“No, it doesn’t. You just refuse to believe that a girl and a boy could just be friends! And you can’t even begin to imagine a woman in a physical fight. That isn’t because it’s impossible. It’s because you haven’t seen it before. Didn’t you say you wanted something different?”
He choose the narrative as his own personal agenda weighed heavily on his mind, like acid rain in a thunder storm. A storm that had chosen a course that would head on and collide with his enormous ego. A storm that would not fit his narrative but bust it open and crack it wide open with holes that no one could fix.
It’s 0900 and I’m going to write a narrative at 100words.com and then another one at 750words.com. You’d think I’d also be writing at my dear diary, but it’s no longer the fun place it once used to be and prosebox.com just seems like it’s not my home either. There are plenty of other places for me to write a narrative, but for the most part, my narrative is a series of photos, like at flickr.com. There’s also a site that will aggregate everything I’ve puked all over the Internet and that’s at rebelmouse.com.
Her life was littered with words unwritten, and worse with those that were half way there, barely held onto the page by a sentence or six. But such was the way of evolution; there would always be more bits and babies than would beget bits and babies of their own. It was a sad, to be sure, but it ensured that only the strongest narratives would survive.
The narrative was cool, detached in a way that only a narrator can be. Factual, as though the things we were doing were alright. No, not even alright. Expected.
And that excuse was worse than anything.
Short of a narrative of her entire life, Susan could not think of anything she could possibly write to fill the five page minimum.
“Why do English teachers love to torture students so much?” she asked Aaron, the sporty boy in the seat across from her (and, as it happened, as far from Mrs. Dunning as was possible to be). Susan often asked him rhetorical questions borne of the frustration she felt at the end of English each day; he actually answered them quite often, but he said the same thing each time.
“Because they hate kids.”
She thought about why that might be for a second, same as always, and drew a blank, same as always.
“Well what’s so hate-able about us?” Susan glared pointedly at the assignment guidelines on the board, bitterly envisioning the weekend ahead.
What makes a narrative?
A train of honest thoughts, pouring out onto the page?
A silent observer, carefully watching and saving their breath for a blank canvas?
An imperfectly perfect human, full of flaws; breathing, living, thinking.
Freedom, with the world encased in a single page.
If our life was narrated by a person.. wouldn’t it be arguably enjoyable? Everyone has that voice that used to hang around your head with whom you’d constantly have an argument with. Well now imagine that voice more solidified and much more louder. Criticizing , judging and annoying you every single waking moment. There are plenty of movies in which the main character can hear the narrative which is laden out and is understandably aggravated because of it. And honestly, if someone was to narrate my life I want that person to be the sassiest person in the whole universe.
This is a story, about a story, about the nature of stories. The story teller tells a teller of stories his own life story, in order to make clear recent history
She found it difficult to write about her own life. She didn’t understand it anyhow. All the empty words and fake people didn’t make much of a story. She much preferred the romantic getaways of other books, where heroines saved the day by merely being themselves.
The narrative to the play was in a word, boring. The man’s voice steady and neither rose nor lowered. It hurt his brain to try to listen the the droning of the play. He wondered why anyone, himself included, wasted their money so flippantly.
My mind flies into narrative text. A past lesson. Almost a year after the teacher taught me about narrative text. It begins with an introduction to the character, then grows into a conflict, later solution come. Solution. If my story, my life story, a story that myself as the protagonist character, is like narrative text, why the solution wouldn’t come? I think it because I haven’t die.
Never. There is never enough time. Never enough to tell their narrative. To tell their tale. There is nothing to them. Nothing they are to each other. If they were to speak, they would lie to themselves and to each other. They cannot stand each other yet they are together. She does not understand it. They are liars. The both of them. They will never be anything but that.
She can’t imagine it. She can’t comprehend it. Not when she’s around him. Every word he says keeps her on edge. Every word. Every narrative he speaks of. She hears what he says. She listens to the words but does not hear their meaning. There is no meaning from one who lies so much. She turns and walks away.
Your words, your feelings, and your actions paint a story. The story is of your life. A narrative of all that is and all that will ever be. You can decide which colors to use and how much of each. In this narrative of life, you have all you need to succeed.
A story, a story about a person. Not just any person, but a person with thoughts, ideals, morals, and hardships. A story told through the perspective of one person and one person alone. The opportunity to see through the eyes of another.
writing is writing what ever it be
just jump into the world and what a life it will be
a time is just time
but your life is just your own to live is your life
and to not ne unknown
The narrative of a bird is the most interesting. Either if it’s light and dainty, or shrill and loud. It is always unique. It is always wondrous. It is always exciting. Much more than a narrative of a radio host.
third person narrative is better than first person but hey anything’s good i guess don’t ask me i’m not very smart or anything i like saying i am though or at least pretending. this has legit nothing to do with the word narrative wow i suck.
The clock ticked, as he pounded away on his old keyboard. One line down. Now two. Ah, back to one, the second wasn’t very good anyway. So much for an easy paper. It’s three now, he still needs another page. He sighs, exhaling with melodic tap of the clock.
“How can you call this a story? The narrative’s way too scrambled! What the…?”
She continued to berate me and my fiction as she skimmed the pages, barely even glancing at the dialogue and prose that I had so laboriously worked on. Beside me, my tabby cat was scowling at her through narrow yellow eyes. He grumbled somewhat, rolled on his side, and pawed at me.
The narrative was long and boring, but I didn’t stop him. There were so many things you can learn about a person just by the way they tell you what they did over the weekend, even if all they did was sit and play video games.
scriptwriting your way through life when someone else seems to be holding the pen all the time. You can’t just cut when you want a new scene no matter how much you want to fade out.
This is when we talk. It includes all the details that a narrator would like to give us. Sometimes it is very minimal and cannot help us, but confuse us. Often though, it might be what catches our attention enough for us to want to read more than what we have been given. It can be used as a hook by an author of a short story or novel.
I love narrative poetry. I love stories in general, but there is something that is so exact, so beautiful about narrative poetry. The story is told, but in so few words. You can’t waste a single word on an incomplete thought or a sloppy description. Everything has to be exact. You can use one word to ruin everything…or choose a different word and create something so incredibly, breathtakingly perfect outsiders yearn for it.
Marriage is very much the same. Words are important. Use them wisely.
What about a narrative? Do you want me to define the word “narrative”? Or do you want me to give a narrative? Do I narrate a true story that happened within the 17 years and three weeks of my life, or do I come up with fictional characters through whom I live out my wildest fantasies? This is all so confusing. . .
once when I was in 10th grade english, we has to write 10 narratives about our lives. that was probably the best writing I have ever done. I wrote one about my best friend moving and one about my hair and one about the night my dad got arrested for an over due speeding ticket.
I am standing
from the branches of this narrative memory
to the lost simple mindedness of your essence
that feeling, numbness they call it, brushes its watery vines
against the skin of my heart.
I am standing
not far from the edge but close enough to comprehend
close enough to feel the chill breeze dragging its remorse
i am lost somewhere now, in the ocean of your mind
tossed into the core of this memory, crooked and torn;
upside down and backwards.
A narrative is a short story that tells about a certain event. At least that’s the best definition that I can come up with right now. Why is this my word? Why couldn’t I have a more interesting word besides this. This is kinda stupid. Ummm I don’t know what else I should say. I like writing narratives. It’s my favorite thing to write.
life’s narrative
a script written in sand
being washed away
with every passing day
by the currents of time,
so rhyme, make rhythm
forgive, be forgiven
and wait until the tide takes you away
It’s a long story, depending who you hear it from. You won’t hear it from me though. I keep things too brief. Some call it simple, some call it sparse. And this story – it’s not all that dramatic. It’s from the interior. You wouldn’t even notice it was going on, to look at me.
life is one narrative that you cannot edit, you can only create it going forward. but unlike typical narratives life keeps repeating the same situations, so you have a chance to edit it in real time
“The narrative works better with two men.”
“No, it doesn’t. You just refuse to believe that a girl and a boy could just be friends! And you can’t even begin to imagine a woman in a physical fight. That isn’t because it’s impossible. It’s because you haven’t seen it before. Didn’t you say you wanted something different?”
He choose the narrative as his own personal agenda weighed heavily on his mind, like acid rain in a thunder storm. A storm that had chosen a course that would head on and collide with his enormous ego. A storm that would not fit his narrative but bust it open and crack it wide open with holes that no one could fix.
The narrative detailing her escape was forever imprinted on her mind.
It’s 0900 and I’m going to write a narrative at 100words.com and then another one at 750words.com. You’d think I’d also be writing at my dear diary, but it’s no longer the fun place it once used to be and prosebox.com just seems like it’s not my home either. There are plenty of other places for me to write a narrative, but for the most part, my narrative is a series of photos, like at flickr.com. There’s also a site that will aggregate everything I’ve puked all over the Internet and that’s at rebelmouse.com.
Her life was littered with words unwritten, and worse with those that were half way there, barely held onto the page by a sentence or six. But such was the way of evolution; there would always be more bits and babies than would beget bits and babies of their own. It was a sad, to be sure, but it ensured that only the strongest narratives would survive.
Every time I write this same narrative,someone dies
I’ll give you a narrative of events from the past few days. The BASTARD ,really doesn’t ,NEVER EVER want a single thing to do with me or my life.
The narrative was cool, detached in a way that only a narrator can be. Factual, as though the things we were doing were alright. No, not even alright. Expected.
And that excuse was worse than anything.
across the eye
of splinter rains
I wade darkly
penetrated by night
passionless
a torn sail
singing backward
artless, a godless sun
reflects nothing
fists on the piano
yawing in deafness
if the demon had a name…
across the splinter
of darkness
I wade nightly
penetrated by the yaw
Short of a narrative of her entire life, Susan could not think of anything she could possibly write to fill the five page minimum.
“Why do English teachers love to torture students so much?” she asked Aaron, the sporty boy in the seat across from her (and, as it happened, as far from Mrs. Dunning as was possible to be). Susan often asked him rhetorical questions borne of the frustration she felt at the end of English each day; he actually answered them quite often, but he said the same thing each time.
“Because they hate kids.”
She thought about why that might be for a second, same as always, and drew a blank, same as always.
“Well what’s so hate-able about us?” Susan glared pointedly at the assignment guidelines on the board, bitterly envisioning the weekend ahead.
What makes a narrative?
A train of honest thoughts, pouring out onto the page?
A silent observer, carefully watching and saving their breath for a blank canvas?
An imperfectly perfect human, full of flaws; breathing, living, thinking.
Freedom, with the world encased in a single page.
If our life was narrated by a person.. wouldn’t it be arguably enjoyable? Everyone has that voice that used to hang around your head with whom you’d constantly have an argument with. Well now imagine that voice more solidified and much more louder. Criticizing , judging and annoying you every single waking moment. There are plenty of movies in which the main character can hear the narrative which is laden out and is understandably aggravated because of it. And honestly, if someone was to narrate my life I want that person to be the sassiest person in the whole universe.
This is a story, about a story, about the nature of stories. The story teller tells a teller of stories his own life story, in order to make clear recent history
She found it difficult to write about her own life. She didn’t understand it anyhow. All the empty words and fake people didn’t make much of a story. She much preferred the romantic getaways of other books, where heroines saved the day by merely being themselves.
The narrative to the play was in a word, boring. The man’s voice steady and neither rose nor lowered. It hurt his brain to try to listen the the droning of the play. He wondered why anyone, himself included, wasted their money so flippantly.
My mind flies into narrative text. A past lesson. Almost a year after the teacher taught me about narrative text. It begins with an introduction to the character, then grows into a conflict, later solution come. Solution. If my story, my life story, a story that myself as the protagonist character, is like narrative text, why the solution wouldn’t come? I think it because I haven’t die.
The narrative of my life.. would probably go something like oblivious, sad, happy, thoughtful.
Never. There is never enough time. Never enough to tell their narrative. To tell their tale. There is nothing to them. Nothing they are to each other. If they were to speak, they would lie to themselves and to each other. They cannot stand each other yet they are together. She does not understand it. They are liars. The both of them. They will never be anything but that.
She can’t imagine it. She can’t comprehend it. Not when she’s around him. Every word he says keeps her on edge. Every word. Every narrative he speaks of. She hears what he says. She listens to the words but does not hear their meaning. There is no meaning from one who lies so much. She turns and walks away.
Your words, your feelings, and your actions paint a story. The story is of your life. A narrative of all that is and all that will ever be. You can decide which colors to use and how much of each. In this narrative of life, you have all you need to succeed.
A story, a story about a person. Not just any person, but a person with thoughts, ideals, morals, and hardships. A story told through the perspective of one person and one person alone. The opportunity to see through the eyes of another.
writing is writing what ever it be
just jump into the world and what a life it will be
a time is just time
but your life is just your own to live is your life
and to not ne unknown
The narrative of a bird is the most interesting. Either if it’s light and dainty, or shrill and loud. It is always unique. It is always wondrous. It is always exciting. Much more than a narrative of a radio host.
a story, a gift from a person’s mind to the world
third person narrative is better than first person but hey anything’s good i guess don’t ask me i’m not very smart or anything i like saying i am though or at least pretending. this has legit nothing to do with the word narrative wow i suck.
The clock ticked, as he pounded away on his old keyboard. One line down. Now two. Ah, back to one, the second wasn’t very good anyway. So much for an easy paper. It’s three now, he still needs another page. He sighs, exhaling with melodic tap of the clock.
“How can you call this a story? The narrative’s way too scrambled! What the…?”
She continued to berate me and my fiction as she skimmed the pages, barely even glancing at the dialogue and prose that I had so laboriously worked on. Beside me, my tabby cat was scowling at her through narrow yellow eyes. He grumbled somewhat, rolled on his side, and pawed at me.
The narrative was long and boring, but I didn’t stop him. There were so many things you can learn about a person just by the way they tell you what they did over the weekend, even if all they did was sit and play video games.
scriptwriting your way through life when someone else seems to be holding the pen all the time. You can’t just cut when you want a new scene no matter how much you want to fade out.
This is when we talk. It includes all the details that a narrator would like to give us. Sometimes it is very minimal and cannot help us, but confuse us. Often though, it might be what catches our attention enough for us to want to read more than what we have been given. It can be used as a hook by an author of a short story or novel.
I love narrative poetry. I love stories in general, but there is something that is so exact, so beautiful about narrative poetry. The story is told, but in so few words. You can’t waste a single word on an incomplete thought or a sloppy description. Everything has to be exact. You can use one word to ruin everything…or choose a different word and create something so incredibly, breathtakingly perfect outsiders yearn for it.
Marriage is very much the same. Words are important. Use them wisely.
What about a narrative? Do you want me to define the word “narrative”? Or do you want me to give a narrative? Do I narrate a true story that happened within the 17 years and three weeks of my life, or do I come up with fictional characters through whom I live out my wildest fantasies? This is all so confusing. . .
It is hard to do it as so many has failed, but yet it is one of the biggest thing a writer can accomplish. Is that it, what you seek ?
once when I was in 10th grade english, we has to write 10 narratives about our lives. that was probably the best writing I have ever done. I wrote one about my best friend moving and one about my hair and one about the night my dad got arrested for an over due speeding ticket.
I am standing
from the branches of this narrative memory
to the lost simple mindedness of your essence
that feeling, numbness they call it, brushes its watery vines
against the skin of my heart.
I am standing
not far from the edge but close enough to comprehend
close enough to feel the chill breeze dragging its remorse
i am lost somewhere now, in the ocean of your mind
tossed into the core of this memory, crooked and torn;
upside down and backwards.
i am drowning.
A narrative is a short story that tells about a certain event. At least that’s the best definition that I can come up with right now. Why is this my word? Why couldn’t I have a more interesting word besides this. This is kinda stupid. Ummm I don’t know what else I should say. I like writing narratives. It’s my favorite thing to write.
life’s narrative
a script written in sand
being washed away
with every passing day
by the currents of time,
so rhyme, make rhythm
forgive, be forgiven
and wait until the tide takes you away
It’s a long story, depending who you hear it from. You won’t hear it from me though. I keep things too brief. Some call it simple, some call it sparse. And this story – it’s not all that dramatic. It’s from the interior. You wouldn’t even notice it was going on, to look at me.
life is one narrative that you cannot edit, you can only create it going forward. but unlike typical narratives life keeps repeating the same situations, so you have a chance to edit it in real time
He weaves a narrative effortlessly, accentuating every word with his slow, lilting voice so perfectly that for a moment, I am lost.