Gideon Haughton Case

The city always seemed to push the stars farther away from the world in the dead of night. Rain had begun to sprinkle downtown and it began to trickle across the top of the parked cars in the street. Vernon was sitting there silently listening to the drizzle outside that sounded like pebbles falling on a tin roof, still thinking about the dreams his been having. The Coffee Cup was like any other diner nestled between apartments and liquor stores. There was seven cut-up stools and behind them against the wall sat a cigarette machine and no smoking sign. The counter was worn from years of service. Two booths sat facing the storefront windows

Blackburn wanted to apologize for not coming to his class after Howe had so generously let him attend. He told Howe that he had took on more extracurricular activities then he could perform. “Howe had noticed the absence and had been a little irritated by it after Blackburn’s elaborate plea (292). This is very strong evidence that Howe is irritated by Blackburn. Yet the manipulative Blackburn still had another favor to ask of Howe. Since Blackburn was the secretary of “Quill and Scroll” he wanted Howe to address them on the Famous “Life and Letters” article wrote about him. Blackburn wanted him to read some of his poetry and defend his point of view. After a long analysis of Blackburn’s face and a try at avoiding the question, Howe gives the answer, “suppose we wait until next term? I’ll be less busy then” (293). The avoidance of Blackburn’s questions shows how irritated Howe is. He tries to escape but Blackburn is persistent. Back in his office Howe refers to the encounter as “less funny…in some intermediate way disturbing” (293).

It was now after six in the evening, and he hadn’t stopped all day…had barely stopped all week. In addition to dealing with new work commitments, he’d been fielding calls from his wife’s – soon to be ex-wife’s – lawyer. And his own lawyer. The divorce was going to be settled quickly, at least. He wanted that much, and Alisa was good for that much; she didn’t want it to drag on, either. He knew he should eat and relax…he needed to freshen up, first. He pulled his suit coat off and headed into the bathroom…and just looked at himself in the

Even as she rummaged again through the work-ups, there wasn’t any clear evidence Rosie could find that gave her a thumbnail of hope. She kept running into dead ends and in just twenty minutes, she had interviews scheduled with Hector and Barry Langdon’s son. On a better day, they’d have a choice; either eat from her hand, or be sent inside a jungle to a hungry pride of lions. But today, all she could do was stare at a photo of Frank Daggott and wonder how he had gotten this far. How could he not even have been spotted? His picture not only revealed his large size, but she honed in on his right hand, which looked like it could easily encircle a grown man’s neck. Rosie was confident that Daggott was that man that strangled and murdered Jouka Taekalla. What puzzled her was that someone like Dyanna Montarro could actually fall for the two-bit part-time loan shark muscle. Rosie understood the man had certain aura of power; he put four NYPD officers in the hospital. But a man without brains and integrity was no more attractive than a muddy-filled pond inside the Serengeti.

After Lionel finished his half-tankard of ale—he’s purposely short-poured from the pitcher—he paid for his men’s drinks, despite their protests. He wished Ulrich and Perceval a good rest of their day, then headed straight out of the tavern and up the castle path. He wanted to visit the kitchens and ensure the maids would have everything ready for his supper with Alis tonight.

Sometimes, up in those trees, I talked Hassan into firing walnuts with his slingshot at the neighbor's one-eyed German shepherd. Hassan never wanted to, but if I asked, really asked, he wouldn't deny me. Hassan never denied me anything. And he was deadly with his slingshot. Hassan's father, Ali, used to catch us and get mad, or as mad as someone as gentle as Ali could ever get. He would wag his finger and wave us down from the tree. He would take the mirror and tell us what his mother had told him, that the devil shone mirrors too, shone them to distract Muslims during prayer. "And he laughs while he does it," he always added, scowling at his son.

“Miss, would you like a Latte?” asked the waitress, pulling me out of my reverie. “I can fill it thank you,” I smiled. As she walked off, I picked up the pitcher and filled the once empty mug. It overflowed.

It was the next morning after Phillip Higginbotham had gone to the Rabinowitz’s house for dinner, and he had realized something! He realized that he showed up to the dinner invite wearing a dress coat, but forgot to take it from the coat rack on his way out. He knew it was a gamble, but he decided to drive over to the Rabinowitz home this sunny, humid, morning to retrieve the coat. As he pulled up to the Rabinowitz home, Susannah could see that it was him through the living room window. Still flustered from their moments in the kitchen the night before, she made sure her hair was somewhat decent in the mirror on the wall, and then wrapped a light shawl around her shoulders. She then headed for the front door in anticipation for him to ring

He was about to stand up when he spotted a strange object in the sky. He squinted to see it. Was it a falling gun? No, it was shaped differently. What was it?

He drove to Old Westbury Gardens in silence. Once there, he parked and staked out the area, his vision overwhelmed by a vast sea of green. As night began to fall and people arrived, he made his way to the main building, a large three-story mansion surrounded by elegantly sculpted greenery. Walking up to the side of the mansion, he walked straight in due to an invitation in the dossier. Making his way inside, He loitered over to the bar, scanning the broad ballroom. Despite the circumstances, he blended in well with the crowd of New York’s elite, not as much as an eyebrow was raised as he stood among the crowd. Minutes passed as his growing anxiety increased, the pistol in his shoulder holster grinding against his ribs, when he saw her, gliding across the mahogany floor, the trail of her white gown drifting behind her like a stream of smoke. Everyone else in the room vanished as his eyes lingered on her, his heart beating with a strength he hadn’t felt in years. He watched her leave through the wide doors leading to the balcony, and he followed, watching her ease down the stone steps into the courtyard. She finally stopped inside the gazebo that stood in front of a small lake. Strings of white lights danced down the columns of the structure, and tulips wove around its base. He observed as she lit a cigarette, his legs moving towards her on their own whim as if he were being pulled into her orbit. He was close enough to smell the stench of the tobacco when she finally acknowledged his presence, screaming and turning around as she threw the cigarette in the

After reading the piece multiple times over, it becomes increasingly difficult to find any innate structure or overall fluency to say the least. The summary section of the piece takes on the form of a block of text with little to no indentations to represent any clear transitions or breaks. Each sentence is introduced with a jolt that rends the reader’s immersion and replaces it with a form of text synonymous with a report rather than a movie summary. As for the interview portion of the piece, what are weak or stale transitions are suddenly transformed into abrupt halts between dialogue. Yet again, one may state that this is the true form of an interview and to such a statement I yield. However, McGrath ultimately fails to create any intriguing questions that could invoke an interesting response from Jordan himself. Questions such as “Are you concerned with the reviews?” or

Standing in front of her vanity, Judith started to rip and tear at the pages and only kept the important pieces in hand. She slipped them into crevices of the mirror and used the warm, sticky liquid on her mirror to glue some pictures to it. She got up to look at what she created but flinched instead at the sound of something rolling across the floor behind her. She turned around only to see a man, with wide hazel eyes, crouching in the corner of the room. Judith examined him closely before going anywhere near him. She let her eyes wander from the ends of his soft blonde hair, across his face, down to his gallant body which was covered in simple beige rags. She studied him some more and her mouth watered the more she stared. He broke the silence with a quiet voice.

Upon reading the letter, Armand froze. Tears are running down his face as he stands, immobilized by the realization of what he’s done. He ruined everything for himself. His wife, his poor baby; they’re all gone. Guilt overflows his soul as he quivers in shock, the letter falling out of his hand like a bird shedding a feather - slowly, while also losing a part of himself.

His goal of not failing is short-lived. He is falling into the same depression that he was in but he is unable to stay in his room all day because his landlord kicks him out. Writing seems to be the only reason he is not swallowed by the depression. He see his friend George at his friend’s Alice’s house. George is about 28 years old and very successful George gives Wainaina a marketing job. He moves to Cape Town and starts a small catering company. Big family events keep happening without him, His little sister Chiqy has a baby and Jimmy gets married. He promises to make something of himself before he returns home. He sends an email to his friend Charlie Sweet about his trip to Uganda. Sweet tells him to publish it. Wainaina sends it to the Sunday Times and they publish

Phillip’s piercing blue eyes stared back at him from his bathroom mirror. He studied his unshaven face and careless physique, and eventually began plucking the graying hairs from his breast and dropping them one by one into the sink. A silent apartment surrounded him, all but the street noise of the locals and trust funders of Bushwick below. He peered down to the sea of hairs from weeks of plucking and itched his red, irritated chest before quickly shuffling to the closet of his apartment. He weaved naked through the clutter of cheap vodka bottles and cigarette butts, whizzing by the takeout pizza boxes piled high on the flower upholstered sofa. He brushed by old photographs of distance, nameless relatives