Well i thought this one out as i was on my way to school and couldn't resist writting it down! I tried to think up some better names but i suck at that sort of thing. go easy with me on the grammar i basicly just typed it and posted. Grammar has never been my thing anyway. Oh and yo need to know a little about history for this one too. I hope you like!
Robert Paisley rolled out of his card board bed as the sun illuminated what he and his family now called a home. He stood up and cracked his back in preparation of another long 14 hour day at work. He put on his skull cap and thick leather gloves as he stepped out into a rare sunny day.
It was 1930 January 27, Robert and his family we're in the thick of the Great Depression. He walked out of his shanty house not bothering to eat breakfast. His 5 year old son, Herald, needed the food more than he did. On his hungry walk to the docks he stared at the buildings that the more fortunate called their homes. He reflected on what he had lost only a few short months ago.
He had been a stock holder and a wealthy one at that. He was good with numbers and the guessing game that took place on Wall Street every day. He was well respected in the community. He had made a decent amount of money; enough to buy his wife an expensive fur coat, and provide his son with trumpet lessons when he had expressed the interest to play. They had lived in a moderate suburban home. Every day he would wake up and put a suit on for work. His wife Delilah would lovingly straiten his tie, as he sat down to eat the meal she had prepared. He was very good at eating that was for sure. He no longer had the trim stomach he had, had in his college days. It was replaced with a belly that mostly resembled that of jolly old Saint Nick.
He looked down at his stomach, and could see his feet. He had lost a considerable amount of weight since the stock market crashed, but enough was still there that he appeared a bit chubby. He pulled his skull cap over his ears as the wind picked up and blew freshly fallen snow in his face. He had gained a lot of muscle too, since he had started working at the warehouse.
Every day he went to move box, after box, after box. It was all he ever looked at anymore. Now that he thought about it his life was filled with boxes. His house was made of them, he slept on them, he ate off them. Suddenly an intense hate rose in him for boxes. They were, to him, what represented this new life of misery. Everywhere he turned he was met with another box, it seemed.
He turned the corner and walked into the cavernous warehouse. Everywhere towers of boxes were waiting to be stacked and re-stacked. They seemed to stare down at him and laugh. They laughed at what he had become, what he had lost, how he had failed. That fiery hate rose up in him once again he lashed out at his foes, and delivered a flurry of punches to the tower in front of him. He screamed with rage and frustration.
Why him? He had had a perfect life! And it had been so unfairly taken from him. He finished off his assault with a powerful kick.
The tower of boxes had been poorly arranged and wasn't stable. As he had started to punch and scream the boxes had started to wobble, and with that last kick they went over the edge. An avalanche of crates cascaded down upon him. The crates filled with expensive china exploded as they hit the ground. Robert didn't have time to run. A crate smashed into his head and sent him plummeting to the floor; his skull cracking with the force of the impact. He was buried in a pile of broken shards, splinters, and nails; never to get back up again.
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