descriptive personal narrative

 descriptive personal narrative

006 descriptive personal narrative observation a narrative description The Supermarket

The Supermarket 

The other day I walked into the supermarket to buy a box of Kleenex. 

I was faced with a variety of colors, textures, box designs, and even the option of aloe. 

All these features designed for a product to blow my nose into! 

Selection wasn't limited to the Kleenex section, either…I found abundance in every aisle.

We seem to always want more - more choices, more variety, more time. In fact, even the word "supermarket" implies a desire for more than just a simple market. 

No longer just a place to buy food, the supermarket has become a place to cash a check, buy a birthday card, or pick up some tulip bulbs. 

These new extras are all centered on the idea of convenience. 

We all hope to find a few extra moments in our days, so supermarkets offer us a way to save time. 

I'll be the first to admit that buying three things at the same store is nicer than driving across town. Saving time can definitely be a good thing. 

Variety is another "more" I found on my trip to the supermarket. In the refrigerator case alone I found over thirty kinds of cheese. ...

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http://grammar.ccc.commnet.edu/grammar/composition/narrative.htm

Writing a Narrative composition appeals to one of humankind's basic instincts,

the impulse to share stories.

Sometimes the aim of the story-teller is simply to entertain, to provide a moment of escape from the business of the day or the horrors of the night, but sometimes the aim of the story-teller is to instruct, to help others in their understanding of something.

The best part of teaching in this way is that our listeners' natural resistance to heeding the words of others is low and they are not always aware that they are being taught anything until it's too late – we've got them.

aim  of   objetivo do

heeding  the words -- dar ouvidos às

aware conscientes, cientes avisados

The skills needed to narrate a story well are not entirely the same as the skills needed to write a good essay.

Some wonderful short fiction writers are not particularly good essayists and vice versa. Still, it is useful to look at those elements that make up a good narrative and know how to apply what we learn toward making our essays as dramatic as possible whenever that is appropriate.

Review, also, the elements of the Personal Essay, as the personal essay and the narrative essay have much in common.

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Writing a NARRATIVE composition appeals to one of humankind's basic instincts, study mode descriptive personal narrative observation a narrative description : The Supermarket 

The scene in a busy supermarket:

Slowly, slowly drifting a light breeze passes by. 

Swiftly grasping the dust bunnies and taking them along for the ride. 

Gliding, gliding gradually across the marbled floor, in pure silence they drift. 

Clink, you hear clinking, it’s the wheels. 

They turn round and round in harmony; they turn and glide, rubbing just slightly against the shelves. 

Thin metal bars trailing upwards to meet their horizontal acquaintances. 

Filled with multicultural provisions, filled almost to the top, with savoury, sweet, bakery edibles. Squeak. The sound of shoes, new shoes, squeaking. Squeak. 

They have yet to be broken in; some air is being compressed as they take each step with ease. Squeak, squeak, squeak. More shoes, more feet, more people. 

Small feet, large feet, small shoes, large shoes, heels, flats, sneakers, pumps. All stepping, stepping across the marble floor displaying the colour and life their feet bring. Like rain, rain droplets they pitter patter across the marbled floor, getting faster, some getting slower. 

The tapping of the shoes brings music to some.

https://sites.google.com/site/englishwith10l/home/descriptive-writing

https://docs.google.com/presentation/d/1DQa8R_IuCe32NfyuDYRbcyfVzGGTj2RLqGJDMK4Gb4Q/edit?hl=en#slide=id.gba003d9_0_103

https://docs.google.com/presentation/d/1cK5IXqt0xp3uGqoDqeXxj360jPo442XIDRm1LS5oCCM/edit#slide=id.i65

A small child., barely tall enough to reach the conveyer belt, he reaches, reaches for the glass jar of strawberry jam. He must like jam. 

Especially strawberry. Reaching, hand held high above his head, he jumps, fails, tip toes in attempt to reach the red jar which contains strawberry jam with bits. 

Like a ballerina his toes are pointed, almost got it, he slips, slips on the marbled floor, the marble floor of the supermarket. He had just clasped the jar, it fell.

Drifting, drifting through space it seemed. The jar, it reaches the floor almost effortlessly breaking, letting loose the red strawberry jam with bits. 

The noise was not to be heard, not in this uproar of voices, not in the crowd of quarrellers, not in the yells of petty arguments between children over sweets. Not in the thirty-two isled supermarket. Almost instantly the red jam covers the area of two tiles which make up the marbled floor. The boy turns, walks off towards his mother I presume.

Seven people, seven heads, fourteen eyes and fourteen ears, yet not one of them saw or heard the death of the jam. Slowly oozing across the marbled floor, the red strawberry jam continues its journey. Hands, many hands, all grabbing. 

Yellow signs plastered across the store, ‘two for three’, ‘buy one get one free’, ‘special offers’, the reason to this manic crowd, everybody loves a good price crunch. Hands, many hands, all grabbing.

The small childs mother amongst many other parents and individuals, she’s reading, with compassion it may seem. However not. 

She’s reading the calories, the fat content, the salt, the sugar. The back of the yogurt presumably for her son. Agitation builds within the boy, he cannot wait, he grabs his mothers sea blue dress and tugs. Tugs once, then twice, until he receives her attention. He points his miniature finger towards the chocolate mousse. 

He grins, he pleads, and he is silenced by the brief shake of head by the tall woman, his mother. Hands, hands briefly greeting the jars and tins on the shelves, just briefly the immense hope of being picked is indented within the jars, tins.

The rhythmic beep of the scanner by the cashier, as the red dot of light entertains those young eyes. The whoosh of air that passes as each item is dragged across the scanner, the graceful sweeping of plastic bags being relieved from the metallic holder as they are pack with goodies and veggies for the household.

The queue so long  filled with colour, shapes and sizes.

Trolleys over here, baskets over there, indifference is exposed to the metal holders as the occupants relieve them of the weight they hold and transfer it to the trusty plastic bags. Branded, branded with he name of the store. 

Exiting through the automatic doors as greeted fare well. A day ended for some but the beginning for others. The uproar tones down but just a little as the parents continue to bicker with their children, as the employee’s apologise for their errors, as the individuals quarrel over what to get and what not, and of course lastly, the gliding of wheels across the marbled floor.