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Mr. Walter Oswald's Life-Personal Narrative

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"Good morning, Mr. Walter Disney." A usually respectful title, it was now a scorn in the words of Charles Mintz as he walked through my office door with a cold smile. "Good morning, Mr. Charles Mintz," I mocked. "Here to criticize again?" "How did you ever know?" He let out a childish snort. "I do remember promising you another raise in the budget; that is, if we ever manage to get any profit," he said as he settled himself down onto the chair across from me. "You know me," I let my sarcasm coat my words, "always one to work hard for those who don't appreciate me." "Do I know it." "If only you could listen to your own advice. The press hears everything, and in turn does the public, Mr. Mintz. If you would only stop bad-mouthing …show more content…

The warmth Oswald had once gave me, just by looking at him, had faded, and I missed the days I could call him a friend. Oswald was now a traitor, even though it was not of his doing. My hand reached for my suitcase, intending to take out my sketchbook. The leather bound book was a comforting thing, the turmoil of anxiety in me calmed as my fingers skimmed across the soft cover. It had been with me through all of this; it still is now. This book was not a traitor, not like Charles, not like Oswald. I flipped to the very last page, the blank paper a light tan, coarse, rough to the touch. My hand reached for the charcoal pencil behind my ear, wanting to draw, to sketch. My art was not a traitor, and it shall never be. It would comfort me now that I need it. My eyes followed the paths of my pencil point carefully, scrutinizing every stroke, every mark. Once I was finished, I held the sketch in front of me, frowning. It was still Oswald, the traitorous but annoyingly innocent rabbit. I furiously scribbled him out, almost ripping the thick …show more content…

The train's wheels gave a loud squeal as the train operators pulled back on the brakes, the station slowly coming into view as the cars stopped slowly. The passengers all stood up one by one, gathering their belongings and lining up to leave. I reached under my seat for my suitcase, stashing my sketchbook inside it and my pencil behind my ear. Mike glanced at me again with a warm smile. "The best of luck to you." I nodded. "Best of luck." We parted ways after we got off the train, and I hailed a cab to bring me to my studios' office building. The setting sun made the shadows a painting, abstract but beautiful, cartoonish. I stood in front of the office building door with dread in my heart, not wanting to deliver such bad news to my brother and whoever was left of my once many employees. The door pushed open easily, unlocked, and I stepped in to see Roy sitting alone in the main room, sketching furiously. His pencil stopped mid stroke when he heard me enter. "The news traveled faster than you did." He looked up at me, his eyes tired and somber. "I'm sorry." "We lost our only character," he said, his voice high pitched and desperate. "We'll have a new one soon enough." I tried to comfort him. "I promise you, everything will be

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