The Tenements

[Chickstick]

The moon hangs in the sky, pregnant with hazy light, casting a chilling glow over the tenements. A door slams as an old man with a ragged beard and a bottle of whiskey cradled in his arms enters his rat-infested apartment. He looks through the window, sees nobody, and limps off into his kitchen. A thin drizzle starts to fall from the heavens.

 

A small battle-torn cat emerges from out of a garbage bin. It sniffs the air, looking for a meaty rodent to lay its diseased paws on, but it is scared away by the arrival of a large saloon car, black as the old man’s few remaining teeth and with a white trim that blazes in the darkness.

 

The automobile crawls to a stop, and the back doors flip open, revealing the occupants of this expensive mass of metal and American craftsmanship. Three men emerge from the leather-seated interior, all of them with dark, swarthy, almost olive skin and a suit of impeccable taste. The man in the middle is a few years older than the two either side of him, and he looks scared, terrified of the situation. His lips move in silent prayer.

 

This middle man’s arms are restrained behind him by a thick, scratching rope, impossible to break or escape from. He is walked a short distance to a small enclosed square in the least inhabited part of the slum, and shoved to the ground awkwardly, collapsing into a pile of sawdust and defecation. The fall causes a vein in his nose to break, a thin river of blood travelling from his left nostril. Some trickles onto his lips and into his misshapen and bruised mouth, he spits it out in a display of disgust; a small mass of saliva and blood that causes the smaller of the other two men to grimace.

 

The man who grimaced, a reasonably plump man in a well-maintained pinstripe suit, reaches into his pocket and produces a revolver. The metal reflects the moonlight into the face of the man on the ground, illuminating his horror. He moves his mouth to speak, but decides better of it and stays silent.

 

The last man, with a trilby and a sharp smile, puts a lit cigarette to his lips and blows rings of smoke into the air. He surveys the man on the ground, shakes his head, and says softly:

 

“Emilio, my boy. The omerta must be maintained. No good can come of telling tall tales to the police force, and so you must have a suitable punishment. Regardless, it has been a pleasure to call you my friend. Goodbye, Emilio.”

 

He throws the tobacco on the ground and rubs it into the filth that has accumulated there. It kills the light in an instant. The man turns back towards the car and whispers something in the gunman’s ear. As he reaches his car he cranes his head back round towards Emilio and winks. A quick nod is given to his associate, and as the car speeds away from the tenements, the man’s finger squeezes on the trigger and punishment is served.

 

The old man goes to his window and, seeing what has occurred, retires to bed and hopes that his alcohol will enable him to forget about it in the morning.

 

[Struff Bunstridge]

Really smoothly written. If anyone's been told they need to improve their scene description, but isn't sure how, this would be an excellent place to start your homework. I like the way it was almost told through the eyes of the old man, but there was something third person-y about it as well. Good stuff!

[Chickstick]

Thank you, Struff. This was the first thing I've written in a while, due to other commitments, and so I just wanted something to prove to myself I can still hack it.

[Lochie_old]

I'm pretty sure you've proved much more then just that. The whole story was like it was folding out in front of my eyes. I really wish you'd write more.

[Chickstick]

Yeah, I should have some more writing up over the next few weeks, what with school closing for the summer. Now that a lot of personal stuff is sorted as well I'll be a lot more active in WD. I have about six weeks worth of pieces to catch up on.

 

And thanks.