Avicenna
09-17-2007, 20:14
I know it isn't the best, just a mediocre GCSE attempt at creative writing. Any comments appreciated. :thumbsup:
End of an Era
The wind whistled on the hot summer day. An old man relaxed on a cushioned chair, basking under the warm Sicilian sun. He smiled to himself. It had been a long war with the Corleone cosca, but he, Don Croce Donati, had emerged victorious, and what better way to celebrate than a party?
He had lived a long and fruitful life, Don Croce thought. As a child struggling in the dregs of Sicilian society, he had always envied the rich and the powerful, hoping to join their number one day. With the Sicilian tradition of omertà, the code of silence, he knew that it would be virtually impossible to become a successful policeman. And so, he had opted to join the Mafia at the tender age of fifteen.
Croce Donati had believed himself to be sent by God, instilled with the Sicilian Mafioso virtues of old, tasked with restoring the Mafia, or the Cosa Nostra, to its former glory, before Mussolini had initiated his campaign to wipe out the secret society. It was, therefore, only logical that Croce had joined the Santadio cosca, the great Mafia clan which had enjoyed hegemony over Sicily in the years before Mussolini. For five years he had been an enforcer for the Santadio cosca, distinguishing himself by his ruthlessness and efficiency, which inspired fear and wonder in his friends and enemies alike. Over the next four decades, he had managed to claw his way up to the level of Don, and gained command of the Santadio cosca, where he had managed to demonstrate a feral cunning which was essential to thrive in the treacherous world of the Mafia. Meanwhile, his enemies had been wiped out slowly but surely by his unseen hand, Antonio Monza, leaving him the capo di capi, boss of all bosses, of Sicily.
Monza was an altogether different character. The huge, burly bodyguard was famed for his mercy, unusual for one with such a reputation among the Mafia. This was made up for his dogged determination and skill in his job, as well as his loyalty to the Don, which had been proven countless times over. Today, due to instructions from Don Croce, security was more lax than usual, but Monza had insisted on guarding the Don himself, warning of vengeful members of the Corleone clan.
“Grandpa Croce!” came a voice from the garden. Don Croce beamed at the sight of Vincenzo. Vincent Rizzotto was the most cunning and intelligent child that Don Croce knew, remarkably similar to himself when he was a young boy. It was for this reason that the Don loved him the most out of all his grandchildren, and set high hopes for him in the future.
“Vinnie!” said Don Croce, “Did you like my present for you?” Vincent nodded his head quickly, with a half-hearted smile on his face. The Don laughed at the boy’s reaction. So young, yet already as devious as a fox. “Come on, let’s get some food,” he told Vincent. His face instantly brightened up, and the Don felt the small hand reach into his.
A heavenly aroma wafted from the wooden table, laden with countless dishes prepared for his grandson’s birthday. The Don was ascetic in most areas of life, but he had always had a love for delicious food. He treated himself with lobster, ‘the finest in all Sicily’, according to the chef, and, much to the Don’s delight, Vincent as well. Life was perfect at this moment.
Monza was, for the first time in his life, bored out of his mind. After the danger which had surrounded the job during the rise of Don Croce, Monza was unused to the idyllic post-war atmosphere. There was no tension, and no feeling of danger lurking around the corner. It was because of this that Monza had decided to start enjoying the simpler things in life, and had a large breakfast. Now, he felt his bowel movements beckoning. He decided to go take a quick one in the bushes. After all, with their last enemy kneeling in defeat just the day before, what was there to fear?
As he fumbled with his zipper, Monza noticed a short, wiry man approaching the gate. His hand motioned in the direction of his pistol, but on closer inspection he saw the man’s postman uniform and parcel in hand. The man was harmless. A close shave, thought Monza. He would not be so careless next time.
Monza, sure of the Don’s safety, walked unhurriedly, beholding the beauty of the environment like a child marvelling at a tower of toys for his first time. Looking back down, the parcel, now opened, was on the ground. Strange, thought Monza, the Don never littered. He tilted his head up, searching for an explanation. All was clear. A gun had materialised in the hand of the small man, his face impassive, hand aimed straight at the Don. He tried to cry out, but he, Antonio Monza, was at a loss for words. He watched, helpless, as the bullets were sprayed over the Don’s body, ripping his torso into shreds. His body convulsed, then sprawled onto the table like a rag doll, shirt dyed red with the flowing blood.
So ended the life of Croce Donati. His face was one of a man at peace. God’s work for him was done, now was the time to leave this realm.
End of an Era
The wind whistled on the hot summer day. An old man relaxed on a cushioned chair, basking under the warm Sicilian sun. He smiled to himself. It had been a long war with the Corleone cosca, but he, Don Croce Donati, had emerged victorious, and what better way to celebrate than a party?
He had lived a long and fruitful life, Don Croce thought. As a child struggling in the dregs of Sicilian society, he had always envied the rich and the powerful, hoping to join their number one day. With the Sicilian tradition of omertà, the code of silence, he knew that it would be virtually impossible to become a successful policeman. And so, he had opted to join the Mafia at the tender age of fifteen.
Croce Donati had believed himself to be sent by God, instilled with the Sicilian Mafioso virtues of old, tasked with restoring the Mafia, or the Cosa Nostra, to its former glory, before Mussolini had initiated his campaign to wipe out the secret society. It was, therefore, only logical that Croce had joined the Santadio cosca, the great Mafia clan which had enjoyed hegemony over Sicily in the years before Mussolini. For five years he had been an enforcer for the Santadio cosca, distinguishing himself by his ruthlessness and efficiency, which inspired fear and wonder in his friends and enemies alike. Over the next four decades, he had managed to claw his way up to the level of Don, and gained command of the Santadio cosca, where he had managed to demonstrate a feral cunning which was essential to thrive in the treacherous world of the Mafia. Meanwhile, his enemies had been wiped out slowly but surely by his unseen hand, Antonio Monza, leaving him the capo di capi, boss of all bosses, of Sicily.
Monza was an altogether different character. The huge, burly bodyguard was famed for his mercy, unusual for one with such a reputation among the Mafia. This was made up for his dogged determination and skill in his job, as well as his loyalty to the Don, which had been proven countless times over. Today, due to instructions from Don Croce, security was more lax than usual, but Monza had insisted on guarding the Don himself, warning of vengeful members of the Corleone clan.
“Grandpa Croce!” came a voice from the garden. Don Croce beamed at the sight of Vincenzo. Vincent Rizzotto was the most cunning and intelligent child that Don Croce knew, remarkably similar to himself when he was a young boy. It was for this reason that the Don loved him the most out of all his grandchildren, and set high hopes for him in the future.
“Vinnie!” said Don Croce, “Did you like my present for you?” Vincent nodded his head quickly, with a half-hearted smile on his face. The Don laughed at the boy’s reaction. So young, yet already as devious as a fox. “Come on, let’s get some food,” he told Vincent. His face instantly brightened up, and the Don felt the small hand reach into his.
A heavenly aroma wafted from the wooden table, laden with countless dishes prepared for his grandson’s birthday. The Don was ascetic in most areas of life, but he had always had a love for delicious food. He treated himself with lobster, ‘the finest in all Sicily’, according to the chef, and, much to the Don’s delight, Vincent as well. Life was perfect at this moment.
Monza was, for the first time in his life, bored out of his mind. After the danger which had surrounded the job during the rise of Don Croce, Monza was unused to the idyllic post-war atmosphere. There was no tension, and no feeling of danger lurking around the corner. It was because of this that Monza had decided to start enjoying the simpler things in life, and had a large breakfast. Now, he felt his bowel movements beckoning. He decided to go take a quick one in the bushes. After all, with their last enemy kneeling in defeat just the day before, what was there to fear?
As he fumbled with his zipper, Monza noticed a short, wiry man approaching the gate. His hand motioned in the direction of his pistol, but on closer inspection he saw the man’s postman uniform and parcel in hand. The man was harmless. A close shave, thought Monza. He would not be so careless next time.
Monza, sure of the Don’s safety, walked unhurriedly, beholding the beauty of the environment like a child marvelling at a tower of toys for his first time. Looking back down, the parcel, now opened, was on the ground. Strange, thought Monza, the Don never littered. He tilted his head up, searching for an explanation. All was clear. A gun had materialised in the hand of the small man, his face impassive, hand aimed straight at the Don. He tried to cry out, but he, Antonio Monza, was at a loss for words. He watched, helpless, as the bullets were sprayed over the Don’s body, ripping his torso into shreds. His body convulsed, then sprawled onto the table like a rag doll, shirt dyed red with the flowing blood.
So ended the life of Croce Donati. His face was one of a man at peace. God’s work for him was done, now was the time to leave this realm.