Personal Narrative : Creative Writing On A Birthday Party

It was a beautiful, sunny day in Puerto Rico where my family and I were taking a vacation that spring. As I lay on my dad’s colorful bed in the small pink villa on the water, I find it hard to enjoy the view that comes from the balcony and the salty smell of the light blue ocean. The villa resides on a rocky cliff where the rippling ocean waves smash onto the rocks below. The waves, which usually relax me, are insignificant. I see colorful houses that run along the water for miles just like ours. In the corner of my eye I see the infinity pool that looks out onto the crystal clear water. Something else is on my mind. Something not even the alluring scenery could take my mind off of-death. One month earlier, I lost my mom to a vicious disease called cancer. Its evilness left my family and I broken and sick at heart. When I look back now to that vacation, I think nothing other than sadness and mourning. Maybe it was too soon to take a vacation, I thought. My dad walks into his room and sits next to me on his bed.

I keep having this dream, voices echoing a phrase, “what will be will be”. Step by step, I stride down the hallway leading from my bedroom towards the front door. The lights lining the hallway are burning, but reserved in their efforts, and I move more off instinct than clarity of vision. Down the stairs and into the foyer, a glow leaks out from the kitchen around the white-bricked corner; I can feel a force wrapping its arms around me, reeling me in like a big fish. The energy brings me inside, into a moment all too familiar: a scene of adults gathered around the oak dining table in the rear of the room. Chet Baker’s trumpet whispers out the blues from the corner stereo, and generous portions of red wine are being poured. An explosion of laughter camouflages my entrance to all but one.

It was a beautiful day in Miami. The skies were blue and the sun was shining. Marisa was walking down the street with her best friend, about to enter a party. While walking there, her best friend, Nora, saw an antique shop and wanted to enter. Marisa didn’t have a good feeling about it. Nora begged and begged, but instead of listening to her gut, Marisa gave in. When they walked in there were lots of old, antique items, clothes, and jewlery. A little old lady walked out, from the back, and asked the girls if the needed anything, but the girls were fine. After about 5 min, Marisa was getting mad, because they were missing the party. But Nora wanted to look around and finally found something she liked. It was a little clock. Around the same time,

I remember it like it was yesterday. I was driving to Mount Shasta with my friend, Marley, and her parents for the weekend. It was about a four-and-a-half-hour car ride full of two eight year olds giggling in the back of the car and two parents blasting Disney radio in the front seats. Marley’s mom’s phone rings and she picks it up as we continue to sing our young hearts out to the Jonas Brothers. All of a sudden my friend and I hear her mother shriek with a pain we have never heard before. Her mother cries out, with tears bursting uncontrollably from her eyes. Marley and I go silent and wide-eyed with shivers down our spines. We had never seen a grown up act this way. She hits her husband’s bicep repeatedly rocking back and forth in her passenger seat screaming, “WHY!” Her husband is in the driver’s seat and he is pale. He is repeatedly yelling at his wife “What happened?” getting louder and louder. We are swerving off the highway to pull over and she yells “Dean died!” My friend and I look at each other. We didn’t know a Dean. The father forces his weight on the brake as we enter the shoulder of the highway, we jolt forward as our seatbelts lock. Marley’s mother immediately gets out and crawls into a fetal position on the curb. Her husband gets out of the driver’s seat and walks onto the highway, unfazed by the cars passing him on the freeway. Her parents talk for what felt like hours to us children sitting silently in the back

My love for writing started when I was around ten years old. I was extremely shy growing up. I had friends but only a handful, I would rather be alone with a book or be working on a story. My writing was my escape from whatever was going on in my life whether it was my grandma being sick or getting in a fight with my older sister, all I needed was a notebook and a pen to write whatever I was feeling out. This lead to notebook upon notebook being filled with stories of the handsome prince saving the princess, or hopeful tales of a shy girl meeting her true love. I was in charge of my own little world and I could make anything and everything happen. As I grew older I kept writing, even though I had outgrown my shyness. I kept writing because

I love to write. It’s actually where I feel most creative. However, I don’t love to write. It is my belief that composing documents by typing them is unquestionably easier and more efficient. When one physically writes, they typically tire easily. For me, it’s usually at five sentences or so when my hand starts to cramp up. At that point, I begin to compromise in my writing, trying to get to my point as quickly as possible, so that I can just get it over with. I also find that I’m a planner when writing. I can have a whole paragraph mapped out in my head before even starting it. However, when I have to slowly and painstakingly compose with a pen or pencil, I lose many of the ideas I had going into it, and again, just want to get it over with.

So I run downstairs “boxes, boxes, where are you boxes?” I mumbled as i'm walking around the basement trying to find the boxes labeled “Christmas” on them. “BOOM!” “It’s ok nothing broke!” I yelled up to my mom as i'm picking up the stuff that had fallen out of the box “I think nothing broke?” I say to myself unsure and not being able to confidently say that. “What’s this?” I ask myself confused “Candy canes?” “Why are candy canes in a memorabilia box?” I ask myself confused. So I open the box and grab 1 candy cane marked 7 on it. I unwrapped the crinkly wrapper and snapped a piece off and start to examin it was it fake, was it for show, why were they in the memorabilia box? “Rae, Come on!” I hear my mother yell from upstairs. “Hold on i'm coming!” I yell back up to my mom and shove the piece of broken candy cane into my mouth basically inhaling it. Then I grab the box next to it that is labeled “Christmas!” and rush up the stairs. “Here mom.” I say trying to finish running up the stairs. “ Mom, i'm not feeling too well i'm gonna go lay down.” I say as I can feel my stomach flipping. “Ok, Rae are you sure help setting up the tree I know that’s your favorite part of christmas, do u want me to wait till tomorrow so you can set it up with me?” my mom said concerned “No it's ok, I wanna be surprised when i wake up with a tree tomorrow.” I

It was the middle of June and I was ecstatic. School was out and I was ready for fun days in the pool, going to camp, and hanging out with friends. In the back of my mind I had something that really kept me from all of the fun I could have been having. I knew that my mom was dying. I knew that if I would have fun, I would feel guilty knowing that she couldn’t experience that with me. One would imagine that I would choose to spend time with my mom knowing that I wouldn’t have her for much longer. Being the selfish little seventh grader that I was, I chose to never be home. Whenever I found an opportunity, I left. I would hug my mom goodbye and leave as quickly as possible. Whenever I didn’t, I huddled in my room under the warm covers of my bed

One fine sunny, yellow summer afternoon there was a sign that something bad would happen. It all began with a little baby girl. Her name was Cylee Alkire, and she was three years old. She was as innocent as could be. She loved going to her grandma’s house! Grandma’s house had all the family over most of the time. One day, Cylee’s dad was dropping off a present for her grandma. Cylee was a curious little girl, and got bored sometimes when people wouldn’t give her enough attention. So the baby girl went to her grandma’s playroom to see if she should play with her cousins. Cylee’s grandmother had a cute, colorful kitchen playset. Cylee acted like an adult in a child’s body. She was very organized and demanding-she was like a princess

Writing to me is one of the best ways to challenge one’s creativity. The best kind of writing causes people to exercise their imaginations and causes them to think differently then they may have previously. I’m hoping that writer’s craft will further my love of writing and that this letter will give you a little preview of who I am.

It was warm, as the sun peered through the blinds. The prolonged rain had finally ended and It was like any other Monday for him; the start of another week of work for him. He dragged his feet to the bathroom and looked in the mirror to see drooping eyelids with gloomy, dark circles filled with lethargy, showing a lack of sleep. His face was two different tones of colour, most likely from over-working on his truck and the excessive sunlight that polluted his face.

Mom! Mom!- Sara shouted when she arrived home from school. She seem exited for something. Her mom went to the living room to receive her. She noticed Sara was wearing a new coat. It was a furry white jacket, it perfectly matched with her bright blue eyes, her blond straight hair, her really white skin and her pink lips that looked like two rose petals. She looked like a princes. -Oh! you have a new jacket!- said her mom. –It is really pretty! So tell me Sara, why are you so exited?-. –Mom, we are having a Halloween party tomorrow night in the grand salon! And guess what! You and I are making a lot of Halloween Cupcakes!- she said exited to her mom. She always went to her mom when it was about cupcakes, she was an expert making them and

It is April 4th. It is my 21 birthday.21 years ago I was born and got named Thea. My mom Emily, dad James, sister Maddison, and brother Liam are coming over to celebrate my birthday. There are a few things I must do before they come.

Have you ever experienced being stranded twice with your friends on your birthday? Well listen up, because you're about to hear all about it. The birds chirped as the light wind swayed in a soft melody on the chilly afternoon of November 25th. My three close friends Miranda, Mia, and Zariaha walked out the door in a unison as we awaited our ride. To make time go by faster, we started taking pictures. "Click" and laughs were the only sounds you could hear. There was nothing but smiles on all of our faces, and I couldn’t have been anymore happier. "Beep, beep, beep" our laughs ceased as we noticed that the uber driver had arrived. We turned on our heels and made our way to the car.

I allow him to embrace me as he envelopes me, I even wrap my arms tightly around his waist as I rest my cheek on his shoulder and slide my eyes closed, having exerted all my energy. Tonight, he wears a cologne, that protrudes out of his grey winter coat. Of course, his fragrance is nothing like Angelo 's, but the woodland scent appeals to my senses nonetheless.