Short Vignette
This is a version of the story that I entered into the NPR Program All Things Considered's Three-Minute Fiction contest. I didn't win, but that's okay. I'd like some concrit, please.
Lessons of History
By: writn_fool
He swore it on his mother’s grave. When he reached the golden land of America, he’d be a success; become somebody. Not for him was the crushing poverty of the hardscrabble farm on which he’d been born. Everyone in his small Italian village knew that the real money was made in the huge American cities.
“I’ll keep my promise, Mama,” he said aloud as the stepped off the boat at Ellis Island months later. “Someday, I will.”
And he’d done it. Over the last thirty-plus years, he’d done anything he could to claw his way to the top: Learned English, lost his accent, lied, cheated, married well, and blackmailed, just to name a few. He Americanized his name - from Francisco to Frank - just as his mentor asked. The man he later removed from power to head the organization. The fact that he always kept his promises to his family was a source of considerable pride to him.
“Mickey, what are you doing,” he asked, panic causing the musical lilt of his Italian dialect to color his voice for the first time in years. It had been almost that long since someone pointed a gun at him. “Can’t we talk about this?”
“Sorry Frank,” replied the young man holding the pistol. The young man who’d come from the same tiny village as Frank; his chosen successor.
Before he could say anything more, Mickey - Michelangelo - pulled the trigger, and the gun went off with a loud, roaring cough. It didn’t sound like a car backfiring, Frank thought randomly, just before the pain set in. His chest felt like it was on fire, and it was suddenly hard to breathe. Looking down, he saw a spreading crimson stain marring the snowy crispness of his shirtfront.
His knees buckled, and Frank collapsed onto the immaculate blotter of his mahogany desk, gasping for air as the life slipped from him. He managed to raise his head to look at the man who had become like a son to him, even marrying his beloved younger daughter. “Why?”
“It’s just business, Frank. You understand.”
A memory chose that moment to surface, reminding him of how he’d come to assume the chairmanship of the “company” all those years ago. He’d said those same words to his mentor, just before he’d shot the man in this same office. As he breathed his last, Frank realized he’d come full circle; doomed by the forgotten lesson that history always repeats itself.
Lessons of History
By: writn_fool
He swore it on his mother’s grave. When he reached the golden land of America, he’d be a success; become somebody. Not for him was the crushing poverty of the hardscrabble farm on which he’d been born. Everyone in his small Italian village knew that the real money was made in the huge American cities.
“I’ll keep my promise, Mama,” he said aloud as the stepped off the boat at Ellis Island months later. “Someday, I will.”
And he’d done it. Over the last thirty-plus years, he’d done anything he could to claw his way to the top: Learned English, lost his accent, lied, cheated, married well, and blackmailed, just to name a few. He Americanized his name - from Francisco to Frank - just as his mentor asked. The man he later removed from power to head the organization. The fact that he always kept his promises to his family was a source of considerable pride to him.
“Mickey, what are you doing,” he asked, panic causing the musical lilt of his Italian dialect to color his voice for the first time in years. It had been almost that long since someone pointed a gun at him. “Can’t we talk about this?”
“Sorry Frank,” replied the young man holding the pistol. The young man who’d come from the same tiny village as Frank; his chosen successor.
Before he could say anything more, Mickey - Michelangelo - pulled the trigger, and the gun went off with a loud, roaring cough. It didn’t sound like a car backfiring, Frank thought randomly, just before the pain set in. His chest felt like it was on fire, and it was suddenly hard to breathe. Looking down, he saw a spreading crimson stain marring the snowy crispness of his shirtfront.
His knees buckled, and Frank collapsed onto the immaculate blotter of his mahogany desk, gasping for air as the life slipped from him. He managed to raise his head to look at the man who had become like a son to him, even marrying his beloved younger daughter. “Why?”
“It’s just business, Frank. You understand.”
A memory chose that moment to surface, reminding him of how he’d come to assume the chairmanship of the “company” all those years ago. He’d said those same words to his mentor, just before he’d shot the man in this same office. As he breathed his last, Frank realized he’d come full circle; doomed by the forgotten lesson that history always repeats itself.