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The Heartless Murderer.

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The Heartless Murderer Just another night. One more padlocked out-house. Yet another forbidden shed. What do all these people have to hide, you consider anxiously. What could they possibly want to keep from the outside? Perhaps it's all a set up. Could it be...? No, it's impossible. All of these respectable owners of 1930's semi-detached houses couldn't in some way be embroiled in a government surveillance scheme, but now that you begin to consider it, it all slots into place satisfyingly, like a huge jigsaw that it has taken many painstaking evenings to finish. You recall all those information-ridden glances you noticed in the street when supposed strangers looked uneasily away from each other with that unmissable guilt in their eyes. And if ever the pain of knowing they were all talking about you broke your back and you shrieked out in agony all but the undiscovered few would brush you off, allowing you all the dignity of a disgusting insect. Everyone in the world seemed to have their own agenda, while you were left out in the cold, trailing behind with a tragic resemblance to a lost puppy out in the snow. ...read more.


Inside, your heart is beating with the tautness of a timpani drum, and you realise that you may be near to discovering what all the occupants of Great Elm Street have to prevent you from finding out. Why is it that this always happens to you? No one else seems to struggle with these impossible feelings that ripple through your body every week, every day, in all hours, at the start and end of each minute God provides for you to suffer in, and without a single second passing by. Stealing? Is that what the unshaven dirty animals living, you are sure, in the station around the corner call it? As if you would ever be normal enough to commit such a sane act. It makes you laugh. Ha, Ha, Ha. Your life was stolen from you by a masked force longer ago than you care to remember. Still, you have a job to do. What is it you are doing here in this forbidden tomb? ...read more.


Some of my sentences seem overly long, but this appears to be a consequence of my effort to describe as explicitly as possible the character's emotions. My 'thief' digresses and starts talking about something else, which shows his erratic state of mind. Carol Ann Duffy wrote the poem Stealing at about the time when Margaret Thatcher was in power, as if the sort of society she had created was one where people nicked snowmen. The character feels 'murdered' by society - the 'masked force'. In the third stanza of Stealing, the thief appears to glamourise the act he is committing, as if he was in one of Alfred Hitchcock's films. I hope that I have written my piece in a way that could be adapted for a dramatic monologue. Finally, Duffy herself believes that to write a poem is an act of honesty/truthfulness, and I think my thief is baring his soul to the world, and being truthful, which is quite important as he may not usually find this easy to do due to his insecurities and paranoia. Becky Doorbar 10H1 ...read more.

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