Murder Narrative

JG: I wanted to leave my wife, because I felt that she did not love me anymore. When I was in basement she came and did not want me to leave. She then took the children and left with them.

Your Honor, at this time I am urged to ask you why you are crying for these two men. Let us not forget the afternoon of May 21. After six months of planning the perfect crime, Mr. Leopold and Mr. Lobe coaxed the young Bobby Franks into their car while he was walking home from school. Once Bobby had been lured into the vehicle, Loeb bludgeoned the poor child over the head multiple times with a chisel. After finding that unsuccessful Loeb dragged Bobby into the back seat and forced a sock down his throat and waited for him to finally suffocate. After the murder, the two men drove the body to Wolf Lake where they poured hydrochloric acid over Bobby's face, abdomen, and genitals. Once they mutilated and dismembered the body, they discarded Bobbys remains in a drain, and then they drove home to write a ransom note and spend the evening playing a leisurely game of cards. And why? Why would these two scholars do something so sinister? Because they were bored. Because they wanted a rush. Because they could. Your Honor, do you still sympathize with these two murders?

When I would see the attack I would fill with fear and adrenaline. I would act completely different and try to call the police. I can imagine that when I was watching I would get very nervous and energetic I might even have to enter the phone number for the police an couple of times because I entered it wrong. I would try to see what was truly going on before I tried to intervene. I would see if she was really getting attacked. Then I would wait in till after the man left, I would go outside and try to see if I could help. I have training in first aid. I would try to cover up the wound and stop the bleeding. But I would panic as soon as the man came back to finish his work. I might throw myself at him or I could run away, but I know that I would try to do something without really thinking it through. The adrenaline would make me act quicker but not think a much as what I am going to do. It is hard for me to figure out what I would do because I have never felt anything like this before.

On Thursday March 10, 2016 at 1310 hours a call came from dispatch about a possible murder. I arrived at 210 Downey Way, at 1327 hours. Mr. Henry Winkler, who was the next door neighbor, was standing outside of the victim’s house. Officer Twumasi and I approach Mr. Winkler, who advised that he was the person who reported the call. He said, that while he was eating jello that he heard a loud boom coming from Ms. Nelson’s house about 15 minutes before he made the call. Mr. Winkler said he was scared and when he looked out of his window he saw Jim, the victim’s boyfriend leaving the victim’s house in a blue Ford Escort, 1999 model, four doors with Harley Davidson sticker on the back window. While gathering information from Mr. Winkler I learned

Seven years old is too young to understand the destructive murderer that goes by the name of cancer. Eight years old is too young to understand that the dad that used to put my hair in pigtails and taught me how to tie my shoes is now dead because of cancer. Between doctor visits, hand sanitizer, shaved heads, hospital stays and a funeral; I learned what it really meant when my Mom said my Dad was sick.

Marissa hopped on the train with her book in hand. She took a seat and started to relax. Opening her book to the next page, the milieu was getting interesting with each and every word. She looked around before she began to read. Being a librarian and a mystery buff, she enjoyed really anything and everything related to mysteries, this was the one way she could regale herself. Growing up, she was an only child and found ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’ in the books that she read. As Marissa flipped to page 128, a scream pierced the air.

It’s leafy and green This murder machine Hundreds of bills Sit and gleam I ran my hand over Their soft paper backs And I push them together Into neat little stacks I count the amount

Through advancements in technology over the years, a new form of television surrounded by the idea of “narrative complexity “ arose (Mittell 31). In Jason Mittell’s book, Complex TV: The Poetics of Contemporary Television Storytelling, he argues that narratively complex programs allows viewers to participate actively by underlining the conventional traditions of storytelling, but also integrating inventive and long-term strategies to attract viewers and create a fan base. This idea of “narrative complexity” stems from the balance between both television’s traditional episodic form and serial form. ABC’s breakout television show, How to Get Away with Murder, is an example of a program that implements devices such as nonlinear storytelling and seasonal arcs in order to develop a complex narrative that fosters engagement in audiences and comments on contemporary TV viewing.

Murder isn’t justified if someone does it out of “selfish” emotions or needs, or out of hate. However, murder can be justified if it’s needed to survive.

It was a gloomy winter day in the town of Ledely. I woke up and slowly spooned bland cornflakes into my mouth as I tuned the t.v. to the morning news. “Up next, highly wanted James Orlando is still on the run after 3 weeks of searching. Police say they witnessed what they called “an apparent attempt” to murder an innocent victim. Find out more, after the short break” I looked at my watch and realized i was late for work. I cursed under my breath and headed out to my office, saying bye to my fiancee as i rushed out the door.

The concept I immediately thought of was, learning about murderers. I know it's strange but I do enjoy it. I'm not one hundred percent sure why I like learning about them so much, I mean they have killed people, I don't know if it's especially healthy to want to learn about them. But I think I like learning about them because it's something along the lines of if I learn about them, then i’ll know their weaknesses, and they will not be able to hurt me. I mean, if you know more about them, then they know about themselves, you can outsmart them. It also interests me to know that if they are in prison, and they escape, I may be able to help find them, because I know so much about them. Also if I know how they killed their victim, I will not be

it had felt like the embodiment of stormy-grey, all raging tornados and furious turbulence within me, and it had felt like something had swollen up in my ribs, grazing at my organs till i was bleeding with crimson self-hatred on the inside. my lungs had felt knotted and fractured, somehow, as though there had been a brick tied to them dragging them down into the very pit of my stomach; and there had been a lump in the back of my throat, growing bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger till i'd been choking with it, unable to inhale, unable to

"I hope so... It may only be a matter of time before whoever it is strikes again," Audrey stated, and she seemed a little shaken by that.

I like that you have seen the show in its entirety because your perspective was more knowledgable of the event and circumstances then mine own. I think it's interesting that this particular serial killer is never mentioned in the show because with this knowledge it makes the transmedia assessment slightly easier for me. I think it falls under chewy and east coast especially since the ARG to my knowledge was deactivated before the premier of the show. Either way, as you suggest, I think it wouldn't have been as big of a success without the notoriety of the show.

One moment; that’s all it takes. A single moment that leaves you breathless almost as if time has stopped in its tracks. These moments don’t come around all the time but when they do; it’s life-changing. Cold. Dark. Abandoned. It was a cool November night in Goldsboro, NC. The seasons still transitioning from the hot and humid summer to the brisk autumn weather. Leaves scattered on the street in bright reds, oranges, and yellows. The smell of whiskey filled the air. The only sound you could hear was the agonizing screaming coming from the little brick house at the end of the street. At the time I was barely one, a young child new to the world. With no choice I lay there in the corner of the room. Tears rolled down my face one by one like the single raindrops before a storm. The screaming became louder as my parents stormed closer to the mesh playpen. “You did it again! How could you do this? Not just to me but to your daughter too!” my mom shouted. Her voice cracked as she was barely able to speak. It was like someone had their hand covering her mouth allowing her only to speak when they released their hand for a brief moment. My mom's cold hands slipped under my arms as she picked me up from the playpen. Tears filled her dark brown eyes as the screaming ceased; suddenly then all at once. She tightened her grip around me as we watched him walk out the front door leaving only memories and broken promises behind. We waited days for the return of the man we thought