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After a really long day, a man is sitting at his dining room table slogging away at a stack of essays, alone.  Minutes before, he read a story for the 200th time to his child and then tucked him into bed.  Relaxing on the couch, the man’s wife embraces her sole control of the remote and then puts on some home decorating show on the TV.
The man takes a deep breath and then he reads the first sentence, “I think Curley’s Wife is most responsible for her death for many reasons.”

Uh oh.

“On page 72, Curley’s Wife isn’t happy when she says . . .”

The man takes the paper and flings it across the room while letting out a loud scream.

1.    What made the hero so angry?
	The poor writing skills of the essay drive the man to an unquenchable rage.
2.   Using narrative elements we went over in class, continue the story.

The man’s left eye was twitching. The fury of reading such awful writing made him question his existence on this ephemeral plane of time. His anger seeped down into his trembling fingers. Being an english professor who dedicated his entire life to his field of expertise, seeing such degenerate filth pushed him to the brink of his morality, and seeing it from his son pushed him further. 
	The wife was a mindless sitting duck, consuming the superfluous stream of information from the television, getting mind hits of dopamine here and there. After  a long day of work, she knew no better than to sit and bask for the few moments she had to relax. Suddenly, her boring slice of Eden was disturbed by a loud crash in the kitchen. Eyes wide open she rushed to the kitchen to see the situation.
	“Honey, what’s wrong?”
	“WHY ARE WE HERE?”, screamed the man, his voice tearing into shreds. “JUST TO SUFFER?”
	“Sweetheart, you’re not making sense, calm down, speak slowly!”
	The man continued with a blood boiling scream. His wife just noticed the flipped table, and smashed glass. His computer was now fractions of plastic and silicon strewn across the room. His students paper enveloped the floor like a morbid snow of office supplies. The mans left nostril was guzzling blood, and his fingers looked like blood tipped arrows from clawing at his face. 
	“Sweety, what the hell is going on, are you alright?” his wife frantically demanded, hoping that this nightmare would soon come to a close. With a primordial screech that echoed through her bones, the man body slammed his wife, concussing her to the edge of consciousness. 
	Thundering into the kitchen, emptied every drawer, turning them inside out, causing cascades of silverware. He searched until he found his grandfather’s cleaver. He marched up the stairs, but not before he went to retrieve the crumpled paper, now soaked in blood. 
	He entered his son’s room. 
	“YOU…. YOU UNGRATEFUL SWINE… AFTER ALL THESE YEARS OF MY GUARDIANSHIP… YOU WROTE THIS PIECE OF CRAP?” exclaimed the man, screaming.
	“Daddy, w-w-what are you talking about?”
	“I TAUGHT YOU EVERYTHING THAT I COULD… YOU WERE GOING TO BE THE GREATEST WRITER IN HISTORY, AND INSTEAD YOU CHOSE TO PLAY FORTNITE LIKE THE DEGENERATE MISTAKE OF A CHILD YOU ARE! YOU ARE NO SON OF MINE!”
	“D-d-dad, b-b-but..” said the child, but it was detrimental to his survival. His attempt at an excuse detonated the bomb in his father’s head. Going full nuclear like  a charging bull, the lunatic charged at his son with a cleaver, screaming the screams of a thousand dying men.
	He pounced on his sons bed, raised the cleaver and lowered it. Blood splattered all over his vision. The screaming continued, and in fact got louder, until it stopped. His eyes open, and this hellish nightmare was just a dream in the blink of an eye.

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