8th Grade Short Story

Guns Down.

Sun’s Down.

One’s Down.

By Jacob Z.

As the radiant sun of brilliance took its last shine over the city of a 1951 Berlin, Arnold Reed took his first steps up the rusty ladder in the alleyway. As he ascended, his eyes peered down at the film festival happening below. Though the rubber was tugging on his hair a little bit, his vision was as good as a bird’s eye view as the rooftops above stalked the hustle and bustle of the festival below, once he finally rose to the top. The cheery people, laughing and talking, were accompanied by the martinis and vodka. The music. The fireworks! The vaudeville! These factors created one heck of a good time harder to distinguish than that of Oktoberfest, or any other marvelous event.

As Arnold crossed the rooftops, the sky around him began to darken and he got a whiff of the air crispening. Suddenly, the mist around Arnold began to evaporate into thin air, and he noticed an unusual looking figure. This figure’s visibility was a lone star, burning out in the midnight sky.

Arnold was no less afraid of what his eyes were sending to him. He felt a splash of confusion wash over him, unsure of his next plan of action. You should never underestimate Arnold Reed. He had killed what felt like a thousand people in his career. He was tough, gruff, and everything else that rhymes with those words. Though well-experienced in his work, he knew its importance and he had the alert personality of an elephant. He reacted very easily to his environment in less than a split second.

The shadowed figure continued to stare at him, and Arnold knew he couldn’t do this for so long. The splash of confusion soaked in and he called out, ”Hey! What’cha doing up heres?”

The figure, with his back turned, changed his position and responded, “I been waiting for ya, mate.” The figure pulled down his shroud and revealed himself. A spark inside of Arnold quickly lit, and he knew who it was. Jon Tomalio. The dealer.

Jon lit a cigarette and stood like George Washington commanding his army in the Revolution. “You and me, Arnie, we got a deal. Now,” he stuck out his hand firmly, “Hand it over!” Arnold stiffened a little bit. He had rented that tommy gun for a few months until he could find a replacement for his old gun. Now, his term was over. The tears of sweat began to drip down his face like the clouds’ tears of rain dripping down the gutter.

The gloved hand of Jon continued to stay out, whilst Arnold’s conflict was a candle, not blown out until Arnold made a choice. “I’m sorry, mate,” began an impatient Jon, “But business is business.”

Out of the blue, a flash of lightning struck Arnold’s brain. Those were the words I heards when that man killed my father! Arnold thought. He knew what he had to do. With his Model 1919 Thompson submachine gun in hand, he aimed at Jon with squared hips. “Arnold!” called out Jon, when he saw the barrel aimed directly at him. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret, mate!”

Jon felt a wave of fear rise and fall over him like the ocean waves, as Arnold took his final aim. “It be as you says, Jonny,” Arnold convoked.

“Business. Is. Business.” With the barrel directly aimed at Jon’s chest, he fired. Multiple times. The bullets pierced the air at the speed of sound as Arnold’s spirit went ballistic. Each and every bullet hit Jon right in his body. The moviegoers at the film fest below were startled upon hearing the gunshots, but their minds were shrouded in mystery.

Jon grunted and gasped as he fell to the ground, covering his body’s gunshot wounds. The sun finally dissipated into the far distance, and the full moon reached its pinnacle. Arnold dropped his gun and paced over to Jon.

Jon gasped for more air as he began to succumb to the wounds that deflated him like the popping of a balloon. “A-A-Arnie,” Jon said in his pain, “Y-You k-keep the g-g-gun, I-I have no use for that t-thing no more.” Arnold knelt down and stared at Jon with empathetic eyes.

“I s-should h-have n-never g-gotten i-involved in this b-business, mate. I am s-sorry.” Arnold took a deep breath and gave him a look of a friend. A real friend. “T-thanks, mate……” Arnold buried his face in his kneecap as Jon Tomalio fell back on the ground, lifeless.

In guilt, Arnold rose off the rooftop grounds. He knew he made a wrong choice. He knew he should’ve given back the gun. But, instead, he bellowed, “Well, it looks like the tables have been turned, mate!” Arnold took off his mask and took off the mask of Jon’s. Jon picked up his tommy gun, while Arnold’s dead eyes glimpsed at Jon, who trekked away from the corpse. Jon looked below in the alleyway, and climbed back down the rusty ladder. The deed was finally done.