Monologue Of Maurice Stanley

Improved Essays
They found Maurice Stanley’s decomposing body at the factory grounds. He’d been lynched, the media concluded. He must have deserved it, they whispered under their breaths, or said much louder. After all, a people as wretched as his kind did deserve no better fate…. but did they, really? Was their existence really so cursed, so pathetic, that mercy should skip them? That justice itself should forsake them? Or rather, did they have the curse thrust upon them? Like a leash of heavy brass that would never yield, Maurice Stanley found himself afflicted with this curse, and it cost him his life. At the crime scene, all the press seemed to care about was his brown skin. That seemed to bring all the commotion they needed. But isn’t it strange that nobody seemed to notice that his blood was red?
As the funeral progressed, it was the somber drone of an organ that filled the air with melancholy, and it was the candles that wept with the same grief that Dolores Powell felt. Why did he have to die? God, my Lord, I am much older. I am ready. Why should you not have taken me instead? He was just a babe, she thought. My babe. And as the agonized mother
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Some knew her as the most notorious flapper in New Orleans. Some revered her cutting style and worshipped her beauty. But to some others, she was known as a woman with loose morals, a dame of decadence. She was that kind of woman whom Victorian housewives would desperately try to keep their little girls from becoming. And she relished it. She relished her controversy, her divisiveness. She reveled in the drama that she caused. The press ate up every studded step she took and she loved it. No doubt about it, she was a provocative figure and people had all sorts of opinions about her. Some thought of her as passion epitomized, while some saw her as a victim of jazz and liquor. But in reality, she was both in a way- Rosemary Burnett was a victim of her

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