Butcher Shop FINAL PROJECT

New York Times: Officer MIA 9/27/43

By: James Doherty

Yesterday the New York Police department confirmed that Officer Peter Fletcher has gone missing. The officer was on break from his patrol but never reported back to the station. When he did not return they sent out a dispatch call for him but he did not respond.The last person to see him was his partner who saw him go onto the Bowery as he went for a haircut. The police are currently investigating. If you have any information please go to the 1st precinct and report it. His is about six feet tall and two inches. He has a dark beard, his brown hair is usually parted to the left. He has light blue eyes and a scar above his lip on the left side. Officer Fletcher has a large build and walks with a slight limp. He leaves behind a young three year old son and wife. His wife says "he is the most caring man on the planet and has always been out to do his job and serve the people of New York".

It is located right on the hectic streets of the Bowery in Little Italy. The exterior has fading red bricks; the store name is positioned on the right window and says “The Sausage Slicer”. The windows are very clean in comparison to the rest of the store. The store smells of recently sliced meat. The floor is tiled and on the walls are posters of other family owners. There are glass cases containing the meat on sale for that day, the counter in the front where you work has a scale and the register. Your little white hat annoys you because it never seems to fit right. The pasty apron you wear has splattered blood from the cow butt you just sliced up. As you work your face gets redder and redder from the cold of the meat room. Your eyes are hazel, and you have a personality that people love to be around. You are slightly plump, clean cut and shaven. Your fat little fingers handle the meat so delicately it is shocking you slice up a former living thing in the back. Your teeth are a tad bit crooked, but not too bad as you are still quite attractive. Secretly you are terrified of being found out, your secret busted, losing everything you have worked for in your life. Paranoia fills your mind; at times you cannot stop sweating. When you walk through the brown back door the meat hooks hold the hanging meat in perfect categorization: a butt here, torsos here, tongues here etc. The cutting table is washed and the blood with un-needed meat is discarded into the garbage can next to the cutting table. In the bottom right corner of the table you can see the year 1935 engraved in, the year it was bought. The store seems so decent, just a man doing his work so that his family can live. But behind closed doors, up the stairs lies a secret, something no police officer or political leader would suppose. Up the shady narrow stairs lies a gambling racket, with hardcore gamblers wishing away their money. Music is playing, Dean Martin to be exact. It is not loud enough to penetrate the walls down to the butcher shop or be heard outside. People can only be recommended, and they must use a password to get in. When you are finally in the room, are their tables for playing, they have an emerald color. It smells of intense perfume from the women who come in and out. The racket boss, Striker an odd man who no one really knows, watches from his chair in the corner. You cannot tell his size until he rises from his chair. He is about 6’3, and thick. He is someone you would not want to run into in a dark ally. He has a thick beard which makes him look grizzly at times. There is a scar on his left cheek from a knife fight. His hands are large and cold. Striker’s eyes are an intimidating light blue. He wears khaki pants which seem to have been overused, a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His biceps barely fight inside the shirt. A hat sits upon his head, covering his receding hairline, and adding darkness to his already creepy appearance. A respectable business on the outside is secretly only a front to the addiction that lies inside.

Everyday regulars enter the shop with their regular orders. Also everyday the gamblers enter, give their password and are allowed through the back door. It is a very detailed entrance. After the password is given the man is given a piece of meat that you keep behind the counter. It has a key in it which is used to open the back door in the back of the shop. The ally way leading to the back door is dark; after it rains you hear the water dripping from the top of the roofs. In the summer the garbage heats up and the disgusting smell of dead animals overflow onto the street. You have been forced in these last years to push the bin holding the garbage farther back in the ally. But this has helped because it has disguised the backdoor even better than before. The buildings have little spots of green moss and the Belgium blocks on the ground are separating, grass is growing in the cracks. There are no windows in the ally way, which at night make the ally pitch black. The darkness at night permits the gamblers to leave unseen, only the soft patter of their heels on the street can be heard. Once you enter the back door, you must wait for the man at the counter to go into the back room. Once inside he leads you up the stairs where Striker looks you over, he decides if you can come in or not. Although a disgraceful business, he likes to keep it as clean as possible and have only the highest rollers. Mens hair should be combed and parted to the right. Women must have their hair down and be in a blue or red kind of dress. The men should be in dress clothes, ironed shirts, pants, ties and shoes newly cleaned.

Striker has been running this gambling business since your grandfather was the owner. They were both extremely close and were best friends as children. When he had opened his racket in the upstairs of the Butcher shop, all was going extremely well. But then the fuzz came down on him. A trainee clerk gave an officer the wrong piece of meat, with the key enclosed. The officer did not think anything of it until he saw two young fellows walking out of the ally in the back counting money. This was Striker’s first and last mistake since he entered into this business. The officer went right up the stairs and Striker made his move automatically, in defense of his business he went and removed the officer from the residence and the property for good. This is where it all gets fuzzy. The officer and Striker got right into a brawl in the upstairs, Striker was bashed in the head with the officers baton first. Striker broke out into a violent rage throwing punches and forcing the officer right into the wall. But the officer took advantage of Striker and pushed his face into the glass, it shattered all over the floor. The shards of glass that fell were bloody. They had sliced his face, one large piece dug deep into the left side of his cheek. The pain was unbearable and in his blinded rage he murdered the officer. He beat him constantly over the head after getting the officers baton and finally ended with driving the officer straight threw the broken window, out into the ally. At the end he cut the officers body up into pieces to dispose of his body, and dumped it in the garbage bin in the ally. This is why he is such a hard man, after this event, when he could not allow someone into his high class establishment, he did not want to risk his life, so therefore he eliminates his problems. The trainee soon suffered an unfortunate fate as well.The trainee's body was found at pier 6 on Jones Beach. He was shot 24 times. He walks the patron out, and once in the ally, he makes his 38. Special visible and finishes.

You and Striker do not speak much, and exchange money when necessary. Personally you do not want to allow this gambling racket to continue anymore, you have too high of a conscious. But you do not have the guts to severe the relationship between Striker and your family. He comes to all family events and is like a great uncle. Also he saved your grandfathers life. That’s how he got to put the racket in the upstairs of his business. Your grandfather, after opening the business, was jumped by a few hooligans. But Striker, wandering nearby, heard his yells, and came to the rescue, knocking one on unconscious, cracking the other ones skull and finally destroying the third ones mandible. He then got his wish, and his racket began. You have known him forever and yet are absolutely terrified of him. He is a man greatly disturbed by the murders he has committed. The face of that happy energetic hopeful young man has been replaced by an old unfriendly man. He is quiet, yet you can tell he is always thinking. But you dare not to speak to him of matters that do not concern business, like how you saw him cough up blood into his handkerchief.

New York Times: Local Butcher Beaten, Shot, Hospitalized 12/4/53

You did not even see them coming out of the shadows. Out of no where you felt this burning pain splitting through you side, the groceries you are carrying home hit the sidewalk, milk splatters. Ketchup? No you didn't buy, oh shit. He grips your arms and drags you into the alley where multiple shoes pelt your rib cage. You feel them snap and scream in agony. Your wife comes out of the house, they run, sirens, gun shot, "were going to get you out of here sir". The damp alley way, walls your screams bounced off of, dripping of water from the drainage pipes. Carried into the ambulance, you feel cold. The scarlet colored milk sits in between the Belgian blocks of the alley. It is dark, the hospital is quiet, and you can only hear the faint clack of the nurse’s high heels. The door handle moves, no one is supposed to come in this late at night. Something hits the ground with a thump. The door knob clicks open, you cannot see the door open, it is blocked by your curtain for privacy. You hear the slow cautious steps. They stop. The clean smell of the hospital, the beeping of the machines. Your heart beat increases, sweat forms on your hairline. You feel hotter, you are more aware of what is around you. The aroma of latex fills the room, and then you feel it. The cold barrel on your temple, then the hand stuffing your face with a cloth. Your hands and arms are useless to defend you. Life flashes before you, your kids, wife, your bed, parents, parties, love, marriage, death. All in such few seconds. He walks so you can see him, you look straight into his eyes, and you have seen him before in the shop. He had been upset from losing money. The man is scared, pannicking, his hand is shaking. He sticks the gun right between your eyes. You see a tear. He yanks back on the trigger; you hear the bullet get popped up into the chamber, explosion of gun powder and the rolling of the bullet down the barrel. You don’t shut your eyes.

New York Times: Butcher Shot in Hospital 12/7/53

By: John O' Connolly

It was a mad rush last night at New York University Hospital when at 12:34 a gunshot rang out in the critical care unit of the hospital. A horrible scene was found. The owner of “The Sausage Slicer", was found gagged and shot in the head in his bed. The first nurse to arrive to scene said " It was awful, blood was everywhere, the bed was drenched in it. The cloth used to gag him was soaked in blood, if you rung it out you could have filled a cup up with it". The door leading into his room had a broken lock, and the nurse watching the floor was also found by a janitor later last night with a broken neck. It seems that she was also choked as well. She was stuffed into a garbage can with a lid on top and locked in the janitorial closet. The butcher had been admitted 3 nights earlier because of a late night attack in the alley way of his shop. Police believe that this was a hit and he was murdered by a hired gun. The Commissioner will have a press conference later today at Carnegie Hall for a select group of reporters to elaborate on the recent developments.

Commisioners Speech: Hello fellow service men, Mr. Mayor, reporters. I have come here to discuss the murder that took place last night at New York University Hospital. It is believed that a man entered through the back enterance and used the service elevator to get up to the floor quickly. We are unaware how long he had been in the room. He did take the life of an esteemed nurse of the building and the patient in the hospital whose name will not be disclosed because it is an ongoing investigation. This butcher was assualted and shot four nights ago near his home. We have reason to believe this was a hit. We urge anyone with any information to please help us out. It is possible that this is related to gang violence. Thank you.

New York Times: Shop Destroyed 12/25/53
By: John O' Connolly

The butcher shop "The Sausage Slicer" was set ablaze last night around 1 o'clock in the morning. The three floors above the shop also swallowed by the blazing fire. Sadly the wife of the deceased owner died as well as her 3 year old son. By the time fire trucks arrived it was much too late to even think about saving the business or the building because within five minuets after the Trucks arrived, the front wall collapsed into the street demolishing multiple cars. The entire fire was put out around 6:30 this morning but the area is still being cleaned up. The cause of the fire is unknown.

Striker has decided that nothing he has done ever amounted to something good. He is the coldest man on the planet after losing everyone that has ever cared for him. His racket has been destroyed and many are beginning to black mail him. They say if he does not get them their money they will report him to the cops. Striker has been forced to leave the general area and now goes by the name Kent. He lives in a tenement and is plotting his revenge. While you were alive you were unaware of Striker's confrontation with these men who he learned had been cheating in his games. He beat them and took there money and got them thrown into jail by framing them for murder of a police officer. Striker is good at cleaning up after himself. But these men got out of jail and came back. They knew they would not be permitted to enter the upstairs, so they attempted to draw out Striker. This did not succeed.

New York Times: Blood in the Streets 2/4/54

By: John O' Connolly

More blood has been shed today as an older man murdered three hooligans in broad daylight. An eyewitness says the man seemed disturbed and smelled strongly of whiskey. The eyewitness says he walked over to the three men who were talking on the corner. In a split second he withdrew a .38 special from his inside suit pocket and opened fire on the man with his back to him. The first shot pierced his neck. The second man was shot in the kneecap and then popped in the skull. He then threw away his weapon and punched the third man in the nose; he seemed to be in shock and did not fight back at all. As sirens began blazing he reveled his army knife and sliced the carotid artery. He was filled with lead from the first two responding officers to the scene. He was shot sixteen times each emptying their clips. The reason for these murders are unclear and no identification has been found. The bodies were transported to the hospital for an autopsy and will be cremated.

Dear World,

I am known by the name Striker to those who gambled in my illegal racket. But my true name is Timmy Flood. I grew up on the outskirts of town and made a name for myself. My father left my mother when he learned she was pregnant. My mother became a woman of the streets because she could not handle any one job. Though she did try to provide for me, she was an alcoholic who used most of the money she made on alcohol. She never meant any harm. I worked hard in the factories and left soon to help with moving moonshine around the city. This was my first taste of organized crime. I was still young but I had experienced multiple businesses inside businesses and I was ready to start one. But I needed a place to start. I knew of the new butcher shop and I knew the owner quite well. I bribed a cop and he told three criminals he would get them out if they beat him up. I waited, and when they did I attacked and got rid of them. Those were the first three men I ever killed. I was scared after that, knowing what I had done, but I had moved on. To this date depending on how today ends I will have killed a total of 19 people. I had an older brother when I was growing up, he is how I got into the organized crime, but he had me change my name. Unfortunately for him he was caught stealing a barrel of liquor for himself. They took him into an office room and made an example out of him. My only brother, beaten to death, arms, legs broken. Jaw snapped bridge of the nose driven up into the frontal lobe of the brain and a cracked skull. I watched as they sprawled him out on the floor. I left soon after only to follow my own guilty pleasures. Any time when I must murder I do it the same way. I take two shots of whiskey, walk the person into the alley and blow there brains out. I cut them up and dispose of there bodies. First the arms and legs, then the necks so i can cut them into smaller pieces. It is easier to get rid of them in smaller pieces. I can only imagine how many families I have ruined. But tonight I do not need to drink. I don’t feel like it. I sit here in this bar drinking only water. They will think I was drunk and I did not think, but I did think, I do not feel anymore, I only do. Truthfully this is my last goodbye to everyone I have ever known or loved. The one woman I ever loved left me because of my involvement with this business; I never gave her the respect she deserved. I should be a better man but I have only done what I have to do to survive. I learned that as a young child and those lessons have never left me.

Goodbye World

Timmy Flood

New York Times: The Last Goodbye 3/4/54

By: John O' Connolly

Today the police came over the last letter written by the 43rd street murder. The mans real name was Timothy Flood. But any information regarding him has not been found. In his letter he describes his life and how hard it was and what possessed him to be the man he had become. A life of hardship starting with witnessing his brothers death to never having a father. A man with good intentions but did them the wrong way. He knew no other way to do things but the illegal way. So can we really blame him? This is the only life he has ever known and no one gave him guidance. He guided himself with virtually no family. The only family he had was the family that he watched die. No one ever went out of their way to help him, he only saw the bad in people. He lived for so long in such a bad enviorment he could never change. But in a way, we can look up to him because he was a hardworking american. So here is a salute to an unsung hero of our time, Timmy Flood.

Parrot Story Final

She bought the large black wrought iron cage. I still hated it, on the car ride back to my house the huge meat packer, who seemed like Hercules to my puny size smelled like old meat. He was scruffy with thick jet black hair. His biceps bulged out of his T shirt. She liked men like that. That why I never understood why she married me. She loved the rough and tough type, the burly kind of man with a deep voice. She told me that I made her feel special. That my touch felt so much better than everyone else. I foolishly believed her; I was blinded by my love for her. Her rosy cheeks, supermodel body, stunning brown puppy dog eyes and adorable smile all drew me in. Then came her super sweet personality, her “I have been hurt so many times before I really just want to feel love” that I heard anytime I upset her or questioned her about her infidelity. I had not realized her devil like personality under the surface. I was a billionaire, running one of the largest meat packing companies ever. The market was mine; I had the life, the wife, the money, the cars and friends. But she took that all away from me.
Three months into our marriage I discovered that she had been cheating on me, with one of my supervisors in the meat packing plant. At first I refused to believe these lies some employees told me. I thought, no not my wife. Some said she only wanted me for my money. Others said that our supervisor pleasured her more than I did. One even had the nerve to claim that he had been with her inside my office, the only office with a door. I dismissed all these warnings as lies. But they were true.
One day, our supervisor clocked out early and I decided to follow him so I could put an end to all of these lies. I drove to my house. Around the corner I spotted a black Mercedes Benz. That was his car. I went in the front door where the sickening smell of his cologne filled my lungs and made me nauseated. I forced myself to walk up the stairs to the fate that would await me. I walked to my door and I bit by bit rotated the door knob until I heard the click. She was with him on my bed, under my sheets; he was on top of her caressing her. My heart dropped to my stomach. It felt like my heart was ripped out, stomped on, burned then shoved back into mew with a knife in it. I dropped my briefcase on the floor. Something then cracked inside of me, my body usually so easy to withhold anger released every bit of anger I have ever felt. I exploded into a rage of fire. I sprinted over and tackled him off of my bed and flung him onto the floor. My wife screamed in surprise and embarrassment. I punched him multiple times while he was still in shock. He was profusely bleeding from his nose and lip. I continued to slam him down, I grabbed my lamp and ripped it out of the socket on my wall and smashed it over his head. This is where all went wrong. He came after me in a full out attack, slamming me into my closet breaking through where I hit my head on a wire hanger and the wall. He punched me and my nose broke right away, and then smashed my mandible with his iron foot, shattering my jaw. My mouth hung in utter defeat and I screamed in agony. I got one last shot of adrenaline which is when I charged at him, he grabbed my shoulders and threw me, I was launched out of my second story window, of my house, with the man having an affair with my wife, and landed on my grass head first.
I died on impact the cops say. He was not charged because it was ruled an accident and he was acting in self defense. My former room looked like a tornado had hit it; my former wife was in shock when this happened. Yet, go figure, she was strangely turned on by her lovers defensive actions. I do not remember what happened after I fell out my window. I only know that information because I either figured it out or heard it from people at the pet store. I and my wife were frequent visitors; we wanted to get a parrot.
So now I am here, in this dreadful car with my former cheating no good wife and one of my supervisors, now having a relationship with my wife. The ideas that are going through my head are uncontrollable, all the things I want to do to them. They do not deserve happiness. This is a quest for revenge, she will never love again, he, he will never see her again. As we arrived home everything has changed, all of my pictures taken down, only hers put up. The house smelled different, it had more of a rustic smell, like a steakhouse, more manly. He was running her life, like she ran mine. I can only regret how whipped I was, but I was in love, a horrible rotten love that I did not want to see. He now sleeps in my bed, with my wife. Showers in my bathroom, they have emptied the house of all my belongings, it is like I have never even existed. My quest for revenge now begins.
I have learned of their new routines, my cage I have actually begun to like, although greatly over sized it gives me a sense of protection, nothing I had never felt with her. They feed me three times a day, my wife sometimes taking me out of the cage and ruffling my fathers. It feels so good, aye mi. But now my chance has presented itself, she has gone to work and he is now home. He takes me out of my cage and I ready myself for attack. Just as his other hand goes to ruffle my feathers he looks straight into my eyes, and then looks away. I attack. With a breath of hair from my beak I shoot like a firecracker into his eye with my beak, and he releases a scream so piercing it feels like it could break glass. He swings his arms covering his eye and protecting himself from my deathly blows, I do not hesitate. My next blow hits slightly below the belt ending with him dropping to the ground, and then I make my final move in this battle between me and Goliath. I go and my beak pierces his left, penetrating the cornea into the inner eye of the soul, he drops to the ground screaming hysterically. He cannot stop flinging around his hands and arms, the table he hits and the lamp falls slamming on his head, glass splintering on the ground everywhere, he rolls in it trying to get up cutting himself everywhere, trying to find some means of escape he stumbles toward the door but I detour him. I fly and land on his head, though the force of me not much, him not being able to see where he is going and unfamiliar with the territory leads him to my living room windows, where he would make his exit.
She would return home two hours later to find her lover stuck in the window, glass through his chest into the inner chambers of his heart. His aorta was sliced and blood spewed out all over the floor as he laid there in his final minuets. I just watched, in some kind of strange happiness overfilled me; happy that I ended this mans life like he had ended mine. I felt, fulfilled. His scruffy face turned pale, body limp, clothes stained with rich dark blood, eyes just holes. She turned from being so colorful to a ghost white, tears bawled from her eyes, her mascara all over her face, the milk she bought from the grocery store splattered on the floor, her mind raced, and then she saw me. I sat their, full of color, glowing actually, in my cage, with the cage door shut, and my food on the floor.
A trial began soon after claiming that she killed him because she wanted all of the money to herself. That was partially true; she was a money hungry woman. But she actually was in love with him. A love I ended with a few fatal blows of my beak, as I was too determined to get revenge, I could not bypass my anger. But she would not win in this trial and would go to jail, for 10 years. I do not know what has become of her; all I know is that I still sit in the same place in my cage, alone, in my house, in my rooms, living.

Luck of the Irish

Their was once a small little leprechaun who lived in a shoe. The shoe did not smell bad actually, it smelt of chocolate because this Leprochaun loved chocolate coins. In fact he was gaining weight for eating so many of those, so he had to diet. The shoe was of course a bright green. Everything was green inside the house, which as everyone knows is a Leprochauns favorite color. Inside laid a huge cauldron, full of shimmering pieces of gold. He was a short fellow, with an orange beard, a green top hat which he took off to say “top of the morning to you”. He had a tiny green suit which really brought out the emerald color in his eyes. When he awoke this special day, Saint Patrick’s Day, he was especially happy. He was going to make someone feel very lucky. So when he hopped out of his shoe he went merrily down the road with his pot of gold. But when he got to the end of the rainbow, someone was already there. He wanted to grab the Leprechaun’s lucky charms. The Leprechaun felt so violated. No body ever grabbed his lucky charms before, and this man ran away with them. The Leprechaun lost his leprechaun privileges. His lucky charms were gone. So he went on a hunt to find a shamrock to replace his lucky charms. He luckily did, and the shamrock was perfect, in fact it brought him such good luck he went and got back his Pot of Gold. Then he found the man who took his lucky charms and was still using them to get lucky. He was getting very lucky in fact. He had not lost any games of poker. This forced our good Leprechaun friend to hop right into action. He hit this awful fellow with his gold from his Pot of Gold. The leprechaun made the terrible man drop the leprechaun’s lucky charms so he was able to get it back. He felt so for filled. He had reached an inner euphoria. He felt full again. After this frightful day was done, out leprechaun hero returned home to Dublin, to hop into his little green shoe, in his little green suit, climbed into his little shamrock made bed with four leaf clovers as a cover. Then Leprechaun drifted off to sleep and dreamt about playing with his lucky charms for breakfast.

Butcher Shop (imaginary Store)

It is located right on the hectic streets of the Bowery in Little Italy. The exterior has fading red bricks; the store name is positioned on the right window and says “Tom’s Pigs”. The windows are very clean in comparison to the rest of the store. The store smells like meat, recently cut. The floor is oak wood and on the walls are posters of other family owners. There are glass cases containing the meat on sale for that day, the counter in the front where you work has a scale and the register. Your little white hat annoys you because it never seems to fit right. The pasty apron you wear is drenched in blood from the cow butt you just sliced up. When you walk through the back door the meat hooks hold the hanging meat in perfect categorization: a butt here, torsos here, tongues here ect. The cutting table is washed and the blood with un-needed meat is discarded into the garbage can next to the cutting table. In the bottom right corner of the table you can see the year 1935 engraved in, the year it was bought. The store seems so decent, just a man doing his work so that his family can thrive. But behind closed doors up the stairs lies a secret, something no police officer or political leader would suppose. Up the stairs lies a gambling racket, with hardcore gamblers wishing away their money. The table for playing is an emerald color, it smells of intense perfume, and the racket boss, Striker, the odd man who no one in reality knows, watches from his chair in the corner. A seemingly respectable business on the outside is secretly only a front to the addiction that lies inside.

Descriptions

Descriptions
Room #1: It is a small room, not larger than my grandma’s living room. The class is filled with voices from high school students fooling around. The walls are a white color turning into a darker yellow color. The black computers sit atop of wood tables and chairs of assorted colors are placed in front of the computers. On the wall to the right of the door there are two large white boards that our teacher can never seem to work. Posters fill the wall of the door from the advertising class, advertising Nike Air Max from 4 years ago. In the center there is a large TV above the teacher’s desk where a small man sits with a beard, the living image of Rumplestilsken. Across from the door there are windows, sporting the outdoors where the rain, wind, snow and sunshine are exposed to students of all the ages. The room does not really smell at all. There are tiles missing in the ceiling and the clock on the wall seems to have a bent long hand. The clicking of keys on a keyboard fills the room when it is quiet.

Room#2: It is not too big, or too small, it is just right. The walls are of a grayish colour. The door leading down to the basement has a wood plaque on it from a game of cars played many years back by his grandfather. The bed, sits on the wall of the basement door. The comforter has a certain pattern to it, but it cannot be described. The bed board is loose, the screws coming out of the wood holding it to the bed. It every time the bed shakes the screws loosen more and more and he must continuously turn them clockwise back so they do not fall out. The rug on the floor has a cover of shapes on it of different colors. Mainly purple, red and black. The area where the floor is not covering is a light wood color, put in when he was only about eight years old. The drawers are also the same light wood color. Clothes are put all over the desks, soon to be put away when he has company over, it will become messy again once the company leaves. The walls hold his fathers Air Force picture with his squad and a drawing from his sister when she was in kindergarten. The desk farthest from the window which is across from the door when you enter his room has pictures of his grandparents and his wallet, sunglasses and keys. The shelves above that hold trophies from his many victories at sporting events. The wall on the side across from the bed holds a article of when he was in the paper. At night, when his maroon blinds are shut the room is pitch black, and you would never know someone laid fast asleep. You can only hear the faint sound of his breathing.

Room 3#: It is a dark room, seemingly vacant, with a musky smell like an old steakhouse or fire. The single chair in the corner of the room is vacant, filling up with dust. The floorboards have some holes in it from years of wear and tear. Light shines in through the two windows on the front of the house, the dust you can see floating in midair. It is a lonely home, cold at night but hot during the day. Robins heard in the morning chirping and crickets at night while the moon shines. Yet, the is empty, except for that old loyal chair.

file cabinent

It was July Fourth 1983 in Wyoming, Utah. Fireworks lit up the night sky and children ran around at the town carnival. The warm breeze shuffled through the town at a steady pace. But not all the kids were at the carnival, at least not the older kids. The teenagers where having a celebration on the east side of town. Jimmy Dean’s parents left him home alone that day and he decided to have a house party. They were rich anyway he could replace anything that could possibly break. First all the teenagers reunited at the carnival and one by one slipped away to the party. The drinking games began and the keg stands were in full flow. The fire in the living room was the only thing that allowed you to visualize the couples making out on the couch. The sound of rock and roll filled the house and expanded outside to where the rest of the kids partied. A bonfire was made, and the wasted teenagers, falling all over the place, set the fire in the back of the property by the corn. The neighborly warm breeze began to pick up, and the sparks from the bonfire began to jump. Meanwhile at the town carnival the party was dwindling down as the fireworks came to the end parents started wondering where their young children were. “Have you seen Bobby? Billy? Willy?” the parents asked worrying about where their reckless children could be. They then heard, carried by the strength of the wind, music and yelling from the east side of the town. Then, out of nowhere, a shriek of horror silenced the air. The townspeople took off towards the house and the Fire department broke out into action. To the town’s people shock Jimmy Dean’s house had been set aflame by the sparks from the bonfire, the corn caught on fire as well. The Dean property was ablaze diminishing any object in its way. Parts of the house began to collapse, starting with the back wall which was first set on fire. The fire department worked but the wind prevented them from being able to halt the fire fully. It burned until early the next morning when the final sparks were put down by a passing rainstorm. The only thing that was left standing was the oak file cabinet next to the fireplace. Although it was ruined, the outer case remained standing. The files were burned and wet at the same time, and this was the only piece of equipment they were able to save from this dreadful fire. It stands now, in the house of Jimmy Dean, alone in the corner, a reminder of what he had done, next to the fireplace.

Dialogue

“Would you like some tea?”
“I would. Thank you.”
“Careful. It’s hot.”
“I usually prefer iced tea.”
“Mmm. I don’t have any.”
“Maybe I can put ice in this tea.”
“But that’s what I’m saying—I don’t have any cubes.”
“Sorry.”

Conversations between me and my mother had never been the same. After I had been in that accident, tensions had been sky-high. Talking to her was kind of like wearing long pants on a hot summer day in Florida, uncomfortable and sticky. Her dark brunette hair started to gain a touch of gray streaks. She started to use cover-up everyday to cover the bags under her eyes when she lost her sleep. No longer was she able to concentrate and her hand shook like a jackhammer on the sidewalk. Paranoia overwhelmed her and controlled her every thought. I meanwhile, was finally recovering, but seeing my mother was like a setback for me. I was finally out of rehab, but I wanted to go back every time after visiting her.
It was wet and rainy November night with winds around 40mph. Leaves were all over the sidewalks and the streets were slick. I had been a bar, drinking my night away, I had fought with my mother two hours before about my addiction, the addiction I had refused to admit at that time. When she had approached me about it I became defensive and hostile, I slapped her and left a long cut on her face. But it was more like I stabbed her in the heart. My mother was in shock and I stormed out, cursing her under my breath in utter fury. When I had arrived the beer soothed me and I could not stop, I soon stumbled out of the bar to my car. It took me five minuets to put my key in the ignition. The link was set and the car started, I whipped out from the sidewalk, unable to judge my speed and distance from everything, and I sped down my block, which is when my life changed. I flew onto my mothers block, unconsciously doing this for I was simply out of my mind, and drove straight towards her house. I did not know what I was doing there, but I could not control my reactions and when I took my foot off the gas, I put it back on thinking it was the brake. The car did not stop and I made a grand entrance into the glass window of my mother’s living room, destroying the brick wall around it. I departed my vehicle through the windshield, getting thrown through the kitchen wall; I lay lifelessly on the kitchen floor. My mother ran down the stairs only to find the horror that was left, her heart dropped and she had a massive heart attack.
I had been in rehab 45 days before I got out for a one week vacation. I went to visit my mother. My face was still sliced and the wounds although scarring over, were still sore and visible. My left leg had broken in the crash and my both were full of glass and debris. I broke 4 ribs from landing into the counter, puncturing a lung. But I had not cared about my own injuries. In fact now, in retrospect I only cared that I hurt my mother so much and that their was nothing I could do to take back what I did. We avoided the big gray elephant in the middle of the room, working around the problem that neither of us wanted to reopen. Soon my mother would need to enter an olds people home because the heart attack had affected her so much hat she could no live on her own for much longer. I promised that I would take over the house when I was ready to. But this conversation took place well after my first visit. Mother did not talk much, and was seemingly distressed, I cried. Mother comforted me like she did when I was little and I got a boo boo. It felt nice to be back in her arms.

Response to How to Become a Writer by: Lorrie Moore

This was a very interesting piece of work, in fact i have never read anything like it before in my life. It was peculiar in the way of how it was written, so random and no real sense of order or plot. The ideas jumped from one to the other and every paragraph was different from the other. I liked this piece though because of the randomness and loss of plot. It kept me on my heels in a way not because it was not possible to predict what she was going to say or do next. It was intriguing because she told you what you should do throughout the story to become a writer. Also i enjoy the writing being in second person. This was because when you read pieces it is usually from the first or third person. The second was much different and kind of hard to follow because so many different things pop up. It kind of was like we were the main character in the story. This gave us a better perspective on everything and how you kind of could choose what you wanted to do by her saying Perhaps various times throughout the piece. It was very descriptive though and clever on how she went on and found things from her regular life to influence her stories. But none of her pieces made sense to her classmates meaning that she had already extended her imagination before they had. It is kind of like she was writing pieces before her time, she was ahead of the times. What i think Lorrie Moore is saying in the path to become a writer is that it is a very long road. You need to find yourself and how you want to write. This may take some time and you may change your major several times until you find out what you want to do. But once you find what you want top do stick with it and carry it out to the fullest. I believe this may have been the path that Lorrie Moore went through to become such an accomplished writer.

parrot story

She bought the large black wrought iron cage. I still hated it, on the car ride back to my house the huge meat packer, who seemed like Hercules to my puny size smelled like old meat. He was scruffy with thick jet black hair. His biceps bulged out of his T shirt. She liked men like that. That why I never understood why she married me. She loved the rough and tough type, the burley kind of man with a deep voice. She told me that I made her feel special. That my touch felt so much better than everyone else. I foolishly believed her; I was blinded by my love for her. Her rosy cheeks, supermodel body, stunning brown puppy dog eyes and adorable smile all drew me in. Then came her super sweet personality, her “I have been hurt so many times before I really just want to feel love” that I heard anytime I upset her or questioned her about her infidelity. I had not realized her devil like personality under the surface. I was a billionaire, running one of the largest meat packing companies ever. The market was mine; I had the life, the wife, the money, the cars and friends. But she took that all away from me.
Three months into our marriage I discovered that she had been cheating on me, with one of my supervisors in the meat packing plant. At first I refused to believe these lies some employees told me, I was told she only wanted my money, I claimed it was a lie. It was true.
One day, our supervisor clocked out early and I decided to follow him so I could put an end to all of these lies. I drove to my house, went in the front door where the sickening smell of his cologne filled my lungs and made me nauseated. I forced myself to walk up the stairs to the fate that would await me. I walked to my door and I bit by bit rotated the door knob until I heard the click. She was with him on my bed, under my sheets; he was on top of her caressing her. My heart dropped to my stomach. It felt like my heart was ripped out, stopped on, burned then shoved back into mew with a knife in it. I dropped by briefcase on the floor. Something then cracked inside of me, my body usually so easy to withhold anger released every bit of anger I have ever felt. I exploded into a rage of fire. I sprinted over and tackled him off of my bed and flung him onto the floor. My wife screamed in surprise and embarrassment. I punched him multiple times while he was still in shock. He was profusely bleeding from his nose and lip. I continued to slam him down, I grabbed my lamp and ripped it out of the socket on my wall and smashed it over his head. This is where all went wrong. He came after me in a full out attack, slamming me into my closet breaking through where I hit my head and a wire hanger and into the wall. He punched me and my nose broke right away, then smashed my mandible with his iron foot, shattering my jaw. My mouth hung in utter defeat and I screamed in agony. I got one last shot of adrenaline which is when I charged at him, he grabbed my shoulders and threw me, I was launched out of my second story window, of my house, with the man having an affair with my wife, and landed on my grass head first.
I died on impact the cops say. He wasn’t charged because it was ruled an accident and he was acting in self defense. My former room looked like a tornado had hit it; my former wife was in shock when this happened. Yet, go figure, she was strangely turned on by her lovers defensive actions. I do not remember what happened after I fell out my window. I only know that information because I either figured it out or heard it from people at the pet store. I and my wife were frequent visitors; we wanted to get a parrot.
So now I am here, in this dreadful car with my former cheating no good wife and one of my supervisors, now having a relationship with my wife. The ideas that are going through my head are uncontrollably, all the things I want to do to them. They do not deserve happiness. This is a quest for revenge, she will never love again, he, he will never see her again. As we arrived home everything has changed, all of my pictures taken down, only hers put up. The house smelled different, it had more of a rustic smell, like a steakhouse, more manly. He was running her life, like she ran man. I can only regret how whipped I was, but I was in love, a horrible rotten love that I did not want to see. He now sleeps in my bed, with my wife. Showers in my bathroom, they have emptied the house of all my belongings, it is like I have never even existed. My quest for revenge now begins.
I have learned of their new routines, my cage I have actually begun to like, although greatly oversized it gives me a sense of protection, nothing I had never felt with her. They feed me three times a day, my wife sometimes taking me out of the cage and ruffling my fathers. It feels so good, aye mi. But now my chance has presented itself, she has gone to work and he is now home. He takes me out of my cage and I ready myself for attack. Just as his other hand goes to ruffle my feathers he looks straight into my eyes, and then looks away. I attack. With a breath of hair from my beak I shoot like a firecracker into his eye with my beak, and he releases a scream so piercing it feels like it could break glass. He swings his arms covering his eye and protecting himself from my deathly blows, I do not hesitate. My next blow hits slightly below the belt ending with him dropping to the ground, and then I make my final move in this battle between me and goliath. I go and my beak pierces his left, penetrating the cornea into the inner eye of the soul, he drops to the ground screaming hysterically. He cannot stop flinging around his hands and arms, the table he hits and the lamp falls slamming on his head, glass splintering on the ground everywhere, he rolls in it trying to get up cutting himself everywhere, trying to find some means of escape he stumbles toward the door but I detour him. I fly and land on his head, though the force of me not much, him not being able to see where he is going and unfamiliar with the territory leads him to my living room windows, where he would make his exit.
She would return home two hours later to find her lover stuck in the window, glass through his chest into the inner chambers of his heart. His aorta was sliced and blood spewed out all over the floor as he laid there in his final minuets. I just watched, in some kind of strange happiness overfilled me; happy that I ended this mans life like he had ended mine. I felt, fulfilled. His scruffy face turned pale, body limp, clothes stained with dark blood, eyes just holes. She turned from being so colorful to a ghost white, tears bawled from her eyes, her mascara all over her face, the milk she bought from the grocery store splattered on the floor, her mind raced, and then she saw me. I sat their, full of color, glowing actually, in my cage, with the cage door shut, and my food on the floor.
A trial began soon after claiming that she killed him because she wanted all of the money to herself. That was partially true. But she would not win and would go to jail, for 10 years. I do not know what has become of her, all I know is that I still sit in the same place in my cage, alone, in my house, in my rooms, living.

All night long

Shook Me All Night Long

Bobby was relaxing in his uptown English apartment during a regular day in England: sunless, gloomy and damp. The sickening smell of smoke filled the air from the factories. But the regular English weather which for both would slow down most people did not stop him. Bobby was fine with the ladies so he always had some fun just around the corner waiting for him. Bobbylicous decided to go bathe in the shower because he had a woman was waiting for him. After his shower he shaved because he wanted to look razor-sharp for his date, he felt like he had something with her.
At the same time Candy was getting ready for Bobby with her low cut shirt, a blue and white skirt and fishnet stockings. The high heels she wore added an inch and a half to her height. They were fire red. She needed very little makeup because she was a blonde bombshell, literally. Candy though just to look cuter for Bobby decided to put on a light red lipstick and some eyeliner to bring out her blue eyes.
Meanwhile Bobbylicous was walking with his buddies Angus and Brick to Candies home. Angus and Brick were Bobbie’s wingmen and they helped him court Candy. When Bobby arrived Candy sweetly said out the window “Oh Bobbylicous”. Bobby couldn’t withhold a smile when she talked, her voice soothed him. That is what drew him in the night he met her at the coffee shop. Her smooth voice and ridiculous figure. Before he had arrived he decided to get some champagne because he felt that it was a special occasion, Bobby was going to ask Candy if she wanted to go steady.
When Bobby arrived though he realized he had been tricked. Since Bobby was such a player before he had met Candy, he had multiple girlfriends. In fact he had sixteen that he had flings with before he met Candy. Also he had three children that he was unaware of. Little by little the girls found out about each other and devised a plan to finally trap him and confront his decisions. When he entered the house he was hit with a rattle. Three babies were crying. Bobby was shocked and very disappointed in himself for the way he had acted before in his life, being a womanizer did not work out to his advantage. Bobby tried to plead with all the women had had treated so horribly and slept with that he had changed and was not as bad as he seemed anymore. But they did not believe him because as they had all learned, he was one hell of a sweet talker. So many of the women where emotionally hurt they would never forgive him, three of them had his kid!
The women locked him in a room with the babies for 4 days making him learn how to take care of them. He was sleep deprived and peed on multiple times through his four day venture with his children. The women actually felt guilty for him because he was trying, but Candy swore to him that she would never involve herself with such a horrible creature that just uses women for fun. Bobby was devastated and spent the next four months courting Candy and trying to win back her love that he desperately needed. She wanted him too and one unusual bright day with not a cloud in the sky it happened. Candy finally forgave Bobby. She said this was because he had tried so hard and would not let her go, that his actions spoke louder than his words and that he truly had become a changed man. In addition to that both Candy and Bobby were in love with each other. Candy though, decided to send Bobby to rehab and he obliged. She needed to know she could trust him and he would not go shaking it all night long. Bobby realized that the temptations he had felt before for all women soon left him and he had only had a temptation for Candy. Candy and Bobby got back together after Bobbie’s 47 day stint in rehab. They are now married and have 6 children, the seventh is on the way.