The Great Gatsby Journal Entry

“Not bad,” replied Gabby, who had thrown her bag up on the counter and was trying to fish out a lighter, “just got off!” Both of her stockings had a run in them and flicks of discarded food stuck to the sides of her tennis shoes. Her dress was black and sparkling. Vernon could tell she worked at another diner the moment she got out of the cab. The waitress flipped over an empty cup and poured out what was leftover of the coffee. Gabby had lite her cigarette, inhaled a drag, took a sip, and exhaled out a thick cloud of smoke in one single breath. “Ended up pulling a double?” The swirls in the smoke seemed to actuate Gaby's words. “Don’t remind me!” replied the waitress, who had removed one of her flats and was rubbing her heel, “I’ve been on and off my feet since 9:30 this morning.” Gabby looked towards the front of the diner at the back of Vernon’s head and then back at the waitress. “Rough night?” “Nope,” replied the waitress, “he’s been coming in here late for the last month or so, keeps to himself.” They both could see that Vernon was moving his hands while he was talking to himself. “We still on for tonight,” asked Gabby. “Maybe,” said the waitress, “as long we can get a table.” The band aids on the back of her heels needed to be replaced with new ones. Gabby

Flicked, short motion of his thumb against his forefinger, that piece of filth she had missed from the table, uncaring as to which surface it was to sail to next- dispassionate gaze barely lifting from the table top long enough to assure that she had observed him doing so. Correcting that which she had been asked to do, to fix. Personal objects, dirt, and all manner of other he didn't want to examine too closely littering the surfaces of this apartment that he had followed her back to- serpentine gestures and back alleyway paths as if she could shake off whatever shadow it was she felt no doubt trickling down the edge of her spine. Was a creature bathed in deception and suspicion, shouldn't have at all been surprised that it was such

The inn keeper's parlor was the best in town, they told her. His wife was wearing a heavy dress, adorned with lace and a massive broach that she raised a plump hand to touch, as if to be certain it was still there. They spoke of the massive rug, bought from Paris, and the finely crafted furniture they all sat upon. The preacher listened quietly, smiling as though their vanity wasn't a sin, while Mrs. Hartford eyed the dress with longing. Della thought that the dress was tasteless. The lace was poorly made, and the line of the bodice wasn't flattering. The fabric was an odd shade between blue and green, and the woman inside it was far less appealing. She didn't bother to mention that her own parlor had been filled with crystal, and priceless art her father had collected around the world. She didn't mention that her toys had cost more than Mrs. Johnson's gowns, or that she was mispronouncing the tea they'd been served. Not to be kind, not to be deceptive, but because did not matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. She'd given up that life to marry Ben, given up her family, given up her home and her gowns and her education.

Clearing my throat the best I could, I said, “Unusual. Very odd flavor.” What else could I say? It tasted like a brew of copper pennies and burnt coffee. With the metallic after-flavor still lingering, my mouth and throat were set aflame.

Wright’s kitchen was very filthy as described in the 1st paragraph lines (3-4)’’but what her eyes took in was that her kitchen was in no shape for leaving: her bread all ready for mixing, half the flour sifted and half unsifted. Furthermore, the story described Mrs. Minnie kitchen as a dish towel left in the middle of the kitchen table, one half of the table was wiped clean, and the other side was messy etc. However, when the police showed up to investigate Mrs. Maloney’s home in “Lamb to the ‘’Slaughter,” her home was described as very spotless and well organized because she knew that investigators were coming to investigate her home, so she took it upon herself to prepare the house, and prepare them a nice dinner which was the frozen lamb that she killed her husband

The door was devilishly simple, but I knew the kind of security that I would actually be dealing with. For instance, I knew I couldn’t even touch the door without

I decided to go out to lunch today at the Forty-second Street cellar and was surprised when I saw Nick Carraway, my cousin in law, approaching me. Daisy has been angry at Nick for not calling her up and it has been bugging me that she keeps bringing it up so wanted to know what was up with him. The conversation subsided when Nick introduced me to his friend Gatsby. For some reason, the man looked sick and very pale when he saw my face. I ignored his appearance and went on with our conversation, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Gatsby sprint out of the restaurant. I bet he was just too embarrassed that he became the third wheel for Nick wanted to talk to me instead of him.

Knee's scrabbling in the dirt, and chest heaving, Oxenham tasted the bitter taste of alchol from the previous night's soiree mingled with the bile rising in his throat as he reacted to the sight of the mangled woman, and cursed himself for initiating this morning excursion. Why had he agreed to come here, what had he expected? In the back of his remained the reasons he'd explained to his lover, but right at this moment, they appeared ridiculous and insignificant; his ego talking. Yes let's go visit a dead body, it'll be fun, and a way to prove myself, not just to my employer, but also to my lover.

she drafted his plan and set out, doing all the research she could. Coworkers were much more willing to open up about him than she had thought, though she theorized it could be due to the terrible wages they were working for. In a little less than a month, the plan was set and everything was in place. The night the plan was set to take place, Harrison, Daphne and Krysten, workers at Mr. Moores restaurant told him they were staying late to clean up. The next morning, Mr. Moore opened his shop and to his horror, he saw all his ingredients, his supplies and his workers were gone. Down the street he heard a commotion, sprinting out of his store he saw it. “All Artificial Lemon Cake”, a sign with his restaurant’s name on it coming down the street carried by his own employees. The bane of his existence, or whom he thought it to be for that moment, Ash, stood in front of a shop a little ways away from his own and spoke of the many, many, (many, many, many) years of deceit and lies. The sun shone on her as if heavens themselves were seconding her cries for action. She held up the fake lemon flavoring, the sugar substitutes and he just watched as everyone listened to his workers corroborate his story. That was it, he was ruined, no one would ever buy something from him again. He fell against the closed door of his store, sliding down it while making a long, dispirited, monotone noise, not stopping until his entire body was laying on the ground. One of the members of the crowd pointed to Mr.

Perhaps she had already passed out by the time he stood up, or perhaps she came in after he left, through a second doorway, from the living room. He said that he went down the corridor and tried to reach the children’s bedroom. In the hallway, he said, “you couldn’t see nothing but black.” The air smelled the way it had when their microwave had blown up, three weeks earlier—like “wire and stuff like that.” He could hear sockets and light switches popping, and he crouched down, almost crawling. When he made it to the children’s bedroom, he said, he stood and his hair caught on fire. “Oh God, I never felt anything that hot before,” he said of the heat radiating out of the room.

Moving about the room, she stopped here and there, fingering objects that caught her attention. The room was formal and pretentious and she wasn’t a fan. She missed her tents filled with carpets and furs and cushions, hand carved toys littering the floors and her bed tucked behind brightly colored sheer fabric. She had just thrown another log on the fire when a tall man let himself into the room closing the door loudly behind him.

It is so puzzling. It keeps me quiet by the hour” (752). She is confined to her room and the garden, fearing to upset the lifestyle she is forced to carry out by Jennie and John. Yet by night, she transforms into a frantic woman, spending all of her energy watching the moonlight change the wallpaper. When it is dark she begins to see her own prison: “At night in any kind of light, in twilight, candle light, lamplight, and worst of all by moonlight, it [the wallpaper] becomes bars! The outside pattern I mean, and the woman behind it is as plain as can be” (752).

The old German bratwurst vender’s stale sauerkraut, the bachelorette party-girl pissing behind a dumpster, the thick accent of the transplanted taxi driver, the clopping of the male stripper’s cowboy boots down the front steps of the apartment. The night and all of its sounds and smells swirled up the apartment building and pushed against the soles of Marty’s shoes. He let the wind move his feet for him. Due to the sharp angle of the retaining wall and the weight of his legs, Marty’s circulation had stopped at his knees, and instead pooled in the overweight depths of his haunches. He took no notice as his feet moved past the point of pins-and-needles, or how the numbness slowly crept up his

When walking inside, his eyes adjusted to the beach house, dimly lit compared to the beating sun outside. The first figure he could make out was the one he’d been expecting. Sitting on a bar stool, while leaning on the table was Amethyst, her mouth coated in white dust. “Hey there, curly hair!” Out of her mouth came sugar that had not quite dissolved in her saturated mouth. “What's goin’ on?”

It was a Saturday, early morning. She was enjoying a little well-earned down time. She had the TV and most of the house to herself, reheated pizza slices on a plate, and a glass of Orange Juice in hand: “The Perfect Saturday Trinity”. After the previous night’s arduous double patrol shift in addition to extra maintenance, she was entitled to every decadent, slothful minute of it.