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Role of setting in story
Role of setting in story
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Suspense Personal Narrative Ada stepped in from the school door, eyeing her usual surroundings. Groups of teens chatted and laughed in the overcrowded hallway. She sighed. It was another normal morning at Albright High School, but she noticed an edge that was not usually present. Most likely because of the big announcement that the CEO of Benevisor Co. was coming to the school today to give students a chance to try their new, innovative Benevisor 10. The anticipation of getting to use the technology of the future excited Ada beyond belief. As she awkwardly waded through the crowd and towards her locker, an attractive guy with curly blonde hair was staring at her through the crowd, calculating. Feeling her cheeks burn red, she strided quicker, deliberately avoiding his gaze. However, the curly-haired guy followed her and quickly blocked her passage to the locker. …show more content…
As actual humans, you all will make the experience much more realistic for our other players.” She gasped, calling out for her friends, but they did not respond. With another wave of his hand, the boy made their bodies disappear. This could not be happening. “But… why? You realize that you’ll never get away with this when they find me.” She could hear him smile. “Part of the terms and conditions: ‘Benevisor Co. and its subsidiaries are not responsible for any loss of life or damage whatsoever.’ You know, you should really read the terms and conditions once in a while.” She was sobbing now, “Please… please…” “And, by the way, your wish of wanting people to notice you and your artwork really put a different spin on today’s game. However, you don’t even want people to see it. I guess your preoccupation with that is why you lose in the
"You're afraid of your own son," she cried, struggling. "Let me go. I'm coming, Herbert; I'm coming."
Daisy’s face was filled with fear as she slowly stood up and walked around the room. “She was…she was killed?” Daisy questioned in a trembling voice.
The Hero’s Journey is a basic template utilized by writers everywhere. Joseph Campbell, an American scholar, analyzed an abundance of myths and literature and decided that almost all of them followed a template that has around twelve steps. He would call these steps the Hero’s Journey. The steps to the Hero’s Journey are a hero is born into ordinary circumstances, call to adventure/action, refusal of call, a push to go on the journey, aid by mentor, a crossing of the threshold, the hero is tested, defeat of a villain, possible prize, hero goes home. The Hero’s Journey is more or less the same journey every time. It is a circular pattern used in stories or myths.
Personally Saturday nights are my favorite, and I followed the same routine every weekend. So why would this weekend be any different? My room felt cozy as I looked up time to time to see my twinkling Christmas lights I leave up all year. I loved how the sweet scent of vanilla filled up the plain air of my bedroom. Wearing my biggest sweatshirt that dangled at my fingertips, I sat on my bed leaning comfortably on my pillows. Every now and then, the sound of a notification would break the sound of silence. This is how I preferred my Saturday nights to be.
He pressed back into the seat, as though to hide, and noticed an exceptionally pretty, small blond girl enter the bar, with a guy, who was tall to her small, dark to her blonde and lean to her curvaceousness. He was dressed in a red shirt hanging over black jeans, had a beard, and very pale face. She shone like a lamp beside him. He watched them covertly.
In the year 1987 a small suspiciously looking town called Golden Creek there was a young FBI Agent that came to investigate a crime. Before coming here I heard about a tale about a Serial Killer That goes around chopping off people’s heads. Which people now call him The Phantom Killer as no one is ever able to spot him until the very last second when they see blood splashing before them in pain.
A twelve year old young lady named Jamie Kelly lives in a major house with her puppy, Stinker, and her mother and father. She goes to Mackerel Middle School. Her closest companion is eleven year old Isabella. Her unbest companion is Angeline. Jamie is compelled to compose this journal. She realizes that her past journals have been silly so she flushes them out of her head.
The child was pulled away by his mother and the two quickly disappeared into the crowd. “……” My head began pounding as I tried to figure out what was going on. ‘The last thing I remember…. Oh
It made him upset. So, he continued to class. While he was in class he thought he had seen her walking down the hall. He was excited with tears in his eyes and opened the door. Nobody was in the hallway except the janitor sweeping down the hallway.
The sun cast Shadows across the length of the van, highlighting their almost drunk and smiles. The seven right in the middle of the rickety metal vehicle; wild and in the middle of nowhere they could only dream of getting the truth. Her head rested on his shoulder rocking softly with the rise and fall of each breath.
“Lindsey, grab Precious and go hide under the table,” I ran to the door, the screeches getting louder and louder.
What happened and who are you.” The boy says not quite organizing his thoughts but the mysterious female voice still understands the meaning. “Why is this so important to you? People get hurt, disappear, and die every day so why do you care? Most people in this situation would mind their own business.”
Girl bit her lower lip. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to do what she was planning to do but on other hand, she was sure that there was nothing to lose. She stood up, tided her skirt then picked some random magazines from a shelf and started to walk through the room. She was hoping that the guy will raise his eyes and smile to her but he didn’t.
“If I make a painting, it should be seen for what it’s set out to do too. A lot of the things that I do, it’s not all art. Some of it’s design, some of it’s illustration, some of it’s is graphics, some of it’s concept, some of it’s business and some of it, hopefully, is art,”
Lockers may have slammed, Miss Popularity may have pouted, but everything stopped for me. All I saw was him. It felt like someone had reached down my throat and, with strong fingers, drew my breath and stomach from my trembling body. His sapphire eyes drilled deep into my heart, and every nuance of his face became eternally etched into my mind. The tall, thin body stood out like a glistening jewel among the dull coal of the locker bay. Sensing my eyes burning deep into him, he turned around and said, "Ah, sorry. My bad." The words were spoken by a voice that could talk a m...