Goodfella'

(another one conjured from the past with the power of copy and paste. enjoy, and know that this certain ‘short’ story, is not even complete.)

He sits on top the antique skyscraper that is as old as the city itself. Birds flock and perch themselves neighboring him, hollering at the morning gale as it ruffles their nests. One man sits on top this building, one man ponders. One man is alone. 

His cape escapes itself, violently swaying in the breath of the urban city air, as if it has a life of its own, and wishes for nothing else but to release itself from the man, thus living its life. The man grabs the cape and folds it under him, disciplining it with great satisfaction as it was getting to him. He continues to brood, longer as it amplifies each time his brow digs deeper into his perfectly sculpted face. If they were to see his current state of mind, many would seek the answer to his current dilemma. They would take pity on this man. 

Little Jimmy staggers out of the corner coffee shop, his vision unstable as the thick, prickling scent of morning brew disorients him. He never was a big fan of caffeine. Jimmy checks his camera and grabs his sleeve, wiping the lens thoroughly and firmly, for the tenth time in the past eight minutes. Something is bothering him. Underneath the hand-me-down leather jacket of ten years, hangs an identification pass, for the Daily Bugle, it writes ‘Jimmy Olsen’. Jimmy Olsen stands on the weathered side-walk, with his hands on his waist and his eyes clenched as the sun sneaks its way around the buildings, “Time for work” dictates Jimmy, to himself. 

The skyscraper rooftop is occupied by the usual feathered friends, but one occupant is nowhere to be found. He is in the air, enjoying the wind slide through his hair and upon his back, there are many things this man holds dear and this certain feeling is one of them. He glides and sails through the clouds, above everything else, enjoying the peace and quite he desperately wants, for a moment, he has expression. But, this moment of limitless tranquility is short-lived as cries for help reach his ear from far below. He curves his body and dives for earth, homing in on the distress call. Just another night. 


Daily Bugle, a stereotypical city newspaper to the urban jungle Metropolis, is second home for Jimmy Olsen, who works late hours and multiple shifts, on his own accord. Today, he’s assigned to a certain new journalist who comes highly recommended, a femme fatale who goes by the name of Lois Lane, though she is late, time passes by as our bow-tie wearing photographer stumbles down the staircase. Jimmy waits at the lobby, fooling around with the young miss at the reception, taking advantage of his youthful face and freckles. The innocent game of cat and mouse is interrupted as Jimmy pops his head to the lobby entrance, red blurs zoom past with great speed and sirens echoing, deafening and blinding. Whilst Jimmy’s female friend covers her delicate and sensitive ears, as do others, he slings his camera across the chest and dashes for the exit. 


Black smoke rises into the air, reaching for the skies and acts as a signal for help. A city apartment struggles to survive as it withstands the fire with its delicate fifty-year old frame, its inhabitants still inside. The proper authorities scuttle, as close to the building as they can, to do what they’re paid to do. Bystanders stare with awe and amazement as the city’s best fight their way through the blaze and into the fiery nightmare, many fearing on the brave’s behalf. Firemen stomp to each door, and checks for back draft, before ramming it down to get the people to safety. In this certain moment, a group of normal men display great courage and act of valor as they risk their lives for the sake of others, heroes in the eyes of many. But, they are nothing but human, filled with flaws and insecurities, and most importantly, invulnerability; A high beam creaks above the head of young Officer Dickson, who instinctively pushes his partner to the side as it cracks and falls towards them. Young Officer Dickson is pinned to the floor, with the large heavy beam crushing him with its weight; he grinds his teeth in utter pain as his ribs crack. His partner is unconscious due to head trauma to the wall, but in a much preferred situation compared to Officer Dickson. He attempts to bench press the beam and slide it off, but the intense heat singes his palms and he cries in agony. It is in a situation like this, is when the presence of a supreme being or rather, a miracle, is wished upon, for either the return, or the safety of the loved ones; Officer Dickson quits at his futile attempts and mumbles to himself, he prays whilst the walls of the cramped corridor are engulfed in flames and is nearing him. He is drenched in sweat as the heat intensifies; it is difficult to tell which are tears, and which are beads of sweat. 

    (Here’s a little taste of the past, let’s reminisce…) 

     She strolls down the street, ignoring the pavement which is spotless. She is wearing a bright pink cocktail dress, with colourful flowers printed on. Just to suit the mood.

       She merely skips her way down the street, passing by the awe-inspiring houses. These houses are monuments, each one having its own style and character. Number 24: The owner has a collection of vintage cars locked up in his underground carpark. The collection sums up to 20 antique vehicles. His porch is fitted with a flat-screen television for when he decides to do some mechanical modifications. The owner is living a single life, divorced at the age of 43. Now he is 50, but looks like he is 40. Young, ignorant women come and go, seeking for a hand in marriage with the owner as they know that one of his collectors edition would cost up to a hundred grand. He declines all of the tempting offers that come by, but nothing is going to separate him from his single and love-free life. He lives the good life.

        The cocktail dress woman keeps on going, her high-heels tapping on the pavement, interupting the perfect silence of the road. Next shrine to be displayed is the Richards Residence. Number 26: From the first view of this house it is obvious it is owned by a family. The towering and intimidating front-gate is for one purpose only, keep the young todlers in and keep the unwanted out. The parents are hard-workers, met at work, the husband is the newly appointed CEO for a billion dollar electronics company whilst the wife is his secretary. They got happily married five years ago and since then they have had three bright, magnificient and well-educated children. Through the tiny bars of the colossal gate, childrens toys are able to be seen. The house gives off a modern, billion dollar, family feeling. They live the good life.

       Cocktail Dress Woman marches on, passing the next tribute to the rich and famous. Its number reads, Number 28: This house is owned by a Columbian. He is an infamous drug-dealer, wanted by many countries. He has developed his empire from hard-work and innocent killings. He makes millions for every deal done, and anybody who tries to cross him, will get crossed first. His house represents money, money and some more money. As a drug-dealer he is power mad, so showing off his spending money in this shrine, is perfect. His million dollar compound is guarded with world-class security, black-market security. His vehicles are modified to fit his specifications, windows are tinted and bullet proof, engine made to withstand the toughest terrain. This drug-dealing millionaire is a monster, but he is happy. He lives the good life.

       The next masterpiece in line is Number 30: This house has a Victorian design, representing the owners personality. The owner is a young and handsome man, famous amongst the women. But he is no simple pretty boy, he is a proud PhD graduate from Oxford University. His house was passed on to him by his deceased father in his will, he now lives in the classic Victorian by himself. The library which is situated at the top floor is humungous and spread out wide, he spends most of his time in the vast chamber of knowledge, seeking for new addition to his wisdom. He is alone and prefers to be alone. He lives the good life.

       Cocktail Dress Woman walks on. She reaches the end of this road and stops abruptly, finally reaching her destination. She stares at a number, the number is 32. Cocktail Dress Woman cracks a little smile, she rushes on to the porch and gazes at the big, square sign which says ‘For Sale’, she grabs the beginning of the sign and pulls with all her might. It smoothly slides out, leaving a blocky hole where it used to be. Cocktail Dress Woman puts it down with pride and stares down the street, a massive truck stations itself infront of her and Number 32, on the massive truck it boldly says ‘Movers Express’. She folds her arms and give out a long and meaningful sigh. From this day on, she knows that she is going to live the good life.