Gangsta’s Paradise…

A Stories From The Jukebox Submission.

I’ve been a bit slack with these of late. Writing this was a reminder of how much I enjoy being able to contribute to this wonderful newsletter.

It’s Stories From The Jukebox time again.

Stories From The Jukebox

Calling all Poets, Fiction, and Non-Fiction Writers that love music — Share your prose of 1500 words, or less, using the prompt below:

Gangsta’s Paradise

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He liked to begin his day sitting quietly on the bench that had been in the garden since before he and his wife had bought the property almost six decades ago.

She was gone now. This winter would be five years since the cancer finally claimed her. The ache he had carried in his heart hadn't eased at all. He didn't want it to either. Somehow, the pain kept her close. In some strange way, it brought him comfort.

Early morning was his favourite time to be in the garden. The peace of it helped settle the never-ending noise of his mind.

The things he had done jostled for attention inside the old man's head. Part of his penance, to be endured until the day came when he would be with her again.

Through the good times and bad the garden had been his sanctuary, his Paradise.

He watched as a neighbour's cat jumped down from one of the walls that separated two of the half dozen properties that made up the exclusive cul-de-sac on which he lived.

It occurred to him that his security should probably be tighter. His garden was more accessible than was befitting of a man who had made the kind of enemies he had.

From his position on the bench, he could just make out the city skyline in the distance. His city, the one he had ruled over for more than half his life.

The winds of change were coming. Although you never really ‘retired’ from his particular profession, he had begun to step back in the final months of his wife's life. He’d been operating more as a figurehead ever since, leaving the day-to-day running of the organisation to others.

Slowly, he got to his feet. The arthritis that had come to play in his fifties was worsening significantly as he approached his eightieth birthday. This was compounded by the ongoing impact of a gunshot wound he’d received some thirty years earlier. He’d survived the attempt on his life, but had needed the help of a stick to walk more than a few steps ever since.

He remembered very little about the shooting itself. The same cannot be said of the retribution taken afterwards. Examples had needed to be made, particularly gruesome ones at that. On occasion, he thought of that day, his two would-be assassins tortured and killed. Their mutilated bodies hung from a bridge in one of the busiest areas of the city as a message to any others harbouring ambitions to take what was his. There was no remorse. He had just done what needed to be done.

It had become his habit to take a slow walk around the garden most mornings. He noticed the little changes the seasons brought. Different colours, the smell of spring becoming that of summer. How the weather changed the light, making his familiar route feel satisfyingly different as the garden continued to mature.

The son of a man he’d known from the neighbourhood he grew up in did most of the heavy lifting in the garden, visiting several times a week to tackle the never-ending list of things that needed doing.

On occasion, once the garden’s needs had been met for the day, the two men would sit side by side on the bench, drinking coffee and romanticising about the old days without ever being explicit about anything. They spoke the language of a lifestyle they had both been born into.

His friend's son was in his sixties now, still fit enough to indulge in his passion for bringing the garden to life. A far cry from his ‘day job’, which had, until relatively recently, been running the organisation's supply of narcotics into the city’s west side.

There was one area that was his responsibility alone. The rose garden was his pride and joy. Back in the day, he'd entered his roses into competitions, winning first prize every time he did so. In the end, he stopped. Although the roses were stunning, he could never quite be sure that the judges weren't treating him favourably because of who he was.

He was very conscious of keeping a low profile, of not drawing unwanted attention to himself. Everyone in the area knew what the elderly gentleman with a big house and a beautiful garden did to make a living. Not that anyone would ever dream of sharing that knowledge with him.

Like many others with an interest in horticulture, he would often talk to his plants. Usually just sharing mundane updates on his day or opinions as to what weather was coming their way.

It was different with his roses, though. To them he would confess his sins.

His turn around the garden was interrupted by a shout from the other side of the garden wall. It was his neighbour.

“Are you there, Jack?”

He knew the voice well; his neighbour had been conversing with him over that wall for decades, ever more frequently since his wife had died.

If he hadn't been lost in thought with his roses, he might have noticed a slight change in tone. If his hearing were that of a younger man, he definitely would have.

As it was, he just replied as was his habit.

“I’m never anywhere else, you know that”

“I have a parcel for you, which was delivered here by mistake. Can I bring it round?”

The old man smiled to himself. These would be some new pruning shears he'd treated himself to. They'd work a treat on his roses. Once upon a time, they would have made a useful instrument of torture as well, not now, though. He hadn't been involved in that part of the business for a very long time.

“Yes, just buzz at the gates and I’ll let you in. Give me a few minutes, I’m not as sprightly as I used to be”.

With that, he headed inside. The buzz arrived just as he got to the door. A quick glance at the CCTV to satisfy himself that it was who it was supposed to be, and he pressed the button to open the gates.

The doorbell rang.

He unlocked it from the inside and opened the door.

His neighbour was standing there. That he was in distress was obvious. He was also empty-handed.

“I’m sorry, Jack, they have my daughter. They said they would kill her if I didn't help them”

With that, a masked man stepped into view. He raised his gun and fired.

The garden went on with its day.