Personal Narrative Fiction

Edgar Allan Poe and Nathaniel Hawthorne are the great Gothic writers of the 19th century. Gothic in the 19th century was considered gritty, grim and barbarous, depending on the author you come across. It is what brought the unconscious mind, also known as altered states, to the surface. The unconscious mind being, the fear you don’t seek. Most of the time, in your dreams—or what you think to be your dreams. The unconscious mind shows you that with great hope, also comes great fear. It makes you think about the darkness you fear and creates it into your Gothic, which is why it scares you. Poe and Hawthorne both made Gothic their own versions of their fears and they did it well.

One morning, when I shook Sarah’s hand, she didn’t wake up. Her hand felt cold, so I pulled her yellow blanket up around her shoulders. I crawled back into my own bed and waited. Every few minutes I called, “Where’s Sarah?”, but she just kept on sleeping.

“We’ve been running from his people for as long as I can remember,” complained Kyle

"What does this friend of yours look like?" asked Judy, taking notes the entire time

After several rings, the phone is answered in the master suite of Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm DeWitt.

Nell passed out trays to the customers, just like she usually did, but this time, it was quietly and sadly, not like her usual self. Even though the coffeehouse the packed full with men, the whole place was filled with sadness and despair. “Poor Mattie, why did she have to go?” cried Nathaniel, leaning over the ornate coffin.

“I hate to change the subject so suddenly, but there’s a tall, good looking guy pacing up and down right under our window, and Musa?” Stella said, giving her friend a cheeky smile, pointing a slender finger to the ground. “I think he wants to see you.”

“That’s okay. I’m Dylan. Dylan Siro,” he said, nodding his head with a polite smile. “Oh and you’re going to need this.” He stuck his hand in his boot, pulled something shiny out, and placed it in my hand. The heavy object he gave me was a small plasma pistol. I didn’t know much about the weapons we brought with us, but one thing I did know was that the plasma guns were the most destructive.

“Debbie, how many times do I have to tell you not to hang out with those people it just makes us look poor and plain out disgusting!” her mother said as Debbie slung open the front door and began to run upstairs. “I don’t care what you say; they are and always will be my friends sorry they don’t mean your standards!” She exclaimed sarcastically from the top of the twisting stairwell. I hate this lifestyle; I don’t want to be just another executive’s kid who shuns everyone else just because they don’t live like me. She whispered lying on her bed. “Go away!” she yelled as she heard her dad violently knock on the door. So much for having privacy she thought as he slung the door open. “Why do you constantly go against what we say?” Her father asked

The voice drifted into the man’s consciousness, forcing him to open his eyes. Blinking he forced himself to focus on his surroundings. Strapped to the passenger seat he dangled across the cab, hanging into the driver’s side, which had mostly been torn away by the wall the vehicle was against. No, not a wall, the ground. He shook his head. The vehicle was on its side, crumpled with windows smashed and scattered across the cab. Blood was dripping past his face too. He reached up to the pain throbbing through his head and touched something sticky. Pulling his hand away coated in red he realized where the blood was dripping from.

Marco Diaz, now at the age of 22, walked out of his dojo when it happened.

Jonathan arrived home, dropped his bag on the ground, his shoulders sore from carrying it around all day, and began scanning his surroundings for signs of disturbance caused by his wonderful ol’ demon pal. To his surprise, he found nothing, or at least not anything that he could see at the moment. He walked to the kitchen to grab something to eat, and glanced around the room, and again found nothing that would show that Sock had been up to something while he was gone. As this was highly unusual, he guessed that the kid had probably done something in and/or to his room.

Slowly, my feet dragged behind me as I walked through the pouring rain in the streets and in my soaking wet pajamas; I had no recognition of the time that I've been out here but I did know that it was sometime in the dead morning between two and three o'clock. The only thing that I knew was that I was heading back home at a sluggish pace, shaking.

The button had been pushed. The flames reminded me of the warm-colored walls in her house. As I stood behind the glass, feeling that same heat that diffused into her body; I watched her become ashes. As I witnessed my older brother break down, I questioned if I had the strength to face reality. Although I outshine my brothers at being prudent and reliable, I have always found it hard to say that I am the bravest. Normally, I felt inferior to them because they met society's standards of strength, just by being born male. Whenever my brothers said, “you can’t play Yu-Gi-Oh with us” or “you can’t beat me,” I believed that I wasn’t good enough to do “boy things” with them. I started to underestimate myself. Since I had never been to a cremation before, I didn’t know that my fear of needles and bugs were nothing compared to watching a body burn.

A light tapping on my door dissolves the image. I wipe my eyes before resting myself on my elbows and call out, “Come in.”