A Short Story : A Story?

Dave Barry is a colonists who tries to amuse his reader with his topic of choice and writing. He writes this essay about our traffic problems and how they are causing problems now a days and we need to work together and find some way to fix them. In this he used tons of hyperboles to get his point across about how bad our traffic problem is in our country and how good it is in some other countries. He also uses a sarcastic tone throughout his essay to show that the problem is bad and to explain just how annoying and bad the problem is. He also uses an allegory to tell the story of why people get around in Greece so quickly. The author uses rhetorical strategies to get his point across in a humorous way.

There were only two kinds of people in our town. “The stupid and the stuck,” my father had affectionately classified our neighbors. “The ones who are bound to stay or too dumb to go. Everyone else finds a way out.” There was no question which one he was, but I’d never had the courage to ask why. My father was a writer, and we lived in Gatlin, South Carolina, because the Wates always had, since my great-great-great-great-granddad, Ellis Wate, fought and died on the other side of the Santee River during the Civil War.

Mr.Raymond, a wealthy white man who lives with his black mistress and biracial children pretends to be drunk so that people of Maycomb county have an explanation for his behavior. When in town, he carries around a brown bag with coca-cola, but the citizens all think it is whiskey. Sitting outside the courthouse, the day of the trial, Mr. Raymond says, “ I try to give ‘ em a reason, you see. It helps folks if they can latch onto a reason” (Lee 228). Not only are people upset with Mr.Raymond because they assume he always drunk, the citizens of Maycomb county are upset because he does not discriminate. Jem and Dill asks why he lives this way and he simply says, “Some folks don’t like the way I live. Now I could say the hell with’ em, I don’t care if they don’t like it” (Lee 228). Mr.Raymond solely just wants to live in peace and evidently the people of Maycomb county sees this as a problem. Mr. Raymond feels as if he should not have to live as a typical Maycomb county citizen and without a doubt he does not.

On December 4th, 1966 in Pittsburg, New Hampshire, it was just another normal and quiet day. Arthur Raeburn had just locked the doors to his business’s building. He didn’t have any sort of transportation and had to use a public bus to get back home. It was late and cold, with nothing lighting up the sidewalk he was walking on except the moonlight, streetlights, and the headlights of passing cars. “Eight more days.” Arthur said. Arthur was well known in his town for seemingly always being positive, everywhere he went he would always leave a positive impression on people. However, Arthur was not happy, and he couldn’t figure out why. He could always make everyone else happy, but not himself. His plan was to leave his state on the 12th of the

He argues that if something is taken out of context we will have a much harder time understanding its true meaning and importance. In regard to South Dakota, these big corporations do not care about the state’s social reproduction, but about how much they are earning. Consequently, these big corporations are confused when their workers protest against them for better wages, treatment, and etc. While, those businesses that are forced to close down, now become abandoned buildings waiting for the next big corporation to revitalize the neighborhood.

“Mr. John Philip Johnson aroused with a sour grimace; it was noon. Tossing and turning all night getting sleep to no avail, Mr. Johnson could petrify the entire city with only a miniscule shred of his raw, unrelenting rage. A nightmare identical night after night had kept him up, and it barely allowed him to afford rest. Dressed, he went down to the corner to buy a newspaper and some gum, and there was a clumsy customer in front of Mr. Johnson.The agonizing pain of humiliation enveloped Mr. Johnson, which resulted in him taking action and shoving the man to no longer forgo the pain. Knocking over the newspaper stand, the buffoon unwittingly allowed him to steal gum and a news article without notice.

“Hey Joe! Where ya at?” I asked, knowing full well he was in the garage. I followed the freshly shoveled walk to the door and caught a hint of cigarette smoke as I reached for the knob. Upon entry, my lungs were seized as a thick, smoky fog replaced precious oxygen. Somewhere from within the haze a gravelly voice emanated, “About time you showed up Ben. I was beginning to think I had Thelma shoveling for nothing,” he said chuckling to himself. As I looked around, an all-encompassing museum of Joe Riley thrust itself upon my senses. I winced listening to the engine roar of stockcars strain the antiquated television’s single speaker. Below the television resided a sporadically out-of-tune radio whose incessant fuzz competed with the race commentary. Whereas I was lost in an atmosphere of verbal conflict and rhythmic confusion, Joe was quite comfortable deciphering the medley of noise. I turned my attention to the immediate surroundings.

It was a bright evening with the light shining through the window curtains casting a ray down upon Mr. Johnson’s crude and bitter face. He rose with a grunt, his rump pulling the sheets in a fashion only comparable to that of a maelstrom. As the cover of the bed was yanked towards the mighty roundness of Mr. Johnson’s figure, a large bottle fell to the floor with a slight ting in its landing. “A lousy day for the aftermath of drinking, wouldn’t you say, honey?” he bellowed downstairs. The plump man’s comical roll to his feet was that of an armadillo hiding in fear of predators. With vigor, he yanked his coat off of a nearby coat rack and bolted down the stairs, nearly falling, towards the fresh smell of a homemade meal prepared on the kitchen counter. “I don’t know what you you’re talking about, pal.” A crude voice muttered from behind the counter. It was at this point that Mr. Johnson realized, this house was not his own. In fact, it was not a home at all. A sudden flashback nearly knocked him off his feet. He, in that moment, remembered where he was. This was the hotel he stopped at on his drunken march home from town. “Oh dear, sorry for the confusion. I fear I may have made an improper judgement of the building I slept in last night.” He reached his hand in his pocket. “For your troubles?” He handed the man a small flask of what appeared to be a thick liquor. “Thank ya, kindly stranger, really takes the edge off of a stressful work day.” Said the man with a devilish smile on his face as he slid it in his pocket. “That it does.”, replied Mr. Johnson. “That it does.”

The warm smell of freshly printed paper tickled my nostrils as I ran my hands over the newsprint, staining my fingers and inky green. In my hands, I held the first issue of a small, student-run newspaper called the Reporter. On page sixteen was a modest news story about an English teacher who had rapped to her students on the first day of class, and under the subhead, the byline read: Danyel’la Johnson, reporter.

Downtown at Main Street across Bertucci’s there is a cheesecake factory. When I walk past I would always take a look into the window and observe, not the different pastries, but the people. In those wistfully shivering mornings my eyes feel like they are going to freeze to death so I take heed to not take too long, but everything is so entrancing — the man in heavy green always ordering the blueberry, the couple who fell in love and then apart as the factory moved on timeless. I can occasionally identify familiar faces, when Will decides to put some of his stingy money, saved up for books and books and a life of books, to good use. It’s quite funny how those with parsimonious issues always tip the most. “It’s fifteen percent” and it’s the verdict. Anything less would face furious objection and be declared guilty.

James walked slowly singing away to himself. The warmth of the sun was pleasant on his back and caused him to smile, to his left was a railway line and to his right a wide river with a current so strong it caused the water to froth. He had been walking for several hours now and decided it was time to take a break. He swung his rucksack off his back and sat on the damp grass path he had been walking on. He tore open his bag and grabbed one of the many chocolate bars he had packed, then took out an issue of the Oregon Journal he had stolen from his dad 's desk before he had left. The date on the front was the 22nd of June 1955, it was yesterday 's paper. James could hardly read but enjoyed looking at the pictures, he inspected the newspaper

Jealousy crept through my body when my parents told me that they were going to dinner in the Willis Tower. Who wouldn’t want to eat on an upper floor of the formerly world’s tallest building? My brother and I waved them goodbye as they pulled out of the driveway. I walked upstairs to my room and opened YouTube on my computer. Nothing seemed amiss.

So as the van weaves through the hotel parking lot, Liz can barely wrestle her anxiety into control. So many things could go wrong in Washington; kidnapping, murder, maybe even an attack. It is the U.S Capitol, and a beacon of

The following morning, Tomas’ alarm went off and I jumped up running out his door; I ran into his dad “Good morning Casey.” I smiled “Good morning.” He continued down the hall to the staircase; I went to my room and got ready for school. Tomas came in the doorway “Hey. Go ahead and take a shower first, I’m going to go eat something.” I nodded my head “That’s fine.” He smiled and left; I got in the shower.

It was your typical Sunday afternoon in Central Park. A slightly plump man is vegetating on a considerably cracked park bench, filling his head with commercial literature, as he did every Sunday afternoon. Peter is just your average hard-working, middle class citizen. He supported an archetypal family---two kids, his wife, and an anthology of many pets. Peter was content with his life; his complaints were few. However, he had no idea that his whole life would be altered by one encounter with a slightly deranged, yet seemingly harmless man. His pity for poor old crazy Jerry is misplaced. Peter does not have to commiserate Jerry, ironically enough it is quite the opposite. Although Jerry is the antagonist, he also