this is the narrative i wrote for school, Im really proud of it so im putting it on here, i changed mine and my sisters name so it wont come up if anyone googles my name, or my sisters name. Hope you enjoy it. It is a true story.
Glass Clock Table.
“Go, greased lightnin', you're burnin' up the quarter mile Greased lightnin', go greased lightnin'
Go, greased lightnin', you're coastin' through the heat lap trials
Greased lightnin', go greased lightnin'
You are supreme, the chicks'll cream for greased lightnin'”
My older sister, M and I were dancing in the living room to one of our favorite songs. We were ecstatic because there was no school that day beacause there was a blizzard outside. I loved the snow and now there will be tons of it on the ground. I was twirling and whirling around to the song. The end of the song was coming; I got on my mom’s antique glass clock table for the big finale.
“Lightning, lightning, lightning .Lightning, lightning, lightning “
M grabbed my arm to pull me off the table for the end of the song….
“Lightning!” Crash! Glass flew everywhere, shattering in a million little pieces. Sharp, icicles piercing, tearing the skin on my elbow apart.
I fell onto the glass table, my arm breaking the glass. I was terrified of what I had done. What was my mom was going to say? Being the intelligent first grader I was, I skedaddled out of there as fast as I could, and hid in the closet underneath the stairs; I was safe.
I hear my sister yelling. “Mooooooom!! A broke your table!”
I heard my mom running down the stairs, her footsteps making a thundering sound above me. I heard her yelling in anger about her antique table destroyed. I thought I was safe she couldn’t see me. Then the door opened. My dad had found me. He grabbed a washcloth and pressed it to my elbow as we sat down next to the stairs.
My mom continued yelling from the living room, probably to my sister. “How many times have I told you not to go in the living room!!! And not to go on the glass table!!!”
My dad barked back “Pam! Shut up!! She is bleeding to death. Jeez, we are going to have to take her to the hospital!”
My mom shut up as she walked over to where we are sitting. I was crying…. Still a little terrified at what had happened I then realized that I’m bleeding. Blood gushed out of my elbow, my dad trying to keep himself together, he is faintish around blood. “OK, let’s get her to the hospital.”
The next thing I knew my arm was bandaged with an ace bandage and I’m in the back seat of the minivan driving through the blizzard to the hospital. I stare out of the window looking at the snowflakes fall down. Earlier on that day my sister and I have been pretending to be snowflakes… what happened to that? My arm stung, but I tried not to pay attention to it.
We got to the hospital. I sat in the emergency waiting room to me it was more like a white hallway. My name was called and I was taken into a dark room where they had me put my elbow on the table then my dad left me there and stood in a different room, leaving me all alone with a scary machine. Beep. I was then told to sit in the waiting room again. I read the book my dad got me, “Rabbit Gets Lost.” Finally they came and got us again. They showed us a room and told me that I was going to get stitches. The doctor asked what color I wanted and I choose rainbow. A nurse came, and then gave me a shot then started to spray some water on it. My dad nudges me and shows me the book he got me, I read out loud to him. A few minutes later I still feel the nice ice cold mist of water being sprayed… they still can’t be spraying water. I glanced over to my elbow; the doctor was sowing my elbow up. I looked away as fast as I could and returned to my book, trying to get that image out of my head, I never have. They finished sewing up my arm and laughed when I realized that my supposedly rainbow stitches were not rainbow, but black.
When I got home my mom and sisters were waiting for me. M and I were told that we were not allowed to touch any furniture, except our beds, for a week. We were never so excited to sit down on a chair again and we never played around my mom’s glass table again.
Subject: Narrative glass table 
Thu May 01, 2008 9:10 am
