Prologue: A Narrative Fiction

Sam was walking home from the Morrisville Market with a full bag of groceries. The sun was hot and no clouds were in sight. He smelled the fresh bread being baked in the shops. He felt like nothing could go wrong, and oh how wrong he was about that. The sidewalk was cracked right in front of Lana’s Diner glowed an odd red light. “What the……AHHHHHH!” When a garbage truck pulled up the garbage man found Sam lying face down on the sidewalk with a \

After visiting the courthouse and checking up on new leads, Iris finally had a moment to sit down at her desk. She was finally feeling like her old, healthy self. The cold was officially gone. As she opened up her notes she began typing vigorously. The current story was a high school student who had just passed because of a h*** overdose. She could not believe that such young kids in her city were dying at the hands of drugs. Moments like this made her appreciate Joe's strict parenting and the absence of her drug addicted mother. As much as Iris liked to keep an objective perspective when it came to her work, sometimes she could not help but get attached to the personal lives and stories. Today for instance, she visited the courtroom for the

My hands were sweating against the microphone in my hand, I could feel the anxiety throughout the air on the big stage. The only thing separating me, I mean us, from the large crowd filled with haters, supporters, and who knows what else; was the velvet red curtain that she knew in no time would disappear, revealing me and my friends to our fate.

She stood up quickly as soon as her mother made eye contact with her, an instant smile appeared on her mother’s face. Sadly, the same could not be said about her. Instead she looked frightened, perhaps, at least that was what she felt. It was

“Did use the wand?” Mr. ED asked as he placed a plate in front of Titus. “Yes, I did.” The excited boy said, “And everything went better than expected.” “Hold on“, Mr. Ed said, “let me first fetch us some fresh water and food, then we can both sit and talk.”

My mother’s letter also provided me with a heartfelt, long lasting goodbye. My mother returned after only a week, however, with this note, I was left with the words of love that my mother wrote on paper for me. I come from a tight knit family, so for my mother to

I woke up 4 am Christmas morin’ thinking why i told that story to ya’ll those Logans. Everytime it hits me just hit me and i’se come balling every time. I stayed in bed the rest of the morin’ thinking why i had to lose all my family. I heard Cassie, Christopher John, and Little Man knocking on the door around sunrise. I didn’t answer.

“I just don’t love you anymore Laura, it’s really not that hard to understand that I love someone else.”

Narrator : It was 1956 and Valerie andrews had not been lost for long when she came upon the jacket. It faded into her sight at first and clarified with each step she took. Normally she would choose to leave random jackets in the middle of the road, but the wind had chilled her to the bone and it provided a sense of a well worn youthfulness. It’s red leather went smoothly against her skin, the white lettering on the long sleeves spelled out “TIME TRAVELER” in big block letters. The jacket fit her perfectly, the sleeves even stopped at the edge of hir wrist, a rarity due to their size. And in an inside pocket she found an odd metal device about the size of her hand with several pint sized buttons around the edge and a shiny glass front.

The storyteller is by all account not the only African American in the book to have felt the confinements of supremacist stereotyping. While he tries to get away from the grasp of preference on an individual level, he experiences different blacks who endeavor to recommend a protection technique for all African Americans. Every one of these individuals present a hypothesis of the assumed right approach to be black in America and tries to layout how blacks ought to act as per this hypothesis. The advocates of these speculations trust that any individual who acts in spite of their prescriptions successfully sells out the race. At last, be that as it may, the storyteller finds that such remedies just counter generalization with generalization and

Dr. Wayne Dyer once said, “ If you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change. Throughout, the whole story the omniscient author gives you his/her perspective on the characters actions and train of thought. Else has a incommensurable point of view on the story. How Else’s perspective might change the story.

Our tale start on a dark night. Not dark and stormy but dark. Our hero roams the streets alone. Who is the hero you might ask. Well let’s just say that his name is John and continue with the story for now. Now our hero lives in an abandoned pickup truck not too far into the forest. He lives there with Brian and Megan his two best friends. Before you ask yourself “Do they steal food and other things they need?” The answer is no. People in town are very nice. The baker buys everything that they need and when they need it he will give it to them. So John was walking thinking that life is never going to get better. BOOM! That came from the alley in front of him. He ran toward the explosion. “Hello? Anybody need help.” He yelled. As the

The woman that only had half of her body came over to where Luna was and pulled out the butcher knife that she had found on the dolls lap in the last room. “Stop this nonsense and let us go, or else!” the woman with half a body said. Suddenly, Jefferey snatched the butcher’s knife from the woman’s hands and swung it around and around. “You want to challenge me don’t you-” he suddenly stopped because he saw he accidentally hit the half woman. The woman was bleeding all over, the blood came down from her head and ran down her face, clothes, and even of the floor. She had a visible gaping wound in her head from the butcher knife. She was dead. “Sorry about that, at least it wasn’t any of you, right?” he asked hoarsely.

Those warm summer nights after long days of camp were greatly anticipated events back then. My cousin and I itched with repressed energy throughout the long bus ride from various tri-state area attractions. We couldn’t wait to get home and see what types of shenanigans we could get into. We couldn’t wait to slide down the steep, blue-carpeted staircase on our bottoms, and then on our stomachs. Most of all, we couldn’t wait to go down to the basement. The basement was better than a toy store. Yes, the old-fashioned milk chute in the kitchen wall was enchanting, and the laundry chute was fun because it was big enough to throw down my sisters stuffed companions, so my cousin could catch them below in the laundry room, as our voices echoed up and down the chute. But the basement was better than all of these, better even than sliding down those stairs on rug-burned bottoms.

Moreover, my mother listened to all my fears and nightmares with patience which can only be admired. She covered my heart and soul with caring love.  Her eyes were so soft, wandering, and full of comprehension when they focused on other people. My