Since I sometimes mock the ludicrous fluff that my students use to meet the required 2/3/6/8/etc. pages in their papers, I've decided that in the interests of fairness and balance, I should give credit where credit is due. I collected narrative essays from Advanced Comp. last week, and there's some legitimately good stuff in this pile on my desk. So without further ado, context-free excerpts from Advanced Comp. narrative essays:
At the moment, I am unable to eat anything that requires the use of a spoon.
What George does know is that he currently has a general hatred toward the world and a fiery, passionate, "I hope you burn in hell" hatred toward three specific things: The Rotund One, Journey, and The Secret Weapon. George also knows that he has one more lap to go in the mile.
It was too late now because before we knew it the Rotary members were all dead.
Now here I am, looking out at my kids as they push me, shake me, try everything to wake me up. But they can't, and they won't. It's too late. I'm gone.
Mark and Hailey were stumbling to their car at dawn after one too many Amaretto Sours.
In my dream, my body magically appears thirty pounds lighter and there is no need to be anorexic anymore.
Manic Depressant lies on the ground, nowhere to sleep, and no one around.
Dinner was quiet and tasteless.
Whether I'm sitting on the bus or riding home with my own mother, there is someone glaring at me with that put-those-damn-things-outside look.
She assured me that she would be fine for the night, and I drove home with her makeup stains still prominent on my white shirt.
She told us to go back outside and play some soccer, which meant she was going to yell at dad.
Anna's tranquil apartment turned into a jungle of clothes, infomercial merchandise, and bonsais.
One step to kill the heartache, another to break the ties, and the headlights glistened vibrantly as the bullet whisked her off her feet.
He knew the Mexican mafia wouldn't be too happy to find out that their "mob prince" was a rat.
Paul introduced her to his revolutionary new diet that consisted of eating nothing but circus peanuts and drinking grape soda.
Flashbacks. Scenes of me stumbling out of the bar, grasping his hand. Numbness. The shape of his body hovering over mine--no love, no passion, no guilt.
Vandalism, theft, arson, and even murder were everyday occurrences among these beasts.
At lunch I eat alone. My existence isn't even acknowledged by the lunch ladies.
The disgust in her voice when he asked was enough to know that she didn't need him as much as he needed her.
I am a criminal, an alcoholic, a murderer...I am nobody. My father would be ashamed if he saw me now.
She feels the urge to put the bottle to her lips and taste her bitter defeat.
Pretty good, eh? Later gators.
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