Narrative/Memior

     From what I can tell, narrative stories or works are usually told from a first or third-person view. The stories, fiction or not, usually tell of very specific memories or experiences that the author experienced or imagined experiencing. Narratives must be extremely specific in order to be written well, and all details that had an affect of the situation must be stated. Since narratives are usually told from a first-person view, they must show how the narrator thought or felt. It's necessary for them to convey emotion, list all thought that went through their head, and be truthful in everything that happened; details cannot be changed.
     In the best examples on the page that was listed, ''http://en.wikibooks.org/wiki/Basic_Writing/Narrative_and_memoir#Narrative_and_Memoir'', all of the works that displayed excellent writing and sounded the best also had great detail. The authors made it feel as if you were the narrator, they relate to the reader and make them see themselves. This reason is exactly why it's necessary to add emotion to the stories.
     I'm not at all sure what my narrative will be a story about, but I'm sure I'll have no problem recollecting a random memory from the back of my brain and re-telling it.

2nd Polished Piece

         “I don’t always drink this much you know,” said the strange man on the stool next to me, “normally I keep to myself, trying to avoid these, eh…creatures.”

            “Creatures?” I curiously asked, “Maybe you should head home buddy; get some rest.” I couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or his strange personality talking.

            “Yeah, all you hum… people runnin’ around, making problems for me, giving me more work to do,” he grumbled at me through jagged, barred teeth.

            “Sorry? I don’t quite catch your meaning. What do you do?” I questioned politely.

            “Nothing you’d know ‘bout, I’m not from around here…Hey bartender, another shot over here.” He demanded. The bartender cautiously drained the last of the bottle into the small glass, while obviously hiding from the cold, lifeless stare that the man gave everybody.

            “Who’re you working for? I may know ‘em, it’s a pretty small town. Where are you from anyways?” Seemingly annoyed by questioning, he went on mumbling about things that I couldn’t understand, in a language that I didn’t know. His head tilted back slightly as he looked at the yellow, water-stained ceiling. I didn’t hear another word from him after that; the last I heard from him was the loud ‘Crack!’ of his head on the floor that followed the toppling of his stool. Nobody moved. We couldn’t. Somebody had frozen the clock above our heads, prevented the taking of breaths, blinking, and thoughts of what to do next. A hundred years passed by in a second; some cruel joke being played by an unknown force. Then, just as if the clock began moving double it’s previous speed, everything moved. There was cause to be panicked, but not enough for this chaos. A woman screamed; tables flew different directions as everyone ran to escape. I didn’t understand at first, why wasn’t anybody helping him? Then I saw it: the luminescent puddle of green blood streaming in all directions. It moved around at first, but then began to sink into the grimy, worn-down tiles as they melted away beneath it.

            I contemplated going to him, to maybe check his pulse and resuscitate him if possible, but the smoking and bubbling floor made me decide against it. The liquid sizzled every time it made contact with any object.

            It happened slowly at first, but then the man began to deteriorate quickly in the acid. His skin and muscles dripped from his body like butter and his bones disintegrated to nothing. Within a few moments, there was nobody left in the room except the acidic, green slime and me. The alien corpse was gone.

           

3-min. fiction

http://www.npr.org/2011/10/08/141172528/turnover

      One of the articles I read, titled "Turnover", by Margaret Friedman, caught my attention pretty well. I liked how realistic the main character seemed; acting just like a small boy. One part that specifically caught my attention was when the boy yelled, "Shut up and die!". This is something that most people would agree sounds just like a young child. Another part that caught my attention was how they portrayed the boy not understanding things well, which is also very realistic.

 http://www.npr.org/2011/11/04/142022710/rule-of-hospitality

      Another article I read was called "Rule of Hospitality", by Megan Branning. In this story I really liked how they insinuated everything about the boy, instead of actually saying anything directly. They show that he doesn't have a mother, that he acts and dresses very similarly to his father, and that he's very nice and friendly. Another thing that I really liked was the attention to detail that the author used, mentioning everything from how they watched an animated movie, to how the boy at the backdoor pulled a crowbar out of his bag.

 http://www.npr.org/2011/10/22/141618074/a-brighter-smile-in-as-little-as-three-days

       The last article I read was titled "A Brighter Smile In As Little As Three Days", by Caryn Tayeh. This story was alright, but it definitely didn't catch my attention as well as the others. It was very cloudy and fast, it didn't explain enough of the story. It portrayed a girl who moved to another city and met another guy, that's about all I caught out of it. It was written well, but the idea of the story wasn't too great. I wouldn't recommend reading this one.

Polished Piece

She was everywhere and nowhere, with no general purpose or direction. She moved on and on and no matter what happened to her or what was said to her, she never stopped. She was rarely taken notice of, and if she was, she disappeared quickly. She went as far and deep in every direction as she was able to, then set a new destination.

Few knew of her, but nobody knew who she was. She didn’t reveal her name and nobody knew if she owned one. She never uttered a word to anyone, not even the single person in this world that had gotten close to her; me. I knew who she was; where she came from.

Memories of Sky rest in various spaces of my mind, stretching all the way into its dark depths. She was like no other person on Earth. I seemed to be pulled to her no matter where I went; maybe she came to me? Everything about her becomes instantly cemented into my memory and stays forever, if I think about it. I remember everything from the shade of her green eyes to the many things that she’s taught me.

The oldest memory I can recall of Sky, but also the most vivid, was the day I turned nine years old. My birthday party was in the monstrously huge yard behind my small, blue, countryside house. There were only family members present because I wasn’t very well liked by most kids my age. The party was nearing an end when I noticed the lonely young woman leaning against the wall of the house, eyes locked on mine, looking through me. Her face didn’t match any other in memory, and no other person I later asked could verify who she was. I proceeded to avoid her completely, not even allowing my eyes to pass over the area around her. She quickly disappeared before I even knew she was gone, but the memory of her remained.

An eternity consisting of 10 years had passed since that day when things started going insane. I was speeding home after a 12-hour shift of mind-numbing work as a dishwasher. My eyelids tried to force themselves closed, it took all my power to keep them open. The road signs flashed by in a blur; the car hummed with the rush of passing air. My mind went between various thoughts with the speed of a snail in slow motion.

Although my mind was foggy, I distinctly remember that nights’ sky being exceptionally clear. That fact made the next event much more confusing to me at the time. First it was in the distance; godly blue spears striking the Earth at incredible speeds. Then I realized that they weren’t so far away.

The lightning grew quickly and the booming of the accompanying drums deafened me. I was in the center of the supernatural storm; I couldn’t see past the flashing wall in any direction. My brakes screeched, but the impact was inevitable. I slammed into the net of electricity and everything went black.

To be continued…

Show, Don't Tell.

It wasn't a very near win, at all. We were both seniors at the only high school in our small town. Jack Harrow was the popular one, the one that everybody wanted to know, while I was just 'that kid'. I guess I knew that I was going to lose from the beginning, but you can't blame me for trying, right? The elections began at the beginning of the school year, and Jack and I were the only applicants. Right away I began to advertise for myself around the school, but it was all in vain. Every time I put up a flyer, it dissapeared. Every time that I hung up a poster, it was vandalized. Every time that I tried to convince people to vote for me, I was ignored. I didn't understand at first, but then I found out that it had been Jack's doing all along. He and all his friends had ruined my efforts and somehow convinced everybody, even my friends, to vote for him. I had worked so hard and done so much to win that election, while he had done nothing. I should have won, he didn't deserve it.