How To Write A Narrative Essay On Quicksand

The Harlem Renaissance period in Modernistic American Literature began when Black authors wrote about that with which they were familiar—what it is to be black. Writers such as Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, and Willa Cather proved through their writings that the African-American lives were not only different from that of their white counter-parts, but that the writings were relevant for the historical period and beyond. Another Harlem Renaissance writer who led the way for future black writers was Nella Larsen, author of the story Quicksand.

The night air was heavy with silence. Clouds drifted across a calm sky, and a full moon shone in the distance. In a small hut on the outskirts of the valley, an old man lay in bed, awake in the peaceful slumber of the village. His breaths came in rattling gasps, his forehead burned, and his joints felt stiff with pain. He shifted on the blankets, his withered hands clenched in fists as he tried to suppress the wave of bitter memories coming to him. His life had been nothing more than work, loss, tragedy. He remembered all of his hope, his ambition, in his youth, and he smiled bitterly. No one would remember him as the man that he had once hoped he would become. Now, as his breathing became heavier and he felt himself fading on the brink of

I remember falling asleep, but I don’t remember being in a bed. I had fallen asleep in the hall due to my emotional state. My body didn’t need the sleep. My mind did. I’m actually happy I did. It got my mind off all my problems and sorrows for a good while. I sit up, pushing the unfamiliar blankets off my body. I’m in a strange hard bed in a foreign room. Everything around me feels new and alien. This isn’t my dull little prison. This room is slightly decorated with light brown walls and a dresser covered with random things.

I could feel the breeze skim through my hair as my loose shirt caught the brisk air behind me. This was my sanctuary, the feeling was bliss. I made my way home, bracing myself for the approaching argument I was about to have with my mother. That feeling of pleasure left my body as quickly as it arrived. I stepped into the front door, and closed it behind me as quietly as I could, maybe she wouldn't notice I was late home. But before I could even take the first few steps inside, I heard mum coming from the kitchen,

The hall was surrounded with pictures of Morrie. The room spun, giving me a nauseous feeling. I turned around and flung open the door; I couldn’t bear to be in that room for another second. I went to my dorm and shut the door. I sat in dark emptiness, thinking of everyone who left me in my life: Hoppie, Doc, Nanny, Geel, my mother, and now, Morrie. It was too much to handle. I didn’t move from my spot on the bed for forty-eight hours. I drove myself deeper and deeper into the sadness I felt for the death of my best friend. As I laid there pitying myself I heard a knock on my door. I didn’t get up. The noise grew louder: KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK. Still I didn’t move from my throne of self pity. The door gently opened. A man stepped into my room. The first thing I noticed was his size. He cast a shadow that nearly

I woke up with a busting headache, "Wh-here am I?" I muttered looking around in a dark room. A bright light flashed, "Tate who do you pick?" I heard James speak. Picked!? More people? I looked over and spotted to girls in the cornor sobbing. "Her." I looked to where his finger was pointing. Me!? Tate motioned his finger for me to get up, I rise walking towards him, what's there to fight for anyway? James eyed me the 'you better not try nything stupid' look. Tate lead my limp body towards a room, "Sit." he whispered, I sat right in the floor, "What the hell i'm not bad, come sit on my be." "Ok bitch." "What kind of music do you like?" "Why." "Why not." "Alternative." "Is hollywood undead ok?" "Fucking love that band!" I boomed. Tate

I barely notice the cool hardwood floor on my back as I bask in the early dawn light seeping through the gap in my curtains. As I stare silently at a darker version of my yellow ceiling for what feels like the hundredth time, I strain my ears to hear the voice again. I miss it like a friend; my only friend in this hollow abyss where I’m imprisoned between the tips of my husband’s claws.

A morbid melancholy stole over me. Anxiety gnawed at my heart. I was a living corpse. There was a feeling of chill in the air every day as I felt. I faked illness so as not to go to school. Despair hangs heavy in the stifling air. It was a dreary day for me , cold and without sunshine. I dread people and always avoid people. The door was locked from the inside. A cold grey light crept under the curtains. The windows were secured with locks and bars. The room felt cold and sterile.The flowers faded for want of water. A single lamp was suspended from the ceiling. The clock ticked louder and louder in a quiet room. I regarded the room as a refuge from the outside

Crumpled newspapers scattered the table like the bones of dead bodies after war. Windows wiped down of memories huddled between oak frames, facing a street with cosy cottages. Single embroidered carpets hugged the floor, covering the marble tiles in delicate silk. A whisper of wind floated in through cracks of the panes of glass, whispering it's songs of misery throughout the house. I breathed in gulps of air, allowing the icy coolness to fill my lungs, and the morning frost creep out. My glistening blue eyes presented purple bags, and my sleek hair was a tangled cobweb. My feet dragged along the stone floor like the walking of the undead. I’d been up all night, searching and seeking for answers.

You sit reclined in the cockroach infested darkness on a bed that is not yours, but you find that actually, it is far comfier than the one that you try to sleep on back home. In your own bed, the rusty springs that dig deep into your ribs serve as a welcome reminder of cold reality as your mind swims in the black waters of blissful agony. Here women scream, children scream but best of all the men scream in a high-pitched symphony of beautifully poised terror.

I sat in the common area as the other patients colored and played cards. What they were doing didn’t really matter to me, I just wanted to be alone. I’d always feel like I was drowning, so it came to me as a surprise to me when the nurses told me that if I were breathing, I was winning. At night I’d lay on the blue plastic mattress and miss my room and everything it stood for. The blue lights that are strung along my bed, illuminate my nights. The pictures of the one I love line my walls, they are the barrier that protects me from the rest of the world. The blue plastic mattress draped in thin white sheets stood for the cold empty feeling I couldn’t get rid of. My nights were full of my thoughts bombarding my

……. Lonely is the hunter who, thinking of his prey, leaves his true love’s warm embrace to face the cold winter day. Then, bypassing his greatest foe – a frozen cabin door, he sets out on his endless search, uncertain what he's searching for ……. I remember the first night Lori and I spent in this apartment. Married one week, we moved to Philadelphia, excited about the start of medical school but nervous about living in a big city. On our first night in this apartment, we slept on the wooden floor under a large sleeping bag. When I think back to that night, every sense in my body experiences a Pavlovian response. I can still feel the two of us lying naked together under the sleeping bag, studying the August night through an open window as though we were seeing the moon and stars for the first

Denny O’Callaghan woke to see bloodstains on his pillow, his bedsheets. He closed his eyes, groaned and rolled over. Maybe, he figured, he could fall back asleep. Blot out of his mind what he’d just seen. But the back of his head throbbed. He touched it and felt a bump the size of an egg, and his hair was sticky and matted there. His throat was so dry. He coughed. Blurry memories, specters nearly, from the night before flitted about in his mind’s eye. Vaguely shifting images. Incomplete. He’d been drinking tequila shots with the guys from the firehouse. Yelling. And then—nothing. He hoped if he kept his eyes closed long enough, maybe it would all go away.

The ticking of the clock sounds disturbingly clear tonight, and my blanket does not warm me, washed cold by the moonlight shed through the curtains. Lying in my own bed, instead of the bleached sheets of the hospital, does little to drive away the dreadful thoughts haunting me. So I turn on my nightlight and pull Mary Shelley's 'Frankenstein' from the bookshelf. I need to feel close to someone right now, and as incredible as it sounds, Frankenstein's painful narrative strikes a responsive chord in my heart. It started when I moved from a stuffy little village to gargantuan Shanghai. My classmates mocked my old-fashioned clothes, and every time I apologized in embarrassment for my ignorance, they even laughed at the archaic word that I used. Just when I finally adjusted to city life and a new school, I was hospitalized for a potentially cancerous tumor. I escaped the strong

It has been a long time since hooligans from Fairview stole the trophy and Medicine Lake School's locks have been upgraded by the new Tom Green administration. The old locks have been replaced with expensive and unpickable Abloy cylinders and all glass windows are now alarmed. Nevertheless, despite all the extra security, various items have begun missing from the school for no clear reason. One day, about a third of the computer keyboards are nowhere to be found. The next day, half the clocks are gone. The day after that, someone has taken all the speakers out of the ceiling on the west side. Having a reputation as the guy who got the stolen trophy back from Fairview, I get a call from Tom Green.