“Look, Salvatore. New York. New beginnings for us.”
Salvatore grasped Mama’s eager, outstretched hand. Here he would invest the nugget of greatness he knew was within him and make his mark. He wouldn’t shrivel and stoop, lungs destroyed like Papa’s, in the sulphur mines.
Already, at nine, Sal knew what he needed: skilled teachers, opportunities.
Shepherded down the gangplank with his brothers and sisters, Sal felt the weight of his good fortune, his pockets heavy with assets. He’d been lucky during the voyage. He’d gathered rich pickings in carelessly concealed trinkets and cash. There’d be a market in New York.
I’m contributing some historical fiction to Friday Fictioneers this week. I’m not sure why my thoughts flew so swiftly to this particular Sicilian immigrant family arriving in the land of opportunity, but Salvatore certainly did leave his mark, in his own way.
You’ll find more information here.
And you’ll find more 100 word stories in response to this week’s prompt here. Thanks once again to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers.