New York Lingo Novels & Stories

They stepped into the bustling streets of New York City and at once, a man wearing a worn-down suit bumped into Aquila. “What’s the idea, I’m walking here!” the man had shouted in a thick New York accent, but once he saw the person he bumped into, his eyes widened. Aquila glared at him evilly, making motions with his head, taunting the New Yorker into trying him. The man let out a yelp of surprise and started running away from the group of evil looking people.

Take two steps across any yard and your feet would scuff up some vile fart entombed two millennia ago by Roman soldiers. Adding to their stinkiness was their foul attitude. People say New Yorkers are rude, but they are nothing compared to the average Parisian. They all speak English but pretend not to. They will shove you aside. They don’t break for traffic lights. One whiff of an accent will bring on a barrage of insults spouted right to the person’s face—in French, of course. They assume the average tourist doesn’t speak their lingua. Even if you make an attempt to speak their language, it makes no difference. Everything costs double when they hear Uncle Sam’s twang.

PEERY’S POV It was great to be back home. New York had always been that way. You spend so much time in it that you start to hate the place--my vacation was all I needed to see it all from a different perspective. Rome was great and all. But at least I get to cuss at people in English now and get a reply I can understand. Italian was a beautiful language and shit, but I never knew if those bastards were cussing me out or complimenting me.

Luciano One thing I always hated about New York. The fucking traffic. Sicily had it's faults, and a lot of it, but at least most people preferred public transportation or bicycles making the car rides around the island blissfully free of any excessive traffic. New York however, was the exact opposite. It had always been so, even with the extensive subway system, billions of dollars spent on public transport and the thousands of helicopters the Wall Street billionaires flew to work everyday, the streets were still fucking clogged up.

“New York feels like it was assembled. This feels like it happened.” “New York is new by comparison.” He rested his hands on the railing, looking out. “There are streets here that existed before America was an idea someone was confident enough to say out loud.” “That’s a strange thing to stand inside.” “It is.” We stood there for a moment, the kind of quiet that doesn’t need to justify itself. “Dante used to say London was the only city that made him feel like history hadn’t finished yet,” he added. “Not something you look back on. Something you’re still in.”

,she said and we got into the limo and zoomed off New York was beautiful ,everything about it glittered ,especially since it was night The color and everything blended in perfectly I could feel the buzz in the streets, I could feel the jazz atmosphere Is this what new home looks like ? Honestly if we went on with our initial plan to get me out of Italy to New York and get a new life ,I doubt that I would have carried on with killing Mario This looks like a place where you can be you and not get scared of anything Then finally , we pulled up in front of this huge gate with heavy security

he says, and I smile. “Hi Alf, nice to meet you,” I say before I get in the car, and josh gets in after me. We keep making small talk in the car as I look out of the window to see the rush that happens in Manhattan. New York really is the city that never sleeps. It’s absolutely amazing.

She laughed, "Single and ready to mingle." "People still use that phrase?" I asked while scrunching my nose, "You sound old." She rolled her eyes while chuckling, "If you're asking if New York is treating me right, then yes, it is." Nope. Nope, I'm not asking that. "Cool, that's cool." I nodded and was about to say something when a loud bang echoed around the house. No, it wasn't a gunshot. It's more in the lines of Jay taking out his anger by closing the door with a bang.

Moving to Long Island had been like relocating to a different planet. I wasn't a stranger to wealthy people—Geneva Key and Chapel Hill had been full of them—but everything about this place was foreign from the way they talked to how people dressed. It took me weeks to get to the point that I could understand the dialect—not because the words were all that different, it was the speed at which people spat them at me. And yes, they spat.

NATHANIEL The address leads me somewhere in midtown. New York is already alive in that aggressive way only this city knows. Morning light spills between skyscrapers in sharp golden streaks while Times Square flashes advertisements large enough to blind people before breakfast. Men in expensive suits storm across intersections with coffee cups in hand and phones pressed against their ears like billion-dollar deals will collapse if they stop talking for two seconds. Taxis choke every lane around me, horns blaring nonstop, while pedestrians curse each other like it is part of the culture.