Personal Narrative

I gripped the over-annotated, photocopied packet in my eager fingers so that my sweaty fingers made print marks on the black speckled page. And I read. I cried. And my dream changed.

It was when I first started to write again that I truly appreciated the beauty of a blank page. A blank page invites one to say whatever they want to say without the fear of judgment because the page cannot, in fact, judge. A blank page is the freedom to tell a tale, any tale, no matter how outlandish. Most people my age shy away from a blank page because they don’t know what to say, but that is, to me, the beauty of it. A blank page allows me to put words to what I could never speak aloud. There is no stuttering, no tripping over words on a page. There are only words, and the words are

I don’t know what to write. The thought keeps running through my mind haunting me as I try to figure out my english assignment. All I can think of is negative stories that are sure not going to be appropriate for school. At this point I start to wonder about my writing abilities and thoughts begin pouring in before I have a chance to stop them.

I’m just a tall, skinny, little girl. The confidence level in myself is very low, and it’s hard for me to find friends that actually like me for who I am. I walk in these brick doors almost every morning wondering what today will be like. The cold air hits your face as one would walk into Mrs. Price’s classroom. I sit at my light, wood colored desk hearing all the little voices around me. Suddenly, my ears feel as if they were going to burst. Mrs. Price yelled at the top of her lungs.

" ABBY! " The woman yelled at the small brunette girl playing around in the yard. " Get up here and help now!!" I didn't listen. I was never going away. I looked up at my mum wearily and saw her whisper something to my brother. I knew I was going , no matter what. I had no choice. Mum and Dad didn't have a care in the world. They were going to make me go anyway.

Years had passed since his longtime friend, Sam died. Jake had managed to move on, get married to his girl and raise a family. He had taken his degree and although he had never managed to become president of a large company, he had used it to have a successful and rewarding career. It was a warm sunny summer day; Jake long since retired entered the local discount store. He entered the store in hurry; his gate now awkward and somewhat stooped over from age. His arms swung back and forth as he rushed toward the isle, which held the prize he was after, as though it was to be his last chance to retrieve the item. Without warning his quest was interrupted as he collided with a mass directly in front of him. Nearly knocking the bystander to the floor Jake apologized. “Sorry, I guess I was in to much of a hurry; Grandchildren don’t like Gramps to keep them waiting.” Suddenly Jake was staring directly into the eyes of the person he had collided with. He realized that it was a man with thin, graying hair about his age. There was an air of familiarity about him and as Jake proceeded to leave

I experienced the same struggle in writing this book, even though that little voice inside my head was now telling me to write, I was speechless, sitting and pondering for days on end at my computer, muddling through the pieces of unsatisfied expressions. It was frustrating to say the least. I expected some difficulty, however, not like this.

It’s all a blur really – the memories that is, some dreams and others reality. I hate that dreams seem so real, that they make everything that you truly want happen. Then, when you wake up, you still think it’s real because you felt everything in that dream and all its emotions. And in that moment, that blink of an eye you have to deal with the nagging in your brain telling you it’s not real. My memories consisted of misguided mistakes that made me who I am today. Like the day I got lost in the mall and hung out in the book store because it was quiet. And the days where my dad and me would sit in the living room and listen to music. My mom would always laugh at me and tell us how lame we were, but it was okay because we knew she was joking.

Penny shuddered and picked up the first pen. After turning it over in her hands – was it just her imagination, or had one of the fairies winked at her? - , she held it over the blank piece of paper and began to write. Or rather, the pen began to write. It simply took her hand and moved it across the page without Penny willing it to. It seemed to have a life of its own.

Every letter that is pressed onto a sheet of crisp paper is now pressed onto our plane of existence, permanently. When the ink is gone, my words will still be there, when I am gone, my words will still be there. Three quarters of a century, that’s how long this typewriter had served as a conduit for human creativity. Even the most mind numbingly generic task becomes a one of a kind transcription. I can only guess what stories that others have dreamt up upon these glass keys, the minds of others are embedded within the steel and glass because they poured it into these keys. It’s far from perfect, the bell is broken, keys stick sometimes, and there is a spot under the carriage release lever that’s word down to the bare steel. It’s not perfect, but the same could be said about me; and if it can still turn out an amazing story, than so can

It was ten thirty at night. I was writing this letter for probably the tenth time, when my bedroom door opened. Startled, I quickly closed my blue binder. There stood one of my mothers, reminding me that it was time for me to get ready for bed. I took deep breaths to attempt to calm down, brushed my teeth, and said goodnight. Then went back to my bedroom, back to my blue binder. I tried to keep my handwriting legible as I wrote these words to my moms, these words that I couldn’t say out loud to anyone. These words that scared the hell out of me.

“You are so lucky that your mom picks you up and drops you off at the bus stop every single day. My mom never does that for me except on a few occasions when the weather is terrible” my friend April said to me once during a bus ride.

I ran my nimble fingers along the worn pages of the latest text I had been so enamored by. Though slightly sad that I was but a chapter away from seeping back into reality, I read on and cherished every word. My eyes crept over the print delicately, being sure not to miss a single word. My hand slid up toward the top corner of the page I had just completed, but fell short in turning it when a voice rang out behind me.

It's a rainy, Friday afternoon and John, an ordinary college student, decides to ignore his unfinished work left on the side of his desk. He booted up his computer and began to play video games in his dimly lit dorm room. After an hour or so, John could hear three very loud and distinct knocks on his door--loud enough for him to hear through his headphones. He begrudgingly paused the game he was playing and placed his headphones neatly on his desk before heading over to the door at a laze pace. Without a care in the world, John flew the door open and in front of him was a delivery man. The very polite delivery man greets him and carefully hands him a package before bidding him farewell and casually walking towards the stairway. Puzzled, John wonders whether or not he had recently ordered something, and if he did, he sure does not remember doing it. He opened the neatly wrapped, beige color packaged and discovered a little note inside on top of a stuffed animal and a few books. "Hello sweetie," it read, "I was cleaning out the house and stumbled upon some of your old stuff. So, I thought I'd sent it over just in case you still wanted them. -Love, mom." John rolled his eyes before mumbling, "she could've just texted me or something if I still wanted this stuff." He picked up the first item from the package: a stuffed animal. After a quick inspection, John quickly recognized it as his favorite childhood toy: Henry the bear. He chuckled and placed it by his room's window next to

I walked away from the stall and as I rambled down the street to rejoin Aika. I saw a diary located on the sidewalk. It was bounded by brown paper, twine wrapped around it and a dusty plastic flower at the center. I took a step to pick it up on the highest shelf. Then my heart began to hammer in my ribcage, as I slid the flower on the right side, eyes widened to the name written in swirly black ink, it was my name. An image viewed in my head of writing a diary. I 'd never written in swirly black ink before, or even kept a notebook.