Hey, everyone,
Wrote this story for a class, want to know what you all think of it. It's unnamed, but I quite like it.
The two of them sat down at the table. One very old, the other very young. The old man was named Oliver, and he had just walked with his grandson James to the park to teach him how to play chess. The warm fall wind swept through the trees, ruffling the thick white hair on his head like that of a plains rolling in the wind. The murky lake reflected back the sun, like it always did, and the leaves gently coated the ground. “Ah,” Oliver said, as he sat down at the metal bench. He motioned to James to sit down at the bench, watching with awe as he hopped up onto the bench. Many years ago he had been able to do the same, but now his old joints bristled at the idea of a simple hop. James began to open the box, spilling all the pieces all over the table, a gust of wind almost blowing them off. “How do you play, Pop-pop?” Oliver sighed, as he picked up the pieces and began arranging them in their places, neat little soldiers worn down by the countless battles they had seen. The chess board on the bottom, followed by all the pieces on top. He had done it a million times, and this time was no different. Before he knew it, the pieces were all set up. James stared at Oliver, a quizzical look on his face. He was waiting for the game to begin. But Oliver had other concerns on his mind. He wanted to tell James that he might not be around much longer. That when people get old, they don’t get old forever. One day, they will stop getting old, and you won’t be able to talk to them. You won’t be able to play chess with them, or take walks in the park. Nowadays people told their young children their loved one had gone to Peru. When Uncle Jack died, his parents simply stated, “Uncle Jack is dead. He’s gone. You can’t play chess with him, or take walks in the park. He’s dead. End of discussion.”
Wrote this story for a class, want to know what you all think of it. It's unnamed, but I quite like it.
The two of them sat down at the table. One very old, the other very young. The old man was named Oliver, and he had just walked with his grandson James to the park to teach him how to play chess. The warm fall wind swept through the trees, ruffling the thick white hair on his head like that of a plains rolling in the wind. The murky lake reflected back the sun, like it always did, and the leaves gently coated the ground. “Ah,” Oliver said, as he sat down at the metal bench. He motioned to James to sit down at the bench, watching with awe as he hopped up onto the bench. Many years ago he had been able to do the same, but now his old joints bristled at the idea of a simple hop. James began to open the box, spilling all the pieces all over the table, a gust of wind almost blowing them off. “How do you play, Pop-pop?” Oliver sighed, as he picked up the pieces and began arranging them in their places, neat little soldiers worn down by the countless battles they had seen. The chess board on the bottom, followed by all the pieces on top. He had done it a million times, and this time was no different. Before he knew it, the pieces were all set up. James stared at Oliver, a quizzical look on his face. He was waiting for the game to begin. But Oliver had other concerns on his mind. He wanted to tell James that he might not be around much longer. That when people get old, they don’t get old forever. One day, they will stop getting old, and you won’t be able to talk to them. You won’t be able to play chess with them, or take walks in the park. Nowadays people told their young children their loved one had gone to Peru. When Uncle Jack died, his parents simply stated, “Uncle Jack is dead. He’s gone. You can’t play chess with him, or take walks in the park. He’s dead. End of discussion.”
How does one tell that to their 8-year-old grandson? There was that one memory that bothered him. “Pop-pop?” Oliver looked up. “James, I want to tell you something, something you can’t tell your mother.” Oliver studied his face for any sort of surprise, but James chirped with great indifference, “Okay.” Oliver took a deep breath. “Okay, James, I want to tell you…”
The two of them sat down at the table. It was very quiet, minus the methodical ticking of the clock encompassing the room with an eerily tranquil calm. Oliver sat there, looking at the man across from him. His name was Lank. It wasn’t his real name, of course, everyone just called him that because he was so skinny he might as well been a corpse. You might even be deceived into thinking he was harmless. But although Lank was vicious, and nasty, and quick, he was not strong in physical force. Rather, he was strong because of the legions of men in New York City who would be willing to put down their lives for him. If you decided to start a fight with Lank, there was a good chance you would end up gone or dead by “suicide.” Maybe hanging by your belt, or your brains blown out because you couldn’t take it anymore. So Oliver was less than thrilled about the notion that two men had kidnapped him walking home from his job selling ice cream to children and had brought him here. To Lank. The number one mobster in the city.
Armed with his legendary cigar and signature scotch, Lank began to speak. “Do you know why you’re here, Oliver?” Shaking, Oliver looked down, and muttered evenly “Roughly, yes, I do.” Lank swiveled around. “Good, so you probably know what I’m gonna ask you.” Oliver nodded his head frantically. The men in the back of the room chuckled, a cacophony vomited from the mouths of demons. This was not how he imagined spending his Tuesday night. God, was it even Tuesday night anymore? He had read somewhere that most of the crime in the city went down around two or three in the morning. But in this room, with its lavish desk, blood red carpets, and intimidating bookshelves filled with law books choking its inhabitants, he had no clue.
Lank stared at Oliver for a good while. “Bring it out,” he barked to one of his henchmen. The henchman, bulky, tall, and shiny bald with glinting sunglasses on, dumped a large black duffel bag onto the table. “Open it,” Lank said, nodding eagerly at Oliver. Oliver looked at him, and began slowly reaching his quivering hand towards the bag. Perhaps it was full of poison. Or maybe an enraged alligator. Or a gun. Oh God, was he going to have to shoot someone? Oliver had read many stories where a man was forced to take a life to save his own. His hand paused upon the zipper. Lank stared at him, seemingly offended. “What’s the matter? It ain’t gonna kill ya! Open it,” he said in the style of a most unctuous salesman. So Oliver did, closing his eyes, as all the men began to laugh. He was sure he was dead.
And he opened the bag. And before him, he saw more cash than he had even dreamt of. Oliver had seen rich people all around him. On the news, in the bank where he cashed his lowly check, or dipping about Wall Street maybe. But he doubted any of them were this rich. Stuffed to the edges was tons of money. He would never be able to reach this much wealth working 80 hours a day. Lank slammed his hands on the desk. “Listen Oliver, anyone else who saw something like what you did, would be dead. But, a lot of people like you. My kid Lindsey goes to buy ice cream from you every Friday. It’s her special treat. So, obviously I take pity on you, right, I can’t kill an ice cream man.” Oliver was shocked. “How much is this?” Lank smiled. “100,000 dollars, and this never happened.” Oliver imagined all the things he could buy with 100 thousand dollars. Oh yes, he could live it large for all of eternity. Why have just the one missus when he could move to Mexico and have 5? Or hell, even 10?
But then he realized the appalling circumstances upon which this offer was presented to him. The guilt that he was still alive while the other two dead on the sidewalk poisoned him with regret. He could not take this money, otherwise a common criminal had now valued their lives at 50 thousand dollars each. In Oliver’s opinion, life was priceless. He took a deep breath, knowing very well this could be his last and said, “No.” He pushed the duffel bag towards Lank. Oliver could feel the shock in the room, like it was an electric liquid filling the air. Nobody ever says no to Lank. Lank’s features contorted. “What do you mean, ‘No?” Oliver looked down and said, “I thank you for the offer, but I cannot accept this.” Lank sighed. “Well, you’re going to have to--” Oliver cut him off and said, “I am not going to accept this money, and this never happened.” Lank stepped back, and smiled. “A man with honor, I respect that. Okay, you’re free to go home, Ice Cream man. Eric, Vinny, you know the drill.” And with that, a black bag was draped over his head, and he was dragged home.
“...And so I went home that night, and was so happy that I was still alive, I told my wife that I was ready for children. She was more than ecstatic, and that’s how your mother entered this world.” James looked confused. “Who’s Lank?” Oliver sighed. “It’s not important.” He moved the knight, and looked at James. James moved his rook, and said, “Okay, checkmate.” Oliver chuckled. “Okay, you win.”
///
...And that's a wrap, folks. Always looking to improve my writing. I appreciate any and all comments.
Thanks
-Justin
The two of them sat down at the table. It was very quiet, minus the methodical ticking of the clock encompassing the room with an eerily tranquil calm. Oliver sat there, looking at the man across from him. His name was Lank. It wasn’t his real name, of course, everyone just called him that because he was so skinny he might as well been a corpse. You might even be deceived into thinking he was harmless. But although Lank was vicious, and nasty, and quick, he was not strong in physical force. Rather, he was strong because of the legions of men in New York City who would be willing to put down their lives for him. If you decided to start a fight with Lank, there was a good chance you would end up gone or dead by “suicide.” Maybe hanging by your belt, or your brains blown out because you couldn’t take it anymore. So Oliver was less than thrilled about the notion that two men had kidnapped him walking home from his job selling ice cream to children and had brought him here. To Lank. The number one mobster in the city.
Armed with his legendary cigar and signature scotch, Lank began to speak. “Do you know why you’re here, Oliver?” Shaking, Oliver looked down, and muttered evenly “Roughly, yes, I do.” Lank swiveled around. “Good, so you probably know what I’m gonna ask you.” Oliver nodded his head frantically. The men in the back of the room chuckled, a cacophony vomited from the mouths of demons. This was not how he imagined spending his Tuesday night. God, was it even Tuesday night anymore? He had read somewhere that most of the crime in the city went down around two or three in the morning. But in this room, with its lavish desk, blood red carpets, and intimidating bookshelves filled with law books choking its inhabitants, he had no clue.
Lank stared at Oliver for a good while. “Bring it out,” he barked to one of his henchmen. The henchman, bulky, tall, and shiny bald with glinting sunglasses on, dumped a large black duffel bag onto the table. “Open it,” Lank said, nodding eagerly at Oliver. Oliver looked at him, and began slowly reaching his quivering hand towards the bag. Perhaps it was full of poison. Or maybe an enraged alligator. Or a gun. Oh God, was he going to have to shoot someone? Oliver had read many stories where a man was forced to take a life to save his own. His hand paused upon the zipper. Lank stared at him, seemingly offended. “What’s the matter? It ain’t gonna kill ya! Open it,” he said in the style of a most unctuous salesman. So Oliver did, closing his eyes, as all the men began to laugh. He was sure he was dead.
And he opened the bag. And before him, he saw more cash than he had even dreamt of. Oliver had seen rich people all around him. On the news, in the bank where he cashed his lowly check, or dipping about Wall Street maybe. But he doubted any of them were this rich. Stuffed to the edges was tons of money. He would never be able to reach this much wealth working 80 hours a day. Lank slammed his hands on the desk. “Listen Oliver, anyone else who saw something like what you did, would be dead. But, a lot of people like you. My kid Lindsey goes to buy ice cream from you every Friday. It’s her special treat. So, obviously I take pity on you, right, I can’t kill an ice cream man.” Oliver was shocked. “How much is this?” Lank smiled. “100,000 dollars, and this never happened.” Oliver imagined all the things he could buy with 100 thousand dollars. Oh yes, he could live it large for all of eternity. Why have just the one missus when he could move to Mexico and have 5? Or hell, even 10?
But then he realized the appalling circumstances upon which this offer was presented to him. The guilt that he was still alive while the other two dead on the sidewalk poisoned him with regret. He could not take this money, otherwise a common criminal had now valued their lives at 50 thousand dollars each. In Oliver’s opinion, life was priceless. He took a deep breath, knowing very well this could be his last and said, “No.” He pushed the duffel bag towards Lank. Oliver could feel the shock in the room, like it was an electric liquid filling the air. Nobody ever says no to Lank. Lank’s features contorted. “What do you mean, ‘No?” Oliver looked down and said, “I thank you for the offer, but I cannot accept this.” Lank sighed. “Well, you’re going to have to--” Oliver cut him off and said, “I am not going to accept this money, and this never happened.” Lank stepped back, and smiled. “A man with honor, I respect that. Okay, you’re free to go home, Ice Cream man. Eric, Vinny, you know the drill.” And with that, a black bag was draped over his head, and he was dragged home.
“...And so I went home that night, and was so happy that I was still alive, I told my wife that I was ready for children. She was more than ecstatic, and that’s how your mother entered this world.” James looked confused. “Who’s Lank?” Oliver sighed. “It’s not important.” He moved the knight, and looked at James. James moved his rook, and said, “Okay, checkmate.” Oliver chuckled. “Okay, you win.”
///
...And that's a wrap, folks. Always looking to improve my writing. I appreciate any and all comments.
Thanks
-Justin