Narrative

Assignment: write a brief narrative in which tragedy is about to happen at any second. If your birthday is between January 1 and June 30, your narrative will be a true story. You may rearrange or invent some of the details if necessary. If your birthday is between July 1-December 31, you are to write a fictional narrative but write it so that it is believable and could actually happen. (No Yoda, no Frodo, etc.)

After writing and revising the above pieces so that suspense is properly conveyed, we read the pieces to each other, trying to guess whether the events truly happened or not. While suspenseful writing is difficult, the hardest thing about this is getting kids not to impulsively yell out their birthdays. Even with warnings, it happens in every class. Then you ask them to choose (BUT NOT SAY ALOUD) the birthday of a sibling or any relative. And no, Ramani, obviously now that you told us your birthday is in January, you shouldn't choose your twin sister.

Here's my own piece:

I could see the whole neighborhood from up there. The Dobermans in Mr. Barton’s yard, the swamp behind the houses at the end of Helberg Lane, the McKellicks’ pool with eight hundred thousand leaves in it.
“Jim, I wanna go up higher,” I said to my tree-climbing companion directly below me.
“I don’t know, Tone. I never went up higher than this before.”
“So? Those branches look strong enough.”
Climbing a tree like this one was so easy. Even if you slipped, there were about seven branches by each limb to grab onto.
“I’m going up higher. I don’t care,” I announced to Jim.
“Well, I’m not, I like it right here,” Jim flatly replied.
I paused. I really wanted to continue climbing but I had a weird feeling about it.
“Hey, Tony. Check out this bug.”
I craned my neck around a cluster of leaves to take a peek. Suddenly, I heard a crackle as a branch gave way under my right foot. Leaves rustled violently. Jimmy yelped.
“Whoa! I’m alright, I’m alright.”
“Be careful! Maybe we should just get down now,” whined Jim.
“Nah.”
“Then stop moving so much,” commanded Jim.
“Well, where’s the bug you were talking about?”
“Right there, by your leg, in the middle of the trunk. What kinda bug is that?”
It was thick and black, perhaps a beetle, but I wasn’t sure.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, whatever it is,” said Jimmy, “It’s toast now.”
Jimmy stuck out his right thumb and was about to squash the bug when a branch below us snapped. Immediately, he grabbed one above him, exhaling loudly.
“That was close!”
“Don’t be such a wimp, dude,” I teased.
But Jim had directed his attention back to the bug, which was now crawling up the trunk towards me.
“Here, little buggy!” called Jim as he thrust his thumb out again. “Say your prayers, buggy, you’re dead meat!”
Forcefully, I stomped upon Jim’s head below, noting his terrified expression as he looked up pleadingly, confused, incredulous. In a flurry of leaves and branches snapping, I watched as Jim plummeted to the ground, smashing his head on the rocks below, whereupon blood began spraying out, staining the forest floor. I cupped my hand around the little black bug.
“Nice buggy. Come here. He won’t hurt you now.”





The kids love their gore.



So do I.