We all have abandoned ideas. Whether they're in a desk drawer or stored deep within your hard-drive in a forgotten folder, these are the ideas that didn't have enough substance upon further review. Maybe the characters weren't quite right. Maybe the plot wasn't interesting. Or maybe, as in this case, the beginning was incredibly cliched.
This is a work I might revisit in the future. As it stands, it was a writing exercise. Ya know, to work on my technique. I wrote this a few weeks after turning fifteen. I hope you enjoy.
Chapter 1. Denzel & The Deed
The silence of the night was not something to be broken. Denzel Sansone cherished the beauty of the city when the sun sank and the stars came out to greet the moon.
“No, don’t shoot!” cried Tommy Martillo. “Please, I’m beggin’ you!”
A flock of pigeons alighted from their spot on the rooftop in a mess of feathers and squawks. Denzel’s mouth twitched, but his face remained a blank slate. His finger tensed on the trigger. The barrel was pointed at Tommy.
“Cut me some slack!” continued Tommy in a high-pitch, nervous tone. “I can’t die in a place like this!”
A place like this? thought Denzel as he glanced around. There was nothing wrong with the rooftop. Below them, the city blared. Honking horns and cheery conversation were typical of Times Square. But at the top of Woolworth Building, these noises were hazy and vague. Denzel liked it that way.
The hustle and bustle of the “Crossroads of the World” wasn’t what he desired.
In a quick motion, Tommy drew a gun from his suit and took aim at Denzel’s chest. Staring down the barrel of the silver pistol, Denzel didn’t bat an eye. He didn’t need to move a single part of his body. Only a finger.
Gunshot rang out.
Tommy screamed and spewed curses like a broker on a bad day. Blood dripped from his mangled hand. The gun flew from his grasp and over the side of the building.
Tommy’s silver pistol spun as it fell all those feet. Just as it struck a dumpster, ping, and bounced to the ground in a vacant alley, another gunshot rang out.
Denzel’s face remained a blank slate. Black loomed overhead. His gun remained still in his grip.
The body leaked a puddle of rubies, staining the black Italian suit. A fedora rested next to a head it would never sit atop again. Its edged were frayed and it had a green ribbon wrapped flawlessly around the top.
“You don’t know what you’ve just done,” said Tommy in between short, ragged breaths. “Never forget, you Sansone bastard, that you were the cause of the biggest mob war in... New York City...”
His eyes closed, and Tommy Martillo grew very still.
Denzel headed toward the bar. A drink was exactly what he needed. As he walked along the busy sidewalk, gun resting in his suit pocket, emotions began to seep into the fortress of his mind.
Sadness, empathy, anger, regret. No, no, no. Denzel had stowed away his emotions since that night four years ago. That fateful night...
No! The gun suddenly felt heavy in his pocket. He was a mobster. His feelings would only get in the way!
Once a stout line, his mouth bent into a frown. Tears welled in his eyes.
Yeah, a drink would do nicely.