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.