#GBE2: Two Perspectives of My Mob Story

This week's challenge is to write two separate, but related pieces. I have chosen a scene from my unpublished young adult manuscript, BEING BOMPSY CARLETTA. For those who don't know, I started this blog because I am an aspiring author. I've written five novels but haven't published any of them. Time to send out some queries.

My first passage is from Fiso Carleffa’s point of view. Fiso is the mob boss father who had recently been united with his fifteen-year-old son after twelve years of believing the kid and his mother had died in a car wreck. The story was originally written in Ben Smith's, aka Bompsy Carleffa’s, first person point of view.

 

          Bompsy's eyes widened then a bewildered expression covered his face. What had his mom been feeding him all these years? Mac and cheese? He didn’t look malnourished, but he certainly wasn’t used to eating gourmet either. “Do you like the gazpacho?” I asked.

            He dropped his spoon and looked at me like I was feeding him poison.

            “Eat it. It’s good for you.” I twirled my spoon in a circular motion until he finally took another sip. That's when I realized my own son was afraid of me. I guess I'd screwed up when I ordered his beating, but what else could I have done after he cursed and punched me? I’m his own father and the kid didn’t even know me, nor at least respect me.

            Gil brought us our pallet cleansers and once again Bompsy scrunched his brows together while staring at the sherbet.

            “You look confused.” I pointed to Bompsy's plate. “That’s a palate cleanser.”

            He clearly didn’t understand.

             “Your mom sure didn’t show you the finer things in life.” How will I ever make this boy feel at home? Maybe I should apologize for the whipping.

             “Can I be excused?” he said.

            “Now? You haven’t had dinner.”

            “I’m not up to eating.” He stared at his hands. Poor kid had chewed his nails off completely. I wanted to spend more time with him, but he obviously couldn’t wait to get away from me.

            “Very well, but learn to call this home. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll even love me like I love you.” If that boy’s mom lives, it won’t be for long.

Brent Turner

This is how I picture my character Ben/Bompsy, so this young actor can play him if he doesn't have gray hair by the time my book gets published and becomes a movie. The next bit of text is the original wording from my novel. Please read the same scene told from Ben/Bompsy's point of view and hopefully you'll see the humor in it that Fiso didn't catch.

           When I sipped the soup, I was shocked. Cold soup? All this money, and these people couldn’t heat the soup.

            “Do you like the gazpacho?” Fiso asked.

            I dropped my spoon on the table. Why would he mention the Gestapo? What was he, a modern day Nazi? Sure, doesn’t everyone like murderers? Sick. This guy’s really sick!

            “Eat it. It’s good for you.” Fiso twirled his spoon in a circular motion.

            Not wanting another beating, I forced the soup down my throat. I was a spineless wimp doing whatever that Nazi demanded. The soup left a spicy, hot taste in my mouth so I drank more water. Gil put a small scoop of sherbet in front of me. I stared at the lime mound. Dinner must’ve been over since he’d already brought dessert.

            “You look confused.” Fiso pointed to my plate. “That’s a palate cleanser.”

            I didn’t get it.

           “Your mom sure didn’t show you the finer things in life.”

            How was this a finer thing? What was I supposed to do with the light green lump? I lifted a small sample to my tongue and choked the sweet, icy food down. My full mind didn’t want to feed my empty stomach. “Can I be excused?”

            “Now? You haven’t had dinner.”

            “I’m not up to eating.” I lowered my head and stared at my fingers. I wasn’t a nail biter, yet somehow had chewed my nails down to the pink on the way to St. Louis.

            “Very well, but learn to call this home. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll even love me like I love you.”

            Love? How could that monster talk about love? He had his brother kidnap me, Mom killed, and my back scarred, but I was supposed to love him?

 

If any agents or editors are visiting my blog, BEING BOMPSY CARLEFFA is available for publication, and I will send it to legitimate agencies upon request. I have also written a sequel to this novel and three other original works for children and/or teens, as well as a published story in AppleSeeds magazine. Furthermore, I am an active member of SCBWI and have completed course work at the Institute for Children's Literature.