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| A Literary Experiment | Started by: CantBelieveItsNotEvs on Dec 29, '07 13:37 |
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It has come to my attention that some clarfication is required here. The whole point of this contest is that you're telling the same story in a variety of ways. That's the premise that this whole shooting match is based on. I have provided details of the characters, and the plot for the story, that can be found in the back alley, here: http://mafiareturns.com/comm/thread/10118/tpass/3803919b51dd44a1796e7f84d35fbfe7 (sorry it's not a fancy link, I don't have the time this morning) The challenge is to tell the story in a variety of ways. Someone is doing a movie script, some are doing comedy, noir, thrillers. The perspective is open to change too. Some may write it as a narrative, some may take the perspective of one of the characters and look at it solely from their point of view. It can be primarliy conversational, or primarliy descriptive. It can be written in elegant flowing prose, or it can be written in the slang of our time... it's all about how you want to look at it. THAT is the challenge. Those styles I listed were just examples, not the only methods you may use. Also, to clarify a popular misunderstanding: There are three prizes IN TOTAL. We are not offering a prize per genre, it is the overall best entries that will win. If anyone has any more questions, or if any more clarification is needed, please do ask - I will be checking my mailbox, and hanging around on this street corner regularly. |
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| Reply by: ProbablyEvsie at Jan 02, '08 04:51 | |
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I would like to give this a go. I don't have to world's best imagination when it comes to ideas from scratch but given a scenario and various people or quotes to include, I usually manage something not too bad and I definately have fun doing it :) So I think this might just be my thing. |
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| Reply by: Witchyx at Jan 02, '08 05:16 | |
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| I don't know you but I have a unique style for writing. If you'd like I'll try my mind powers to conjure something up. | |
| Reply by: The_Fallen at Jan 02, '08 17:21 | |
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I walked into Evsie's office. It was darker than the inside of a black box. She lit a cigarette, and I finally saw her in the match glow. She had a pair of 38's. And, she was holding a pistol. So, the radio came on, and we danced 'till we couldn't dance anymore. Finally I looked deep into her eyes, and said, "Don't worry, I had garlic earlier, too!" Then, the windows crash in as armed men surround us. I punch one in the face, disarming him as Evsie shoots another one. The two remaining look at each other in fear, and jump out the windows they came in. And, so, in the dawn of that new time, which was neither the best of or worst of times, and hardly the epoch of anything, the two (Evsie and I), retired to Cuba to fish for Marlin, until they met an old man. Something like that? |
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| Reply by: Mr_Pickles at Jan 04, '08 22:22 | |
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| Aside from the fact Evsie is a man... | |
| Reply by: ProbablyEvsie at Jan 05, '08 04:48 | |
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| Not in my story she's not! Sheesh! You want authors. You want people with the divine spark and a creative side, but you balk at the notion that there is a woman named Evsie. Well, fine! I quit! And, I'm taking my typewriter with me. | |
| Reply by: Mr_Pickles at Jan 05, '08 05:20 | |
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Just a reminder, deadline is tomorrow night. Entries here please. |
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| Reply by: CouldBeEvsie at Jan 10, '08 14:32 | |
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I am awfuly sorry that I wont be able to compete in this little competition as I would have liked to. RL has come in the way and even though I have written half of the story I havnt found time to complete it :( Sorry Evsie, its a good idea and i hope that many other people have commited more. Itl be a good thing for the community. Anyway, here is the first half if it counts for anything :( |
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| Reply by: Stylo` at Jan 11, '08 14:16 | |
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"Morning Sashiif!" Sashiif heart skips a beat as he hears the unusually merry voice of his local mafia connection stroll into his grocery shop. Antonio had been collected protection money from Sashiif for almost 2 years now. He was the same every week. He got the business done and there was no small talk. Never would he address the owner by his first name. A cold sweat broke out across Sashiif's brow. What could the problem have been? He was sure that all payments had been met and there had been no trouble in his neighbourhood for weeks. He gulped loudly and put down the crate of carrots he was moving in the store room behind the shop. It was a bright day outside and the sun was beaming into the shop through the front window which spanned the width of the plot. Antonio had descended the 3 steps down to the lowered floor of the store and was now standing at the counter slowly unbuttoning his blazer. He always wore such a sharp suit. Appearance was important for any Mafioso but for Antonio it was as necessary to look immaculate as brushing his teeth was. As Sashiif pushed aside the beads dangling from the doorway to the store Antonio looked up, opening the last button without looking. The shopkeepers concern is so obviously apparent as he looks up at Antonio from the doorway and moves toward the rear of the counter. Antonio chuckles as he removes the blazer, obviously the sun was becoming uncomfortable, he swings it over his left shoulder holding it there with one finger on his right hand as the weight of the jacket hangs elegantly. "You look nervous Sashiif, what have you to be nervous about?" Antonio inquires, still beaming at the Indian immigrant. Sashiif had come to America not 6 years prior. Sashiif takes another loud gulp as the lump in his throat gets bigger. "Nothing Sir, I p p promise I am not knowing what happened" Sashiif stammers as he tries to get his words out. Antonio lets out a huge laugh that makes the shopkeeper even more worried and he flinches at the laughter. As he does, he catches a glimpse of something shining and glinting in the light and glances to find the source. Antonio's left hand seemed to be wearing a ring. Antonio was not the man to be wearing jewellery, sure he had the money but he had always seen it as a far too common thing to wear. It was not in line with the smooth, elegant presence that Antonio had worked hard to create. Antonio notices that Sashiif had seen the diamond and lifts his hand. "What do you think Sashiif? Nice!?" Sashiif nods slowly. "Oh pull yourself together Sashiif! This is a glorious day!" Antonio continues. "You are not meaning I am in trouble then sir?" Replies the Indian, his accent so thick it was obvious he was a first generation. Antonio had never minded, a person was a person after all but it had caused Sashiif endless discrimination and made him the target of many a robbery in the area and thus he had resorted to the protection of the mafia. "No! What? A man can't say good morning anymore?" Antonio says a little annoyed but laughs as Sashiif's face slowly turns into a smile. "Oh thank you god!" Says Sashiif as he looks up. "Well that's a bit strong, you still call me Antonio." Antonio lets out a hearty laugh and turns back to Sashiif. "Well then Sashiif? What do you think of it?" Antonio smiles as he is determined to show off his new toy. "It's very nice Sir. Who is the lucky woman?" Suddenly Antonio's smile vanishes. He looks down. Slightly uncomfortably he looks back up and changes the subject quickly but tries to put the smile back on for the time being. "So then, where's that money I believe you owe me Sashiif?" Sashiif, nervous again from the sudden change in attitude when he mentioned Antonio's wife, went scurrying into the store room reappearing seconds later with the wedge of money that he gave to Antonio weekly. Antonio flicked through the cash counting it was all there which as usual it was. He nods to the shopkeeper and leaves without another word. As he reached the top of the steps, the sun goes behind a cloud. He looks over his shoulder back to the shopkeeper and says "Its Danni" Antonio swings his jacket round his back putting his arms in the sleeves as he walks to the next property to collect form. It was a Tuesday, which meant he had 14 collections. A busy day. But today he had been given the afternoon off. He had a meeting with Fuel at the house of the Don himself. Danni had told Antonio about how she felt with him growing deeper and deeper into the mob and its way of life. She knew one day it would get him killed and maybe even her as well, but how could she argue. She knew that it was crime that had paid for the new house in the suburbs and the new refrigerator and even the clothes she wore. Antonio had been to this house once before but that was nearly 3 years ago now. Antonio had been told to knock over 7-11 owned by the only other rival family in Chicago, The Merchants, about 3 years ago. Him and a few other gangsters lead by a man called Roman had done it and made away with a lot of money. The next day, the retaliation occurred. Four thugs from The Merchants had been ordered to take out Antonio and the others. Two of them were successes; Roman, Antonio and a man called Grieve were next on the list. That night Antonio happened to be walking the streets when he saw in a small, dark alleyway 3 men beating Grieve with baseball bats and wooden planks. Antonio saw the face of Grieve, it was covered in blood and he was nearly unconscious. Antonio pulled out his gun and ran down the alley at the three men. As he was running he let off two shots. One of the men fell. The other two looked round to see what was happening. BANG! Another one was dead. The last man is stammering backwards. He begs Antonio for his life to be spared. It does him no good. BANG! And the third mans brains are over a dumpster nearby. As Antonio stands over the bodies he hears sirens begin to whine in the distance. He holsters his gun and grabs the badly beaten Grieve. Slinging Grieve over his shoulder and picking off into the night. The next day, Grieve was recovering in the Boss's house; the mafia never sent soldiers to public hospitals. Antonio told by Fuel himself that he was to come up to the house for a special meeting. Antonio obliged. He arrived at the house and was greeted by Fuel at the gates. They walked up to the front of the house where Fuel gave Antonio a very special gift. As Antonio opened the box he wondered what could be inside. He lifted the lid to see the finest silver revolver a mere gangster could have. Antonio bowed at Fuels feet. He looked up at his families second in command to see a smile break out. "Calm Antonio" he said smoothly. Antonio got to his feet again, facing the Right Hand Man. "Last night, Antonio, you showed this family the greatest loyalty we have seen for some time. Not only this, the bravery in destroying 3 members of the Merchant's family." Fuel broke off. "Well, when I heard, let's just say I was impressed. It made me think back to my youth all that time ago." Antonio had heard from other members that Fuel was called Fuel because when he was growing up, he couldn't have been more than a gangster, he had tied a man to a chair and covered him in paraffin. He then proceeded to light the man and watch him burn to death while he lighted a cigar off his smouldering embers. Since that day, Antonio has kept a good relationship with Fuel. They hadn't met often but when they did they often had long discussions about the family and life. He was incredibly lucky to get promoted to Wise Guy as quickly as he had done and Antonio had strongly suspected that had something to do with his early experiences with the family. However, the man leading the crime on the Merchants all those years ago, Roman had not been saved as lightly as Grieve. Roman had been beaten badly, almost to death by the Merchant family; there had been nobody to save him. Since that day, Roman had always despised Antonio. It was common knowledge amongst the family that they didn't get along. At first Antonio had thought it petty of Roman to keep up the grudge after all these years but as time wore on, he himself bore a grudge against his commander. Roman was also angry about the fact that Antonio had been fast tracked with promotions because of this incident. Although Roman was still the superior, he wasn't keen on how quickly Antonio was accelerating through the hierarchy. Throughout the years this had not done either man favours. Antonio had a sneaking suspicion that this time it would not be the same happy meeting that had happened all that time ago. |
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| Reply by: Stylo` at Jan 11, '08 14:17 | |
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| Evsie, I am going to try to meet the deadline for tonight if you don't mind a last minute person stepping up. | |
| Reply by: Aura` at Jan 11, '08 19:15 | |
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(i) The air in the room was thick like spilled blood of a dead man slowly congealing. I sat on the bed smoking, my eyes raw from a lack of sleep. Copied case files spread out before me like a deck of spilled cards. I unkinked my neck and felt my shoulders rest in their sockets. The buzzing in my head had stopped for a moment, replaced with the sound of the telephone; sharp shrills that pierced the dusky morning and a voice on the other end of the line with a slurred brogue too bright for the darkened room. "Leo, you're a bum - and if you give me any of that 'top of the morning' Irish shit, O'Doonan will be pulling me in on an ADW." My voice was hoarse from too many cigarettes and a tiredness that I couldn't shake. I shot a look at the clock. "What exactly is a boozehound like you doin up this early?" "Kibosh that 'booze hound' talk," said the voice on the line. "So 7 am is too early to get juiced now?" "It's never too early Tom." "I figured. But you still got five seconds to tell me what the rumpus is or I'm tellin' Marla you were bracing two roundheels last night instead working our case." "You son of a.." "Spill it or dust," I growled. "The call came in last night. Our guy wants to meet. On the level" "On the level? And you waited 'til now to call me?" My question was met with a snatch of mirth that fell in discord with my mood. "On the level Tom." "I'll be there in 30." "Make it an hour, I still gotta wash up." "I'll be there in 30." The phone clicked off and I opened a quart for a quick fix to ease the shakes in my hands. Ever since I'd pressed Captain O'Doonan to assign myself and Leo to the case, I'd been drinking too much. Too much booze for too many memories. I looked in the mirror and hell looked right back at me. No time to shave. I glommed my hat and coat and hit the street. I stopped in at the Station to pick up whatever hadn't accumulated in my apartment. Thumbing through the rap sheets, I got to what I was looking for: Antonio Pesaro, an up and coming made man in the Fucillo Family. He had been tied to a murder a few months back, but the only person who could put the finger on him was a taxi dancer at a local rub joint by the name of Evelyn. A smart dame with good looks. She dipped out of town as soon as she copped the connection. Any previous cases brought against Carmichael Fucillo the so called 'Godfather' of Chicago had been thrown out by the DA because the department couldn't keep hold of it's witnesses. No matter how hard we leaned or braced, yaps were kept shut and no one was squealing. Evelyn had been our best witness yet, but smart enough to know when she she was behind the 8 ball and needed to breeze. Still thinking about her I headed out of the Station just as Leo pulled up in an unmarked prowler, the quart settling in my system. He hooked a thumb at me and I got in. "You look like shit Tom." he said starting up the car. "That's not what your wife told me last night when I was fucking her." I countered, giving him the eyeball. Liam 'Leo' Finney had a thing for good looking broads and even better malt liquor. His wife Marla was a saint, I barely tolerated him. I don't remember a day on the beat when he wasn't soused. How O'Doonan hadn't kicked him off the force was a case that I just couldn't crack. He shot me an addled grin: "You're a hard sonavabitch. If I didn't like you so much, I'd tell you to dangle." "You're sweet to me. Now what's the wire on Roman? He's done with Fucillo?" It was hard to stay calm. "He called last night and he's willing to share give us some dope" "Tell me you pressed for more." "He blew before I gotta chance. He wants to meet tonight." I reigned in my temper in, trying not to think of harder times and my Pop's empty promises. Cupboards bare and tears my mother tried not to cry. "We better hope that this squeeze is worth the juice." (ii) We bumped gums over breakfast. I forced down some eggs whilst Finney drank, then we rolled downtown to some known Fucillo businesses where Pesaro collected vig. The skies opened up and spat rain onto the city, punishing the roof of the car as we sat and waited. I looked for a face, for our chance to take down the Mafia family that strangled Chicago with it's filthy mitts. No matter how many times I took a bath, the dirt of it stuck to me. I never felt clean. I wished to God that the rain would wash it all away but it never did. Then I saw him, Pesaro heeling it across the road and me watching him unable to do anything. I felt my hands ball up, knowing that Roman had to squeal, and if he didn't I'd make him. "That's our guy," I said to Finney, who looked with bleary eyes as Pesaro ducked into one of the rackets. We both watched from the car. "Looks like a cake eater to me." "He's shacked up with some dame on South Side, goes by the name of Danni." "Can we use her?" "No, they've got bands. There's no way she wouldn't know." Finney rolled down the window for some air and the sound of the rain made my head pound. I said: "We need something to stick and we need it now. You think we can pin a homicide jacket on him?" He said: "Nothing seems to stick anymore. I swear the top brass are in Fucillo's pocket. Bunch of dirty yegs if you ask me." Finney's hatred for anyone higher ranked than sergeant fizzled in the closeness of the prowler. "I wasn't askin' for your department politics." "Well you're gettin' it anyway." Finney took out his hip flask and knocked it back. I didn't ask, but I wanted to. "I say we play Roman tonight. He wants a deal, that much was clear from the call," said Finney. "And you're gonna give it to him? O'Doonan won't roll. Not now. Not ever" Over the road Pesaro had quit the racket and moved onto the next joint. My first instinct was to take in Roman, rough him up and see if he'd spill, something, anything. But Finney was right, without something solid, he'd be out after a night under glass. "You keep giving me those badge morals and I'm putting in a transfer to Narc," said Finney gruffly. I ignored him, keeping my eyes on the moving figure who now headed up the Street. My skin was crawling with an itch for action. Stakeouts were a waste of time. Nobody was talking. "What time we on for tonight?" "Ten-Thirty. I'll pick you up Ten. "Make it Nine. And try not to be tanked." "Dangle." "I am," I said, getting out of the car and slamming the door. (iii) I couldn't concentrate on police work. The buzzing in my head was back, so skipped out on the department and walked in the rain. The Burg had emptied itself in the afternoon, just a few citizens scurrying to find shelter like rats among garbage as the rain beat down hard. I couldn't face my apartment so decided to work a few Fucillo businesses, trying again to see if anyone would talk. That was at least what I told myself when I ended up at The Katydid Club at the end of the Strip. I didn't dare question my real motives. It was late afternoon, so the place was empty except for a few bar flies. I nodded to the bartender and the woman came over set a glass in front of me and poured. "Don't you ever do any work Copper?" "Just killing some time, the real work starts tonight. That is unless you wanna talk?" "Why talk when I got nothing to say?" "I thought as much." She threw me a look as hard as a quarter and went over to jaw with another customer. I watched her walk away, just as the jazz band started their practice and the real reason I was here walked out onto the stage. Nancy McFarland, a canary with a voice as sweet as sugar molasses and a face that could break your heart began to sing. I told myself not to look, just to listen. I knocked back the juice and the bartender filled my glass again. "You like her don't you?" said the woman, the cracked paint on her face made my stomach turn so I told her to dust, ignoring the question. Giving up the fight, I sat back and watch Nancy do her act, slow and real sultry. I was angry that I'd come, a gee like me was just another face in the crowd, another insect with a hard-on for liquor and a world of troubles to drown - nothing to a darb like her. I polished off the whiskey and lay a fin on the bar. With a fleeting glance towards the stage, I shook my head and drifted. The meet with Roman was going down in a couple of hours. (iv) Finney was late and basted worse than usual. So when he turned up at Ten, I took the keys. The liquor in my system kept me wired as we drove through down town Chicago. The rain had stopped and the city awoke in the darkness, the neon glare of the underworld oozed as we drove straight to it's heart. I had serious doubts about whether or not Roman would show and told Leo that it might be a bum flush, but as we walked into the late night steak house, he was waiting in a booth alone. "Fuckin' Guinea bastard," I heard myself breathe as I stood in the doorway. "I told you it was aces. Let's jaw and see what he wants." said Finney. I sat down in the booth opposite a pale skinny man, advanced in years, but dressed well. We knew he was high up in the Fucillo Family, definitely Made, possibly higher. He was an untouchable, which made it all the more hinky that he'd called to meet. If he was caught talking to a pair of bulls, he'd be rubbed out. "Evening Detectives..?" "Norton and Finney," I felt the heat of my anger flare at his well tailored clothes. Another dirty wop who had been pissing on ice more than half his life. I fingered the butt of the roscoe in my coat pocket and imagined putting one straight between his eyes. From the look on Finney's face, he felt much of the same. "Give us the dope? And you better not be wasting our time with dog shit and razorblades Roman." The Italian man shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. His eyes flicking like the swing of a pendulum over to the door. "There's a hit going down in a couple of days," he said. "I might be willing to give you a place and a time." "Names?" I asked, my eyes narrowing. "No names. You don't understand what position I'm putting myself in." "We can't work with no names. Why are you telling us this? You want a deal? Who's the target?" The rat-ta-tat of my questions came quick like like shit through a tin horn. "John Franklin." answered Roman, growing more nervous with each moment. "You're going to need to give us than that. There must be a thousand John Franklin's in this city. Give us more, you fuck." Finney interjected. The room seemed to get hotter. We were close, I steadied my hands on the table and saw Leo's face slowly turning a deep shade of purpole. "Franklin who? What does he do?" I asked, my voice calm. Both Finney and Roman looked like they would break at any moment. The door to the joint opened and Roman flinched. He shook his head and stood up. "This was a mistake." he said. "I must leave now." "Fuck you," roared Finney, finally snapping. He leaned over the table and grabbed Roman by his collar. The place was hardly full, but the ruckus alarmed the other diners. I tried to break Leo's grasp, furious that he was ruining this chance. "Let him go, you Paddy bastard." Looking up I saw Roman heeling it towards the door. Nearly climbing over my partner I caught up with him outside. "Where? When?" "No." Roman turned and ran as Finney bustled behind me. The restaurant owner shouting in the background. I drew my gun and followed but the old man moved quickly. He had a car waiting for him at the top of the Strip and there wasn't time to follow. "Fuck!" shouted Finney. I rounded on him and pushed him against a wall. "Cool it and now." We eye balled each other for a moment then I let go and began to walk off. "Where you going?" He asked, the note of apology in his voice was there amidst his Irish tones. "To the Department. We need R&I to get us a list of John Franklin's. We get the connection and tail him. He'll lead us to our man." "I'll drive," said Finney taking the keys out of his pocket. "You might be drivin' but I ain't riding." I walked along the streets, the buzzing was back. The strongest lead in months and we might not have blown everything. |
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| Reply by: Cathy_Parks at Jan 12, '08 00:00 | |
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Evsie, I didn't get chance to finish either - truthfully, that was about half of what I had to write. Much harder than I thought it'd be actuallym but I really enjoyed doing it. If anyone would like me to continue I'd be happy to do so. |
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| Reply by: Cathy_Parks at Jan 12, '08 00:01 | |
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Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, and Ganelon... Having spent hours and hours reading through all the entries I am here to announce our winner. While both entries were incomplete it was nice to see the stories being approached from different angles, and the differing styles, which was really what all this was about. Anyway, without further arsing about, I am please to announce Cathy_Parks as our winner, for having the clearest definable style - and predictably stylo as our runner up for, well, entering. No, really, I genuinely liked what both of you were doing with it - maybe next time I try to make it a little easier, huh? Thanks for participating. Bastard son of the Evsie bloodline, Announcer |
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| Reply by: Announcer at Jan 13, '08 12:29 | |
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