What Really Happened: A Fictional Narrative

“Of course dear, I love you, and forgive you for your mistake. I’m so happy to have you back.”

“I’ll smoke that last cigarette,” he said to his wife. “Stupid of me- it was the one thing I forgot to bring back from the farm.”

Tim O’Brien’s short story “How to Tell a True War Story” details memories from O’Brien’s time in the vietnam war. It explores the concept of truth, and challenges its definition by asserting that there are certain truths about war which are more important than the actual facts and details of the event. O’Brien tells the story of his friend Bob “Rat” Kiley witnessing the death of their friend Curt Lemon. He also shares the story told to him by his friend Mitchell Sanders about a group of listening post soldiers that grow hysteric listening to the vietnamese jungle. He uses these war stories as examples to show how even when the exact facts are misconstrued, they are still true stories because

Mac left before the Sheriff or anyone else got to the center as he wanted to see how passable the trail was and if he could take the any vehicles up the hill. It was the smallest vehicle they had and it might make it. In several places, the trail wasn’t wide enough to take the quad so he gave up the quad and walked up. The distance to the site Jackie described wasn’t far.

The Vietnam war was a fight that almost lasted fifteen years. With two hundred and eighty two thousand allied deaths. Soldiers dealt with the grueling fear and pain of comrades dying, not knowing if they would live to see their families again. Over twelve thousand miles from home. Tim O’Brien describes the many ways men deal with the uncertain fear and death around them, often in surprising ways.

“ I don't know what upset you like that, but I'm here for you. I'm not going anywhere, ” he smiled softly.

“I’m gonna go after Sarah!” Luke screamed over the noise and without second thought, he took off running. My eyes went wide as he was immediately lost in the crowd of walkers.

“ Ok, but I’m always here if you need me.” said Keve in a calming voice.

“It is going to be okay, we will get through this as a family.” Mom said, softly.

“AHH!” I screamed. I was at Lazer Tag with my friends when I had suddenly fallen on the ramp. A little kid was chasing me down the ramp and I was running back trying to make sure that he didn’t shoot me. That’s when suddenly I had misplaced my foot and fell down at least 3 feet and landed on my wrist. “AGH”, I tried so hard not to cry but tears raced down my face faster than Usain Bolt.

Kalvin finds himself sitting alone at lunch once again. He kept to himself and no one knew what was going on in his distorted mind. All Kalvin does these days is stare into the deep black hole that his computer is. Kalvin has been doing research for a while now. He is sick of the ridicule, sick of the bullying, and sick of the pain that his high school experience is. It is time for him to get his revenge.

It is also assumed that the act of telling a story can provide insight into past, present and future events (Espinoza, 1997). By going through this process, individuals can find the importance of certain events and assign roles to people who are a part of their story. This act can allow a client to find new meaning and understanding to their reality (Espinoza, 1997). Not only is a

It wouldn't be good to hide it from him, she thought, like a good friend, even though she was reluctant. "I think you got a fan. Brown haired girl, next table over," she mumbled to him.

Rain dribbled down the gravestones, down the monuments, down the men with bowed heads. The sky was trademark English grey, the sort of colourless, dreary sky that so many cynics and sceptics had been born under, the grass was less of a green colour, and more of a dead brown, and the poppies had bowed their head, weighed down by the drizzle, and out of respect for the dead. The only things that looked clean and not devoid of life were the gravestones: white marble, drenched in rain, almost gleaming. The gravestones didn’t slump like their onlookers, with their backs arched and legs bent, but rather stood upright, perfectly balanced, in neat, faultless rows. Each row was perfect, neat, and even rather beautiful. There was something breath-taking about the thousands and thousands of rows of white slabs, all anonymous and impersonal, standing at attention.

A sharp, brisk wave of cold air comes passes over me as I look around me and see death surrounding me. The trees are exposed and lifeless, and the only sound present is the passing cars with trails of dark exhaust. There are shadows of past summers that have passed filled with fun and enjoyment, but they get fainter each day. The winter has taken all of my enjoyment and happiness and thrust it into a cold, bitter wasteland. My hope of someday escaping this nightmare is extinguished by each snow fall. But there remains one last refuge for my happiness, spring break. It seems like it gets further and further away with each dreadful morning I have I have lo face the real world. But finally, the day comes and life returns to this planet. Children