Morgan Swift: A Narrative Fiction

1. Swift wrote "A Modest Proposal" under a pseudonym, so who is the speaker here?

Piggy glanced down and saw the book with its wrinkled pages in William’s hands. “What book are you reading?”

And while she desperately looked for the keys that would open the barrier between the furious wind and the protective inside, she caught, with the corner of her eye a figure behind her. That blurry figure that was across the street and barely visible behind the white curtain of snow dust lifted by the monstrous gusts. Curious to know what it was, Emma turned around and stared in front of her in order to decipher the statue like figure. Slowly the outline of a human body was fully visible. "Who would possibly dare to sit out here on a day as cold and windy as this?", she whispered to herself, as the wind demonstrated his anger once more with an ear-piercing roar and not far away from where she stood, a tree was defeated by the gust. The 35-year-old women, clinched her eyes, so that several small hills gathered on her nose, for this helped her improve her sight.

“A Bertrand, I know.” He rested his large hands on the desk, toyed with a gold nugget cufflink. “Bertrand Shipping is quite a successful business. Perhaps you could borrow what you need from your family.”

The roads are just as slippery as I had imagined they would be. Usually, I would take the gravel path up to the church, but the roads to town are calling my name today. In order to get to the road, I make a sharp turn through the trees. Just on the other side of the tree line the sun was rising and looked like a painting you would find in an art gallery. With an open snow covered field on my right and a farm to my left, I jog down the road until the town is in upon me.

Sara’s arms ached from the heavy bag, full of manuscripts she must finish, as she stepped out from the office building and made her way to the company parking lot. Her earlobes tingled from the brisk evening air and buzzed from the loud noises of cars, as they spewed exhaust fumes and rushed down Seventh Avenue. She wondered where the hell were all of these people going at this time of the night.

“This is not a place for conversation or fun….it’s a classroom,”Mrs.Bowen said gesturing to the door. ”Literally the last day’’she mumbled.

On Vine Street in Coryville, a thin, short, black man stands between two buildings fighting off another Cincinnati winter. He is unshaven with a scraggly beard. His skin is rugged looking and tough. His outfit consists of a tannish-brown jacket, which clashes with his turquoise pants that are short in length. Charlie wears a pair of black, puppy dog chewed up shoes. It is winter and he is shuffling back and fourth to keep warm. His steps are

James stood in the streets of downtown Hartford. A light, freezing rain soaked the wool coat. He didn’t have a hat, and his hair was covered in an increasing thick layer of ice. He stepped into the package store a few times to warm up. The clerk would have let him stay, but he caught James trying to slip a pint of blackberry brandy into his coat pocket. After that, the clerk told James to get lost or he’d call the cops. James apologized and placed the bottle back on the shelf. The clerk didn’t know that James had already successfully pilfered a bottle and slipped it into the other pocket of the wool coat.

Click. Click. Click. Mys shoes went as I walked down the empty, lone sidewalk. You could hardly tell anyone lived in this small town as you didn’t hear anything for miles. I walked alone with my purse draped around my shoulder and my heels clicking against the pavement as the cool, refreshing breeze blows my auburn hair around. My cheeks are flushed and my hands are cold. I stick them into my warm wool pockets and keep walking towards the library.

ter we had. The snow had been so high that leaving the house just to go to town for the basics was near impossible. Music blasting in my ears as I pushed myself to run one more mile. “Just one more, just one more” I told myself. Sweat ran along my spine and dripped from my chin, my chest heave as i sucked in every breath. In through the nose out through the mouth. “push,push PUSH” I said to myself. Running was my way of relaxing a release of all of the toxic build up inside of me. I always went alone, it was better that way I had no one to keep up with and no one to keep up with me. I was free. Vibrations on my wrist made me slow to a walk I had been running for an hour and it was time to head back home. Home the place that I shared with

A muscle twitched in Jake’s jaw as he reread the telegram and eased back into his leather chair. He glanced at the array of books in the study, wondering where the time had gone. For the past three years, he’d devoted his energy and resources to running the ranch, never once taking a book from its shelf.

Haleigh Blaitman trudged through the snow-covered streets of New York, pulling her coat closer as the wind pushed and pulled against her body. She had just gotten off a particularly long shift at work and now had the strenuous task of walking home to complete. Winter had come fast and harsh this year; only yesterday had the cold come, but already the streets had a cover of pristine, white snow. Haleigh began to shiver and almost gave a cry of joy when she caught sight of her dingy apartment in the distance. That was when she heard the whimper; it was coming from the alley to the left. Who in their right of mind would be out in this storm? she thought to herself. Haleigh gave a glance back to her apartment before sighing resignedly

As you are walking down the sidewalk in Cleveland you feel something cold hit your left ear. You look over and realize that it was only one of the many snowflakes that have begun falling from the inky blue sky. The cold chill causes you to shudder as you continue on your path down the slushy street. As cars pass, the grey mixture splashes onto your shoes. Surveying the damage the slush has done to your new sneakers, you accidentally wander off the well lit sidewalk and into a dark alleyway.

Cutting through the empty, snow covered streets resembling a shark’s fin through water; reflections from street lights and the slick, wet road bounced off the midnight black car. Dark tinted windows hid the identity of the occupant to passersby, blending with the exterior to provide a picture of a sleek dark bullet speeding by. Dahlia longed to open the car up to hear the engine roar and echo off the building fronts, but reined in the temptation. Listening to the dirty, deep sound of her finely tuned engine always gave her a powerful feeling of satisfaction. Sadly with the snow storm that had blew in, best to keep it at a low purr, disappointedly musing to herself.