Show Not Tell-Personal Narrative Essay examples

My schooling began in Cali, Colombia. At the age of two, my mother matriculated me at local nursery because she worked in the daytime. When I was four, my mother enrolled me in a non-religious private pre-school. The school was known for having a strong program in math and literacy. In my country, education is mandatory until middle school. My homeland uses an alphabet and similar to English it goes from left to right. In pre-school, I remember singing the national anthem every morning. I would stand up alongside of many other students and with our hand across our chest we would sing the entire national anthem. I also remember doing a lot of hands-on activities like counting the elements of each set and making a line to the corresponding number

A warm bead of sweat rolled down my brow in such a slow manner I thought that I had received a cut on my head and I was bleeding from whacking my head on the door panel when I exited out of the cruiser. I wiped it away as I leaned back against the hood of the car, sweating up a storm in the white polo that was supposed to be a uniform.

On 18Oct16 at 1111 hrs. I, Deputy Halbasch, was dispatched to 19609 Hwy 226 for a disturbance.

Where the colorless tiles ended, a dark carpeting started. He looked further right, to the wall beyond the flooring, seeing the silhouettes of several stacks of boxes and metal racks used to hold clothing. From there, he looked ahead the thirty-foot space to the far wall, the view showing him empty floor space from where he stood, its emptiness ending at the building’s right wall.

It takes me a moment to gather my heart and fix my composure before I even notice the interior-every single wall is painted a bright color. Greens, reds, oranges, yellows, no wall is safe. I almost laugh, a major contrast from the cry I choked down at the doorway, and much like this place is from the chameleon job it has on the outside. The all-black desk stands out, the main piece of furniture in the rainbow-like room, as my mom makes her way to it to check in.

I took a deep breath as I walked through the doorway. The door was stuck open, hanging on just one of its hinges. It was clear that no one had been near this place in a long time. As I entered, a stench hit me. It smelt sickly sweet, almost like rotten fairy floss. I looked around the room at the faded and ripped wallpaper, and the broken furniture. The air was so thick with dust it was almost impossible to breathe, and everything was thickly covered with dust. The little light there was came from the cracks in the yellowed blinds.

It was just like in the pictures. Large, glass buildings, clear, write-on walls, and computers in every direction. As I settled into my dad’s office at a high-tech company, I noticed I didn’t hear anything. The office was completely quiet, though it was filled with people. Everyone was locked away in their cubicles — the exact opposite of my expectations.

Story telling is a uniquely human attribute. It is an imaginative process between the composer and responder that invites us, as the audience to engage vicariously with the experience of others. Stories or narratives have been shared in all culture as a mean of education, entertainment and also to notify the audience of the values and belief systems of our culture. The texts of ‘Through the tunnel’ and ‘Green tomatoes at the Whistlestop Cafe’ conspicuously highlight the ability of storytelling to empower the individual and outline storytelling as a device to inform us of values and people’s transmission is able to transcend time.

I paid for my food and left. Taking a short walk I stopped outside a building of flats. Chrome identifies the building to be my final destination. Rounding the back of the building to the service road I search profusely for my entrance point. Pulling my dark hooded jumper that matches my black combat pants and boots. The second floor window was open, allowing the cool night breeze waffle through the apartment. I climbed on to the commercial bin and hoisted myself into the room. Landing gracefully on the floor I searched my surroundings, orientating

On 08-26-2017 at 1908 hours I was dispatched to 1029 South 11th Street in reference to a suicidal subject.

After a competitive brawl of a game with grass stains on my knees, jersey, and socks; with sweat drenching my hair and clothes, as if I just took a shower, I began to walk over to a table set up amongst the fans. They wait anxiously for my team to walk over after our big win. Each one of my teammates including myself are set at a table close to the bleachers, which set adjacent from the players bench across the pitch. I set down by my new set of teammates, as we got ready to sign posters for children with aspirations to play at collegiate level soccer one day, for parents and grand parents who couldn?t be more honored to be witnessing their little girls hard work finally paying off. It was recent that I experienced this

An empty building. My ears rang almost painfully in the silent air. An empty building – it could be a storehouse. But what is there to store? An empty room. Nothing alerted me, though I know not to walk in there. Not to walk over to the shelf with empty boxes. Not to go behind it. Not to search and find large skeletal bones, connecting in a way that resembled an impossibly enormous jellyfish. Not to follow this bone trail into the back corner, where a door opened somewhat welcoming into a place that held no light of day. Not to step in…

The floorboards creaked and groaned beneath me as I stumbled through the door to this house that sat on the edge of town. It had lain forlorn for at least a year now, a curtain of moss and debris littered the lawn and porch, the interior of the house was surprisingly in good shape, victorian-era furniture covered by a veil of dust sat by the grand fireplace, the kitchen still had appliances such as a stove, fridge, and microwave. In a place like this, you would think that someone would have broken in and took this stuff to sell or pawn. I walk slowly up the grand staircase, praying that the floorboards wouldn’t crumble beneath me as I trekked to the top. I finally reach the top and let out a sigh of relief, my breath fogs in front of me and

My road into choosing medicine has been a turbulent route, but the bumps and hurdles along the way have created defining impressions on me. Over the years, I have been pushed and pulled into and away from being a physician. I interest in medicine initially sparked my high school friend asked me to take his job in doing his father’s, a primary care physician, paperwork for the year. I was in need of some gas money, so I gladly accepted. After signing towers of paper work regarding HIPAA, I began doing the simple task of scanning medical files and typing them into the electronic system.

Unlocking the vault of my imagination to bring forth the core of my conscience. I am unremarkable to the outside world, but here I am free from inhibitions. I carefully remove my jacket on the bruised coat hanger as I enter the apartment. Each individual piece in is order. The remote is parallel to the lamp, the rug complements the coffee tables perfect symmetry. The world beyond this acts as a clashing contrast to my serenity. Revealing the battle of disorder with only one side which I can control. Past achievements and awards line the shelves as I walk expectantly, only outwardly calm to preserve face. I stroll towards the sculpted oak door, impatient but afraid to face my inner self. As I slowly push the door open I can see my own personal sanctuary awaiting me within the