The Factory Monologue

I kept writing. It was hard, but I could get everything off of my chest. I could explain to people what had happened to me. I could tell my English teacher. It was a little hard, but I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. Greasers didn’t cry.

Thornton Wilder, a Wisconsin native, is the writer of the Pulitzer Prize winner play Our Town. In Our Town, Wilder tells the story of a town in Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire, and the daily lives of the inhabitants. In the play, the author uses minimal props and scenery as well as including a main character known as the Stage Manager that has the ability to break the fourth wall, allowing him to talk to the audience. This factor of talking to the audience is a major component of making the public a part of the town. Throughout the play, there are many instances in which the Stage Manager uses various cues as well as dialogues to incorporate the audience and develop an intimate relationship to create a true sense of “our town”.

At least it seemed that way at the time. As we climbed down that endless stairway, we left all that unearthly heat and odor behind. It got cooler and darker, and also more silent as they city noses faded away. At the same time, we began to become aware, with an excitement worthy of the explorers whose names I invoked at the start of this journey, that the strange territory we had discovered was inhabited. There were houses down here, streets, a ballfield. From the heights of the stairs it all looked very small and idealized: doll houses, toy streets, a baseball diamond of green cellophane and modeling clay. We could even see some tiny figures we were eventually able to identify as the native children, children not too different, perhaps from

The next day Lennie and I enter a bunkhouse room with whitewashed walls and unpainted floor. There were about eight bunks, some have blankets some don’t, over each bunk there were these apple box that were made to put in our own personal belongings. There was also little regular daily life’s supplies in the room, including razors, magazines, medicines and all kind of stuff loaded in the shelve, there were even a big table for playing cards. As the old man address Lennie and I into this new work place, he give us instruction to where we will be resting tonight, he told us that the boss was expecting us last night and will be furious if find us there this morning, I walk over the bed and suddenly I see a yellow can on the ground, now I wonder what kind of disgusting bed is he giving us?

Hi, my name is Finn Pherb, don't laugh. I was run over by a truck while trying to save a child. So, after passing out from the pain, I woke up in a pink room? Shouldn't I be in a white room. "Usually you would be but I thought it looked boring so I changed it to pink. What do you think?" a cute, almost childish, voice asked. Nice I guess if you're a 8-year-old...Wait who said that?

My name is Mayella Ewell. I belong to the lowest of the low amongst the whites in Maycomb. I grew up in a poor family and never received any proper education. The only I have is probably being white. My dad and I want to have a better life, but dad doesn’t want to put any effort into doing so. My mom died when I was young and I became a surrogate wife for my dad. I wish I could have gone to school, but I have to take care of my children. My dad loves to go out and drink for the whole day. When he comes home, he often drunk and this is when he would rape me.

Jamal woke up in a dark, dirty, damp place. He was in a room with another unconscious or perhaps sleeping man. Suddenly a light turned on and two men in suits stood the entrance of the room. One pointed at Jamal and said, “The kingpin wishes to see you.” They left the room and Jamal followed. They entered a hallway filled with similar rooms, not a trace of sunlight in the whole building. Then they entered a massive room with hundreds of miserable people doing slave like work. They were manufacturing illegal narcotics and it appeared to be against their will. He kept following the two suited men until they reached a massive, decorated door which they opened. In the room was a throne made of dollar bills and a tall, muscular man rested upon it.

I could smell English Leather shaving lotion and stale tobacco, and I wondered foolishly if I would suffocate before they did anything.

The rain had just stopped pouring, and we had all gathered in a park nearby, as a makeshift memorial for Johnny. It wasn’t really a funeral, we didn’t have the budget for that, and it wasn’t like his parents cared enough to give him a proper goodbye.

I shivered and looked at the gun, and then threw it away from myself, back up on the bank, near the pile of ashes. Eyes filled with dread, I sank to my knees and covered my face with my hands. The wind whipped back and forth but all I could do was stare at the person who once was my friend. Slim’s voice shouted. “George. Where you at George?”

They've been drinking. What started as a few sips of mulled wine with their winter solstice celebration had quickly became a few glasses once Master Hawkeye went upstairs to be alone with his memories. They laugh, cheeks rosey and tongues heavy. He can’t imagine he could be sitting any closer to her, and with every chuckle and belly shaking laugh, their shoulders brush against each other. They're under a thick afghan, thighs pressed against each other from knee to hip, feet dangling off the couch and tangling up every so often.

Then they went away for the weekend, mom and dad, and things got bad, real bad. I thought things were bad before, but that weekend was hell. My parents arrived home to flashing blue and red lights and me crying on the doorstep; all cuts and bruises and torn clothes and him being bundled into the back of a police car.

I was a productive woman, and I wanted people to see it in me. I wanted them to see it in the way I walked. I wanted them to see it in the way I talked. I wanted them to see it in the way I worked late every night to make my patients, and the world, a healthier, better place. Most importantly, though, my productivity was expressed in the way that I raised my boy. I wanted Eugene to be as perfect as I was, and I worked my hardest to keep all distractions from him. Still, he always managed to slide his face into the pages of his books every chance he got. I didn’t see the point in it. He had the top marks out of everyone in his class, so what was the point in reading books that didn’t improve his grades? I didn’t

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” I say as I run the blade ‘down the road’ on my wrist. I cried softly, hoping no one can hear me. I don’t want to be in this world anymore. How can I live in the world when everyone hates me? My parents abused me all the time before they died. I guess it’s now taking an effect on me. My friends all stabbed my back a thousand times. I Wish I didn’t tell them my secrets. They just went and told everyone else and now I’m known as the town slut. Even my boyfriend hates me. Or should I say ex-boyfriend. He proved it today. (Flashback) I was walking to class. I saw two people kissing next to the lockers and thought “I wish my boyfriend and I were like that.” As I got closer, it was my boyfriend with another girl. How could he? He said he loved me. We all lie at one point in our lives. Am I right? He

So loathsome, that even the subtle rise and fall of my chest would set you off