. If he did, she would probably get killed too. It was better that she be alive and hating him then her dead, right? At least he could save one person he cared about, or so he liked to believe anyway. In any case, she hated him now with the same tear-streaked light blue eyes that had once looked up at him under the church bells of St. Peter; bound by a ring that was now laid at Arthur???s feet, lying on the dust covered floor.
???You???don???t???understand! You???you murderer!??? She gasped out, hunched over crying, and groping for another thing to throw at her husband. She found the cat. ???It???s all your fault!???
???I didn???t do anything!??? He yelled back, hoping to make reason with the insane beast of a woman in front of him as he jumped and caught their black and grey tabby cat in mid-air.
???That???s just it!??? She retorted furiously between breaths, picking up a small wine glass, ???You???you could have???sa???saved her, Att! Why didn???t you? You might as well have???have???held the god-damned gun to her head!???
???I couldn???t do anything! If I had, I???d be dead too!??? he said in another vain attempt at reason, dodging the half empty glass. The cat mewed and scratched at his arms, distressed at its uncomfortable position.
???Well maybe you should be!??? and then there was silence. Arthur put the cat on the ground, and it seemed to stare at Kate with what even looked like contempt for a minute, before walking off in indignity, its fur in ruffles. A few loose papers floated to the ground in the stillness, and the silence wasn???t lost on anyone present. The cold response hit home for Arthur, only then realizing how much the comment did. He looked down at his feet, the ring catching his eye. His wife???s face changed from that of anger to something resembling remorse, the icy shame of her anger finally sinking in.
???Arthur?????? she started.
???No?????? He said, ???Maybe you???re right?????? Normally, he might have taken satisfaction in her shock at this statement, but it was lost on him, as was most of the rest of their conversation. She left him that day, leaving the ring on the floor, which was covered with the dust and broken pieces of Arthur???s former possessions. He bent down to pick it up later and kneeled looking at it. He started crying, but it was only for a second; a slight momentary lapse in his mentality, nothing more, but nothing less. He rose back up and walked out into his kitchen, the fridge open with food spilling out into the war zone of a floor. He slammed his face down on the wooden counter and into his arms, thinking about how any of this could have ever happened.
The truth was, he had tried to stop her death, but James wouldn???t listen; he always followed orders. If he had been ordered to slit his own mother???s throat, he probably would if he was paid enough.
???But even he had morals, right???? Arthur thought to himself. It didn???t matter though, any of it. Maybe Arthur was better off dead. Then he looked up from the counter, his eyes resting on an old photograph from a few years ago. Kate was normally a level headed, funny girl who knew nearly every one of Arthur???s odd little quirks. She practically knew him better than he did, or something along the lines of that old clich??. She was never quick to anger, but that was before the death of her sister, who was in the photograph just after her graduation at the police academy.
She had been killed by James Mac??o because she led the raid on one of their alcohol warehouses last night. Arthur was there, as was James, and he was assigned to stop it, and he did, in fact, try to stop it. He tried. Her screaming his name in pleas of help had gotten to him. James wouldn???t listen though; he was dead to emotion, so he pulled the trigger. It was infuriating that Arthur actually worked for him or at least in an elaborate guise anyway. He was just glad that James hadn???t made him do it that night, or else Kate really would have hated him. Arthur was still mad, but why shouldn???t he be? He hated James with a fire that burned in his soul, and in his very being, but he had to keep his anger quieted; working as an undercover cop had many risks, and he couldn???t afford to be caught now, which is also why he couldn???t tell any of this to Kate. If she knew, well, it was best not to think about it. Arthur couldn???t get revenge anyway, because trying to kill James would have been hard from any angle. He was a cold man, made that way through years of killing others and abusing his power.
There was one thing Arthur could do in light of these current events. He looked at his watch, 8:00 PM. The bar only closed at 9, so there was time for a quick drink. Quick drink? Hell, who was he kidding, Arthur needed to get stone drunk, and that???s what he intended to do as he grabbed his coat, and put the discarded ring in his pocket. He gathered up his wits, and left his house, walking down to Ken???s Pub, which was four blocks away.
Ken McArdle was an old friend from way back, before he even joined the force. They first met on the same ship headed for America. It was a funny story, but we???re pressed for time, so I???ll have to spare you. It was a rather odd moment for Arthur, once, when he had to deliver an alcohol shipment to his bar. Ken knew his secret, but he wouldn???t dare tell anyone. Arthur was a cop after all, and Ken could easily be arrested for selling beer. Then again, he did have quite a few friends in high places who visited his pub regularly. He was also Irish, which made their friendship odd, considering Arthur was an Italian.
An hour later (for Att had taken the long way ???round), Ken was closing up shop, when he saw Arthur swagger up with dark circles under his eyes and a hunch in his back. Ken looked at him, and said in a light Irish accent,
???Att! Ya look like hell lad! Come inside, and have a drink, for Christ ???sake!??? Which Arthur obliged to happily. Ken was another person who seemed to know Arthur better than he did himself; there were a lot of them these days.
...continued in next post...
), so I took some pictures.
