#narrative essay

[hayatheauthor]

i had this submission for a narrative essay comp that somehow blew my english teacher's mind and 'left him close to tears' so now I'm wondering if I should soft drop this on my socials

#yk since the whole 'the essay that made my eng teacher cry' thing is a tiktok trend rn #please tell me you've seen the trend #haya: talks #narrative essay #essay writing #personal essay #critical thinking #publishing #food for thought

[hanselbelle]

The Heart of Sunnyville III

Before Aling Tesa’s roosters crow, vehicles of the elders who must go to work sneak out of the gates of Sunnyville 3. With the sun not out, the stars and moon dominating the dark blue sky, the school services of the children come and go unnoticed, except, if you’re listening close enough, for the murmurs of their parents’ goodbye. 

A hint of red appears in the sky; red turns to orange; orange turns to yellow: the sun has risen up, telling the moon and the stars to go to sleep, and saying hello to the subdivision as it engulfs the entire place with its brightness and warmth. The plants in front of each house light up at the kiss of their friend, their roots that are buried deep into the soil inside their pots grow longer and thicker, their stems and petals become vibrant in delight. Smiling old women grab their watering cans to water their lovely plants until their smiles turn into grins at the sight of them blooming. Some of these women stay in front of their houses to bask in the sunlight to get their Vitamin D, some will return back inside to prepare breakfast for their grandchildren who are not old enough for school yet. But not Aling Remy: she refills her watering cans to water the plants at the park. In turn, the mango and banana trees sprout fruit for Aling Remy to take. 

The peace is disrupted by the time the owner of the dogs, and the parents with their infant or toddler walk around the now sunny Sunnyville. They walk around the five long streets, walking through the crevices between houses. The elders chat, the dogs bark at each other, the infants and toddlers babble and laugh, and in the middle of Sunnyville where all the streets lead to, there lies the heart of this place: the park that owes its being to Aling Remy. There they meet, welcomed by the stray dogs and cats who claimed it; acting like kings and queens who demand food from their visitors. At the park, nature is alive. There the fresh wind blows, the earthy smell of soil ushers the passersby to sit on the bench and join the conversation of those who are already there. 

Four houses down the park, an elevated bungalow with concrete rails stands quaintly surrounded by two-or-more-story modern houses. My tiny body sits on its concrete rail with my uncle’s camera at hand, filming the scenery until my great-grandma beckons me inside to make me breakfast because I am not old enough to go to school yet.

Moss covered our concrete front porch, basella alba serves as the curtain of the porch which my uncle and father trim twice a month. Potted plants line up on either side of the stairs, syngonium in wilkins bottle pots are hanging on the wall beside the door. Three plastic chairs outside by the window: a perfect place to bask in the sun early in the morning, that is, when basella alba are recently cut. 

Opening our oak wood door allows the breeze to pass through the wind chime, eliciting a cadence of the soothing clang of clapper against the tiny iron tubes. The walls are painted lime green, the pecan-colored laminated floor smooth beneath my bare feet after I stepped out of our grey welcome mat. Above the door frame is a portrait of my two younger sisters and me drawn by my father, next to it is a plain brown-framed square wall clock. By the window, an old tube TV was on a black stand. Across is a brown sofa set with duct tapes instead of stitches — in my uncle’s defense, bringing it to an upholsterer might damage it more. In the middle is a round hickory brown coffee table where I prefer to sit despite the chidings of the elders; they say being close to the TV will harm my eyesight. Little did they know, I find myself more adorable wearing eyeglasses. The spaciousness of our living room obliges us to run, and even ride our bikes with training wheels without worrying about destroying anything. 

Connected to the living room is the dining room; its walls are decorated with long narrow portraits of Chinese art, and a mirror large enough to fill half the measure of the wall. There is the extended wooden dining table; extended when my father’s family grew up. The chairs, like the table, are wooden. Three out of ten of those chairs have pillows on them, so the children can reach their food. A door in the living room is my uncle’s bedroom, while the one in the dining room is my father’s. Between is where the bathroom is located. 

As my uncle got a job abroad, his room got converted into my siblings' and my room. A full-sized bed, two study tables, and a large dresser are inside. The window has a sill where I like to kneel, with my elbows on the window frame, my cheeks on my palms. On the wall are posters of various cartoon characters, and yet another portrait of me and my siblings. I deemed the corner as a solitary space: a space enough for my body to fit, serene enough to fill my imagination with books and k-zone magazines on my lap. This area I love for obscure reasons is the area that gave me a wonderful childhood; an area that taught me to love quietness and stories. 

In my parents’ room, which has been my father’s room since he was a teen, has its walls covered in band posters, paintings, and doodles. My mother once had complained about it, insisting to have it repainted, but my father would disagree saying that his room is the sole reminder of his creative youth. Though a mere child, I find his argument hypocritical, for he would pinch my sister’s hip whenever he would find a pencil or crayon-drawn stick figures on the wall. 

The kitchen is my least favorite part of the house: located at the very back, the light dimmed, and unnervingly silent. Once, a family friend who claimed to have her third eye open, said a white lady lives beside the sink. I always wondered if that is the reason why my great-grandmother and grandparents live in a separate house, preferring to visit us in the morning and afternoon, and would haste to leave before dusk. 

At four in the afternoon, after waking up from a long nap, hours after my school service escorts me back home: I kiss my mother’s cheeks before coming down to our moss-covered stairs that used to be perilous for my younger self. 

Kuya Aiden, a boy four years older than me, awaits me on the basketball court with our other friends. Roaring shouts of young boys are tolerated until six, but until then, their thundering voices are heard throughout the subdivision along with the cheers of the watchers. 

By the time we get bored, we will go back to our respective houses to grab our bikes (mine with training wheels) and meet each other in front of Ate Diane’s house across the park. The wind, as I like to think, greets me when it whistles, making the leaves of the trees rustle in response, as though greeting me just as exuberantly as the wind. “You’re punctual,” my friends often tease me, laughing and jabbing my sides, saying that I must have gotten awards for being the most punctual student in the class. I laugh, of course, I laugh hard as they do. I appease them with a nod of my head, agreeing that I was snubbed for not receiving the said award. Call me selfish if the reader must, but I enjoy the hug of the coolness of the park. Its whistles and breeze are made for me. The park might be our rendezvous, but it is I’s and the wind’s tryst. 

The laughter winds down (no pun intended), the jokes get old, Kuya Aiden pedals his bike, and we follow him like his own little army. This is the part where the residents complain; whining at how loud my friends’ hollers are, how the thuds of our bikes clatter when we pass the rumble streets, the continued hitting of the bells of our bikes that some confuse as the bell of Mamang Binatog: grumpy residents learned to hate afternoons because of us, but who does not love the noise of the laughter of the children besides old people? Certainly, not the streets of Sunnyville, for as we pedal faster and louder, the sun shines brighter causing sweat to trickle down our backs and faces, the swoosh that trails us — Sunnyville, I believe, thanks us by filling the noiseless void of its streets. Along with the singing of the birds and the barks of the dogs, we fill it with the colors of our fast-ending youth. 

On the third left turn from the park, on the third street, we are met by an intimidating slope. It is steep, and when one mistakenly swerves their handlebar, one might crash into a house that forces one to roll down the slope and end up wounded. Young, dumb, and free as we are, we take the danger as a challenge, especially me, who has training wheels — what should I fear? The wound will hurt, sure, but the wound will heal. I may fall, but the concretes of Sunnyville will catch me. My pride is bigger than the number of wounds I can get, and so I push the pedal forward with my tiny feet: at the tender age of 10, I have never felt more alive. 

Once drenched and reeking, Kuya Aiden looks up at the setting sun knowing it is his responsibility to bring us home before dark. It is the sun’s call to stop us from exhausting ourselves, the moon and star’s duty to guide us home safe if we ever decide to stay for a while, and if we do stay until the night, the gates of the subdivision protect us from the harm the outside may bring. And so the blue sky turns to yellow, to orange, to red, and to black; the court turns mute; the streets silent — Kuya Aiden flicks his flashlight on, and a little army of ants in a colony that we are, we follow our leader to lead us back to our homes. 

The joke of punctuality is now long forgotten among our group of friends, it is replaced by “when’s the wedding?” and “yies” and coos directed to Kuya Aiden and me. He responds with a hearty laugh whenever the joke is brought up, not knowing the concept of love, but dreaming and seeking it as an oblivious teenager. I, too, laugh, and unlike Kuya Aiden, I have found love in the solitary of the night the park gives. 

Eight in the evening is the perfect time for him to pick me up from home; the perfect time to walk down the streets towards the park; the perfect time to look at the night sky; the perfect time to gaze up at Orion; the perfect time to appreciate the hues of orange emitted by the street lights; the perfect time to hold his strong arm — the perfect time to be. 

Stray cats and dogs are already fed at this time, all are sleeping soundly on the benches and stone tables. We pick up the cats on the bench we prefer to sit, place them on our laps and pet them until they go back to their deep slumbers. Under the night sky with trees hovering over us, Sunnyville knows better than to assume Kuya Aiden and I are the lovers in this scenario. Sunnyville knows my love for the park: it saw the way I gaped at the park when I was 4, it knows the reason why I hurry to bike my way to feel the breeze before my friends could when I was 9, and it understands why I bring my best friend there with me every chance I can get at night when I turned 14. 

With the serenity of the dark, the hushed conversations and secrets we say are guarded by the trees who swore not to tell anyone. At the park, we are honest and bold: we unleash our skeletons from our closet, we talk about the things we’re not supposed to talk about, and we confess our infatuations for the people we are not supposed to love. At the park, he cried when he loved a man. The coldness envelopes us with comfort and assurance, the park lets us be us without judgment. At the heart of Sunnyville, my heart first beat for love, and at 15, when my uncle sold our house to move to another place, my heart broke into two: I buried the other half deep into the soil of the park, hoping it will sow another tree and will bear a fruit for Aling Remy to take.  

#Descriptive narrative essay #storytelling #narrative essay #prose

[booloocrew-blog]

And now for something completely different...

I made a project for college on my Fibbage 4 win (the topic was "What was a life changing event in your life, and what did you learn from it?"), complete with original drawings, never-before-seen screenshots, and even an exclusive outtake!

Since I already presented to my English 101 class (to good reception), I figured I'd share this with the world.

And special thanks to @guess-who-got-a-hellsite-account, @weaponsdrawn, and @riverkath for not only being my friends, but also for sharing in this victory with me. Your chat messages are in this video as thanks and as evidence in this virtual essay.

#booloojack #jackbox #jackbox games #fibbage 4 #booloo personal #school project #narrative essay #digital narrative essay #booloo favorites #contest winner #national contest winner #Youtube

[jheamarganas]

Jersey No. 18

Volleyball has been a central part of my life for as long as I can remember. From the moment I first stepped onto the court, I was hooked. The sound of the ball hitting the floor, the rush of adrenaline as I dove for a dig, the pure joy of executing a perfectly timed spike – all of these moments have solidified my love for the sport. Over the years, volleyball has taught me countless lessons that extend far beyond the court. I have learned the importance of teamwork, communication, and perseverance. I have experienced the thrill of victory and the sting of defeat. I have faced setbacks and challenges, but each time I have bounced back stronger and more determined than before. Volleyball has also brought me some of the most meaningful friendships and relationships in my life. The bonds that I have formed with my teammates have transcended the game itself. We have supported each other through thick and thin, celebrated each other’s victories, and lifted each other up in times of need. These friendships have been a source of strength and joy for me, and I am forever grateful for the connections I have made through volleyball. Besides The sport has shaped me into the person I am today. Volleyball will always hold a special place in my heart, thus I am excited to see where this sport will take me in the future.

#narrative essay #volleyball

[cjjasp]

Writing the Short Story part 2: The Narrative Essay #amwriting

This is part two of a series on writing short fiction. One of my favorite forms of short fiction to read is the narrative essay. For indie authors who wish to earn actual money from their writing, the narrative essay is often more salable and appeals to a broader audience. Narrative essays are drawn directly from real life, but they are fictionalized accounts. They detail an incident or event and…

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#narrative essay #short literary essay #writing #writing short fiction

[druid-for-hire]

[images ID: three images of a comic titled "one must imagine sisyphus happy" by druid-for-hire. it is a visual narrative beginning with someone with wrist pain (depicted by bright orange nerves) working at a drafting table. the reader is shown the same wrist as the person uses it for many everyday tasks such as carrying a grocery basket, pushing elevator buttons, typing, and doing dishes, until the pain dissolves all the panels into chaos. the person then performs several physical therapy exercises until the pain subsides. they sit back down at a desk with their laptop, sigh, and begin typing. a small spark of pain reappears. end id]

a fun little piece i made during the semester and submitted into our school comic anthology! (which you can buy at the Static Fish table at MoCCAFest in NYC ;] ). it's about artists and injury

#comic art #comics #original comic #chronic pain #carpal tunnel #tendonitis #my art #original #edit: what a delightful surprise to see this take off #this was made for class on very low fuel and very few thoughts and late at night and exhausted #the prompt was just a wordless narrative essay. three pages. and i had nothing and no ideas #and my head hurt and i was too tired to think about doing any of the like. research and mind mapping and ideating i'd do otherwise #but my arm hurt #so i decided to do a thing about arm hurty #i'm surprised to see so many people finding it resonating with them #but then again i shouldn't be. the universal lies in the specific #i should make more things about smaller stuff

[cravefiction]

Yellow Footprints

A young woman with shoulder length, sand-colored curls lay entwined in her lover's arms, a thin top sheet the only thing covering their bare bodies. With her left pointer finger, she traced a faded black and white tattoo on her lover's forearm. The Greek letters spelled out the Latin phrase 'Semper Fidelis,' which Dan had once told her meant 'Always Faithful.' Goosebumps erupted in the wake of her touch, and Dan shifted in his place behind her.

"What are you thinking about?"

He always knew when something was on her mind, and he never failed to ask after her thoughts. It was a stark contrast to her last lover, who had little care for her feelings, even when she was crying in front of him. The difference was jarring, and for a reason unknown to the young woman, she found it difficult to confide her true thoughts in Dan. It might have been the intimidating aura he gave off, or maybe it was their significant age difference that made her worry he would find her childish. Whatever the reason, Allison usually would end up telling him an edited version of her thoughts or blurting out something nonsensical and embarrassing.

"Nothing, really."

A blatant lie. Her head was so full of thoughts, she thought they might consume her. That wasn't new to Allison, and she had long convinced herself that Dan wouldn't want to be burdened with the truth of her storm-blown mind. Silence followed her lie. She ignored the little voice in the back of her mind that hoped Dan would press her for the truth. He didn't. As he settled against her back and drifted off, she shoved down her disappointment, both in him, and herself. Instead, she lay awake, and let herself spiral into her ever present anxieties.

The present semester had started a few months ago. Desperate to meet her family's expectations (namely her mother's), she had changed her major for the third time, hoping this one might inspire her to stick with classes. It hadn't. With half the semester left to go, she was already failing three out of her four classes. No matter what she did, Allison couldn't bring herself to attend classes past the first few weeks. They bored her, and the pile of homework was so overwhelming, it made a terrible feeling she couldn't name claw at her throat. She had struggled with school since sixth grade, failing enough classes to require summer school twice. With each failure, her confidence dropped until she became convinced she was just stupid. Her parents thought she was lazy. They became increasingly furious with what they considered her lackluster effort until one day, they blew up. Her father later said it was supposed to motivate her to pass. She'd made it through high school by the skin of her teeth. Now in college, his words had haunted her along with every failure.

If you don't pass your classes and at least get your diploma, you'll end up with no way to support yourself except as a prostitute! Is that what you want?

Almost four years later, when others from her class were just a few months away from earning their degrees, Allison had a grand total of nine credits and a score of incompletes. It made her want to scream and toss all her books out of her car window, but she was desperate not to disappoint her parents. So, she kept going, finding the time for classes in between her forty, sometimes fifty-hour work weeks at Turkey Hill.

The convenience store had been a much-needed escape from her tumultuous home life for the last three years. She worked hard and took on as many extra shifts as she could, so that she wouldn't have to go home until her family was asleep. Since she started getting serious with Dan, she spent most evenings in his bed, only going home to wash clothes. Unfortunately, she had secured a job for her ex-boyfriend at Turkey Hill after they had broken up. From a place of refuge, her job became another source of stress.

With a sigh, Allison forced her thoughts away from the man who had caused her nothing but pain and turned her thoughts to the one pressed against her back. She looked down at the arm wrapped around her waist, eyes tracing over the tattoo again. The words were Dan's tribute to his years in the Marine Corps. The way he reminisced with fondness about his former comrades, deployments, and the ridiculous and often dangerous shenanigans he got into as a young Marine sent an unfamiliar shiver of excitement through her. He had done and seen so much. Was that the reason for his quiet confidence and intimidating air? Would she be able to do amazing things? Could she also learn to feel comfortable in her own skin?

Then, the image of her mother's face, drawn, with once bright blue eyes listless and her lips stuck in a permanent reflection of her grief, rose in her head to combat the hopeful thoughts. At the tender age of three, Allison had watched as the paramedics rushed mommy to the ER to stitch up the bloody, too-deep lines carved down the length of both her arms. Her father dropped her off at the babysitters with little word of comfort or explanation of what was happening. Several other children played on the wooden play set in the backyard without a care in the world. She sat alone on the top deck of the pretend pirate ship, waiting with dread for daddy to come back and tell her that mommy was gone. She didn't cry. Couldn't. There was a strange hollowness in her chest that she'd never felt before, blocking the tears from coming. While the other children ran about the yard, fighting imaginary enemies with play swords, little Allison wondered what she had done to make her mother so sad that she hurt herself. All she had wanted was for mommy to unlock the door and play with her. That day, she promised to be a better daughter, to make her mom happy so she would never have to hurt herself again. Since then, she'd done whatever she could to keep Kelly from slipping back into that darkest of places, even if that meant keeping her own feelings locked away.

How could Allison even think of leaving? How could she be that selfish? And who would take care of mom if she left? Her brothers and father weren't up to the task, and Angie, her mom's new girlfriend, was too new to the family to be burdened with it. No. Joining the military was nothing but a selfish, fleeting thought that needed to be buried and forgotten.

For months, Allison thought of nothing but school, work, and her mom. Her relationship with Dan didn't last long, giving her another reason to put the Marines out of her mind. No matter how hard she tried, however, the idea pricked at the back of her mind again and again. Like the needles of a tattoo gun carving a picture into her skin, the image of herself in that tan camo uniform, hair pulled tight into a sleek bun, and sleeves rolled and pressed with a perfect edge, was inked into her skull.

She distracted herself with another lover, a man twice her age with four fire-haired children. He showered her with compliments, always reminding her of how beautiful or smart he thought she was. She almost believed it, wanted him to be right more than anything. He made her feel wanted. She adored the two youngest children, and the relationship between Chris and his teenage daughter had eerie parallels to her own relationship with her parents. The girl, who was only a few years younger than her, went back and forth between keeping her feelings locked away, to lashing out at her dad, who she blamed for their mother leaving. Chris responded in kind by coming down hard on his oldest child, treating the smallest of mistakes like they would ruin the girl's entire future. If Chris had some perspective from someone closer to his daughter's age, maybe she could help their relationship heal. It was selfish of Allison to dream of leaving everything behind when there were so many people she could help here.

But the dream persisted until the almost twenty-two-year-old couldn't ignore it any longer.

She had been sitting in the school cafeteria one morning with her laptop when it finally happened. She was supposed to be in Sociology (a class she detested almost as much as its teacher), but Allison was instead reading through every page of the Marines website: from the history of the corps to what boot camp would be like, to the hundreds of different jobs she could have. Once she navigated back to the home page, the stark white bold letters that read 'Request Information' were impossible to ignore. She gave in. It wouldn't hurt anyone just to learn more, right? If she talked to someone at the recruitment office, she could get the ridiculous idea out of her head. She would realize that military life wasn't for her and go on with her day.

Of course, that wasn't how it went at all.

A recruiter at the local office reached out to her within twenty-four hours. The next week, Allison sat in front of his desk, sorting a dozen little black rectangular tiles with words etched in white ink, arranging them from most important to least. Self-Confidence, Self-Discipline, and Self-Reliance found their way into the top three with little thought. Her manager at Turkey Hill, Ryan, had warned her that recruiters would spew whatever lies they could to convince Allison to sign her life away. She believed him. The marine corps was the smallest branch of the military, with the highest quotas and which met the most resistance from worried parents. Of course, recruiters would have to get creative.

Sergeant Wical was a handsome, charismatic man with a laugh that made you feel at ease. Experience taught her that men like that could lie with a grin on their face and think nothing of it, but she didn't need any pretty words or false promises from him. She had made her decision the moment her fingers brushed over the hopeful words etched into the cold ceramic tiles. What Allison wanted more than anything, in that insignificant moment in time, was to join the ranks of the few proud men and women who worked hard to earn the title of United States Marine. For the first time since she was a little girl who only knew how to want, Allison made a conscious choice, one that she knew might hurt people she loved, but that was wholly for herself.

That decision was the hardest of any to stand by. Almost as if the universe was challenging her resolve, it threw everything it could at her in the next few months to make the young woman change her mind. The most difficult was the revelation that her grandmother was suffering from late-stage throat cancer. Allison put her commitment to the Marines on hold as she traveled with Angie and her mother to visit her Grandma Grant, who they fondly called GG, in the nursing home. She sat at GG's bedside, trying not to choke on the smell of bleach, which failed to mask the noxious scent of vomit and urine. Her grandmother, who she remembered always having a bright grin on her face, turned to Allison with a pained grimace as she asked.

"How are you doing in school?"

Allison had bitten her lip, hesitant, but mustered up the courage to answer.

"I dropped out of college. I'm going to join the Marines."

     She had expected admonishment. Their family saw success as earning a degree and making good money. The military wasn't an option. Instead of scolding, or asking why, GG only cried. Allison watched the silent tears find their way through the deep lines of GG's face, dripping from her chin to the scratchy tan hospital blanket covering her lap with shock and a heap of shame. Never, in her almost twenty-two years of life, had she witnessed her GG cry.

Not when her grandkids knocked into one of her pain-ridden, sarcoid-covered legs.

Nor when Grandpa Gary disowned her mom for being married to a woman, and GG had watched from inside the car as Kelly and her grandkids got smaller and smaller as they drove away from the hotel they had met at.

Not even when Allison had lost her temper after being scolded for talking to her little cousin about her two mothers, screaming at GG that she was an awful person for shunning her daughter.

For her to make the older woman cry, she must have done something terrible. Guilt stuck in her throat, making it hard to breathe, and Allison rose from the chair and ran from the room before her mother or Angie could say a word.

For a few months after returning home, Allison avoided Sergeant Wical at all costs. All his calls went to voicemail. Emails and text messages went unread. They had made nothing official, so she had no obligation other than good manners to answer him, and the shame was still too fresh. What could she say to him? What excuse could she offer, other than she made her dying grandmother cry, that would justify her sudden choice to back out? He was practically a stranger. She wasn't about to tell him her sob story. He would give up in no time. There were plenty of other people desperate to get out of their dying, crime infested city.

She went back to school after a fourth (and final, she promised herself) change of major, determined to succeed this time. Everything was going right for once. Her high school boyfriend quit his job at Turkey Hill, so she didn't have to deal with him. She and her new boyfriend, Chris, were spending more and more time together. Her mom and Angie were talking about marriage.

Then she came home from work late one evening to her mother's wrenching sobs, echoing down the stairwell through her closed bedroom door. GG was gone. She had chosen, against everyone's pleas, to stop treatment and live out the rest of her days in the home she had built her life in.

At the service, everyone spoke of how generous she was, how she lived her life for others and in service to God. GG was the glue that held their family together, Aunt Patty said. The programs featured black and white pictures of one of her grandmother's paintings, and they had decorated the funeral home with them.

While her children, sisters and husband spoke of her generosity, sacrifice, and incredible strength, Allison couldn't help but wonder what might have happened if GG hadn't given up her career as a nurse to raise four children, or if she had dedicated more time to her beautiful paintings. Would Allison have been able to view one of her precious works of art in a museum? Or maybe she could have become the breadwinner for the family, with a long and fulfilling career at the local hospital. Allison would never know, because GG had put everyone before herself until her last days. It wasn't the wrong choice, but Allison at last understood it was the wrong choice for her. She didn't want to spend the rest of her life doing what would make everyone else happy, even if she hated it.  

Just days after the funeral, Allison walked into Sergeant Wical's office and apologized for blowing him off. She told him everything, about her grandmother's cancer and death, about her fear of disappointing her mother, or worse, not being there to pull her back from the edge. The young woman held her head high, wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her sleeve, and met the recruiter's stare as she said, "There's nothing holding me back now. I'm ready. How soon can you get me sworn in?"

Sergeant Wical held her stare, looking for any sign of hesitation. When he found none, the amiable smile returned to his face as he answered.

"We can go through the paperwork today and get a drug test done. If that comes back negative, we can ship you up to MEPS to swear in next week. As long as you make it through the screening process up there, we'll be able to give you a date for when you'll be leaving for boot camp. Once you swear in, there's no backing out. Are you sure you're ready?"

"Yes."

There was nothing but conviction in her answer. The following week, she rode for three intense hours to the processing station in Harrisburg with Sergeant Wical and two other soon-to-be recruits. He escorted them into the building and signed them in. He then turned to them; smile gone from his lips in favor of a stern expression as he gave them a last reminder.

"The job of everyone in this building is to weed out those who aren't fit to serve. Don't give them a reason to declare you unfit because it's difficult to appeal. Whatever it says on your paperwork, those are the answers you give to questions. If they catch you lying, you will be permanently barred from military service. They will put you under immense stress to get you to confess to anything you might be hiding, even threaten you with jail time. Don't let it scare you. When you're done, I'll meet you in the oath office."

The next few hours felt like a lifetime. They had arrived in Harrisburg just an hour after sunrise. By the time she made it through the grueling questions and terrifying threats and rejoined Sergeant Wical in the oath office, the sun had almost set. Allison knew she would fall asleep the moment her head hit the cold glass of the car window. The group was instructed to form four lines, facing an American flag hanging off one wall. A thrill swept through her veins, fighting off the settling weariness. Sergeant Wical stood at the front of the room, along with a handful of other recruiters, dressed in the signature pressed khaki blouse and royal blue trousers with the red blood stripe sewn along the length of the leg. The white vinyl caps with shining black brims were tucked under their arms.

Next to them, the oath officer explained the oath they were about to take, making them practice the words until every soon-to-be recruit could repeat the oath without stumbling. The officer called them to attention, and Allison snapped her eyes forward, arms tight against her sides with hands balled into fists, and brought her feet together, heels touching and toes pointed out in a V. Sergeant Wical had stressed before they left that morning when he taught them how to come into the position, not to lock out their knees. He would never let them live it down if any of them passed out. Allison took the advice to heart, keeping a slight bend in her knees as the oath officer instructed them to repeat after him, though with the way her heart was hammering against her chest, she might pass out anyway. Unable to shake her head to relieve the stress, Allison took a deep breath instead as she said her oath of enlistment.

"I, Allison Simmons, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."

It was done. The oath officer dismissed the group into the care of their respective recruiters, and Sergeant Wical let the amiable smile spread across his face as she and the two boys she came with approached him. He shook each of their hands and said,

"Congratulations, you are now official recruits of the United States Marine Corps. I'm proud to serve with you."

Her chest swelled, and joyful tears sprung in her eyes.

The month and a half before her ship date passed in the blink of an eye. Sergeant Wical and the other recruiters had kept her busy with grueling physical training. They ran miles through the forest in a line on Saturdays, passing a weighted baton back until it reached the last person, who then had to sprint to the front while trying not to trip over loose rocks or tree roots on the trail. She, who had always preferred music and sitting in a comfortable corner with a book, to things like sports, struggled to meet Sergeant Wical's high expectations, but she pushed through, determined to head to boot camp with the best possible advantage she could manage. 

 And so, here she was almost two months later, likely just minutes away from the goal she had longed for. Silvery rays from the moon filtered in through the bus windows as it made its way southeast, leaving the small town on the border of Georgia where her plane had landed, and across the wide expanse of South Carolina to the tiny island that would be her home for the next few months. The giant steel box and its driver were undeterred by the unlit, empty road, but a heavy, apprehensive silence oppressed its passengers. Around forty young men and women sat in pairs on the weathered leather seats. There was no way for the group to know their location, and yet they all seemed to sense that their destination was drawing near.

The group had filled the start of the ride with chatter. The recruits swapped stories of their childhood homes, their aspirations for the future within the military, and their reasons for joining. Each recruit had vastly different backgrounds and motives, and Allison wondered how the drill instructors would transform this wild, diverse gang, all just barely adults, into uniformed soldiers who obeyed orders without question. Now that the conversation had died down, the young recruits stared out the window or into their laps with anxious faces. They looked even younger somehow, even less like future Marines. 

She remembered the conversation she had with her recruiter just before he dropped her off at the hotel in Harrisburg. He said that every recruit had a moment where they asked themselves what the hell they were doing there. Why had they signed up for this hell? His own, like many, was the moment their own bus of recruits arrived at the recruit depot on Parris Island. The moment when the first of their many drill instructors, with their cold eyes under their signature olive green campaign covers with the extra wide brim, had stepped into the bus and screamed so loud that it echoed off the aluminum walls and nearly deafened him.

When would her moment come?

The bus slowed, then came to a stop. She peered out the window, trying to glimpse the island, but it was too dark. The doors opened with a hiss, and a dark-skinned mountain of a man with arms as large as tree trunks, wide-brimmed hat tipped low over his fierce eyes, stepped into the aisle and said with a booming rasp that rattled her bones, "What the hell are you looking at, piss ants? Put your goddamn heads down against the seats and listen!"

Everyone rushed to comply. Allison peeked at the terrified faces of her comrades from behind the leather seat back. There was no doubt. At least half of them were regretting their decision, a few even had tears welling in their eyes. Her heart was hammering against her chest again, but not with anxiety or dread. Excitement thrummed in her veins as she listened to the burly drill instructor scream instructions.

"You will exit in a single file line and make your way to my yellow footprints! You will keep your heads forward and your mouths shut. Do not move off those footprints until I tell you! If you take even a step off my footprints or whisper a word, you will regret the day you were born! If one of my drill instructors addresses you, you will call them Sir or Ma’am! When you answer a question, you will scream like your life depends on it! Is that understood? Scream ‘Aye-Aye, Sir!’"

"Aye-Aye, Sir!" the recruits answered.

The drill instructor's face screwed up in fury, and spittle flew from his mouth as he yelled.

"Louder!"

"AYE-AYE, SIR!"Some of the recruits' voices cracked as they struggled to answer.

"Now get the hell out of this bus and onto those yellow footprints! Scream ‘Aye-Aye Sir!’"

"AYE-AYE, SIR!"

Everyone scrambled to follow his orders, grabbing what little belongings they brought and rushing out of the bus. Allison shimmied into the aisle. On her recruiter's advice, she had chosen not to bring anything with her. It would only be taken and shoved into a brown paper bag with her name scribbled on it in black sharpie until she graduated. Even her phone was left with her mom. They would bring it to her when they picked her up on graduation day.

She kept her head forward as she followed the line, not daring to let her curiosity get the best of her as she stepped onto a small set of sun-colored footsteps painted onto the black tar. The girl in front of her shook like a leaf as several more wide-brimmed hats swarmed around them, their screaming blending together and the words difficult to pick apart. Her arms and legs trembled as well, but Allison suspected it wasn't for the same reason. It was all she could do to keep the grin off her face.

At last, after a year of doubt and struggle, she was here. The months ahead would be the most challenging of her life, but they were hers. Allison had made this choice for no one but herself, and the power that instilled in her drowned out any fear. She would hold that eagle, globe, and anchor in her hand and transform into a woman with strength and surety.

The drill instructors of November company worked hard to drive the moment of regret into her. The next forty-eight hours were filled with screaming, confusion, and zero sleep as they processed the newest batch of recruits. A pile of gear that she had no clue how to use was thrust into arms that had gone numb from the series of vaccinations needed to prevent illnesses that she'd never heard of. A giant rucksack was filled to the brim with uniforms, a bulky vest filled with ceramic bullet proof plates, magazine and grenade pouches, a gas mask, and a dozen other items which made the sack so heavy, she struggled to lift it onto her back. Coupled with her exhaustion, the hike back from the supply issue left her legs shaking. Once she was finally permitted to sleep, Allison collapsed onto the hard mattress of her bunk bed, one of twenty arranged in two parallel lines along the concrete walls of her squad bay. She could have slept for days, but four hours was all the time allotted to her before being ripped from a dreamless sleep to start the day's training. The glimpse of sky from the barred windows was still pitch black. It would be another two hours before the sun rose, but that didn't stop them from being herded into the chow hall to scarf down as much as they could in fifteen minutes before being led out to the grassy training grounds. In the dark, the multitude of fire-ant hills that dotted the grass were impossible to spot, and more than one recruit jumped up from their morning stretches with surprised shrieks of pain, only to be rounded on by their unsympathetic drill instructors for interrupting. 

By week four, the comfortable layer of fat on her body, formed by years of a sedentary lifestyle and lazy diet, was gone, replaced by lithe muscles in her arms, legs, and core. Even her face had thinned, high cheekbones more pronounced than ever. Her friends back home would be concerned by the rapid transformation, but Allison had never felt stronger. She no longer wheezed and lagged behind during runs, and the weight of her pack, which she had buckled under at the start, was little more than a school bag. She could throw one of her fellow recruits over her shoulder and run with them or hold them in place as she squatted during their morning exercises. The first phase of boot camp, designed to tear them down to nothing, had come to a close. Week five marked the beginning of the second phase, the build up, where they would learn the skills shared by all Marines. Allison had been looking forward to combat training more than anything else, and so couldn't contain her excitement the morning they were led to the dirt pits for their first instruction. 

The martial arts instructor's firm but uplifting lessons were a welcome break from the constant belittling of their usual wardens. They were still marines, but the black t-shirts in place of a pressed blouse and crisply rolled sleeves, and the lack of wide-brimmed hats covering steel eyes put them at ease. Allison listened intently, eyes never straying from the woman at the front of the group as she demonstrated a chokehold. They were then divided into pairs to practice. A tawny haired girl whose name she couldn't remember approached her with a relaxed grin, something that would have earned her a trip to the sand pit and a hundred push-ups if their drill instructors caught sight of it. She settled into a fighting stance, fists held too low to block a hit in time, and feet too close together as she said, "I'll go first. Just tap out so the instructors think we're doing it right. Then we can switch, and I'll do the same thing."

Allison raised a brow but said nothing, moving into her own stance, fists held on either side of her face and feet shoulder width apart. She crouched low, keeping her center-of-gravity close to the ground so she would be harder to push off balance. Her partner snapped forward, grabbing onto one arm to twist it behind her back while sweeping her feet out from under her. She hit the dirt, her partner's arm locked around her throat, but there was no pressure applied to her airway. The other recruit held her, waiting for Allison to tap out so they could switch, but she refused, and one of the instructors took notice and approached. She looked down at them with a scowl and said, "Let her go and both of you get up."

"Aye-Aye, Ma’am!"

They hurried to stand and come to attention. The instructor turned to Allison and asked, "Why didn't you tap out?"

"Ma’am! This recruit didn't tap out because she wasn't choking me, Ma’am!"

From the side, where the instructor couldn't see, her partner shot her a sour look, but Allison ignored it. She wasn't here to goof off or make friends, and fudging the training would only come back to bite her at the end when she couldn't pass the assessment. The instructor hid a snort of laughter by ducking her chin for a moment, a common tactic used when one of the recruits did something funny and they didn't want to lose their bearing, though the lack of a campaign cover to hide her expression made it less effective. When she looked back up, her face was blank again as she said.

"Switch and show her how to do it right, then."

"Aye-Aye, Ma’am!" Allison answered and turned back to her partner, who was flushed pink with anger and embarrassment. She tried not to feel too guilty as she shifted back into a fighting stance. It hadn't been her intention to get the girl in trouble. The instructor took a moment to correct her partner's stance before telling them to go. She surged forward, copying the grab and twist and locking her elbow around the girl's throat as she pushed her chest into the dirt, using her right hand to grab her left fist and tighten the hold until a satisfying choking sound was dragged from the girl's lips. She reveled in the feeling of her partner's stubborn struggling underneath her. The moment her partner's hand slapped the dirt, she let go and backed away, looking at the instructor for approval. She nodded with the ghost of a smirk on her face and said, "Good. Hart, you will practice with me. Simmons, you can work on your punches and kicks until we move on."

The boost of confidence from the rare moment of praise energized her throughout the rest of the day. Even when she messed up during drill and her primary drill instructor, known as the kill hat, pulled her out of the formation, ordering her to hold her rifle out in front of her until it felt like her arms were about to fall off, her mood didn't dim.

At week five, as they stood outside the chow hall waiting for their turn to eat, their senior drill instructor, referred to as Senior, caught Ramirez, their platoon leader, laughing as she conversed with the squad leaders. She was the second guide to be unceremoniously fired that week. The first time, Senior had chosen Ramirez from among the squad leaders to be the replacement. This time, she stood at the front of the chow hall as the recruits finished eating and asked for volunteers. For a few minutes, no one spoke. Then Henderson, their original guide, rose from her seat, only to be shot down before she had a chance to speak. Allison looked around the room at her comrades, waiting for one of them to step up. When no one did, she scarfed down the last bite of her bland lunch and stood, arms clamped tight to her sides as she said as loud as she could, "Ma’am! This recruit volunteers for the position, Ma’am!"

Senior, a beautiful woman with smoothe skin and dark eyes that were kinder than anyone's she'd ever met, stared her down. She raised a brow as she took in Allison's earnest, but unkept appearance. Her wild curls had proved impossible to tame, and Senior had threatened to make her cut it on multiple occasions. Unlike some of the other girls, she had no military experience, and struggled to force her hair into the signature slick donut shaped bun. Stray curls stuck out at all angles, and by the end of the day, her bun had often come undone entirely. Senior pursed her lips, waiting another moment for anyone else to volunteer, before she gave in and said, 

"Since you're the only one who managed to stand up and address me properly, you've got it. But your hair had better be perfect tomorrow morning."

"Aye-Aye Ma’am!"

She'd never struggled so hard not to smile in her life. One of the squad leaders was kind enough to gel and braid her hair for her that night after lights out, so that come morning it was flawless. 

Weeks six and seven were range week. Allison had never imagined she would feel so comfortable with a rifle tucked into her shoulder. The only experience she had with a gun was the one time at summer camp when they'd gone to the range and shot fake deer with a shotgun. She had been a terrible shot, not even grazing the target once. But as she lay in the grass, elbows kept tight to her body for the best support, and practiced her slow, controlled breathing as she took aim at a rusted steel barrel with several bright yellow targets painted on it through her scope, she was at ease and brimming with confidence. Her kill hat came up behind her. She tensed, waiting for the usual derision that accompanied her presence. The woman never had a kind word for her, not that she expected any. It came as a surprise then, when she only smirked down at her and said before moving on,

"I think Simmons wants to shoot. Maybe you'll finally be good at something other than hiking."

She almost slipped up and let her shock show on her face. That was two compliments in one sentence. Invigorated, she returned her eye to the scope, making sure to keep the other eye open as she breathed deep. She compressed the trigger with a slow, controlled pull as she exhaled. The empty rifle clicked, but she imagined a hole appearing dead center of the target in her sights. She checked to make sure no one was watching before allowing a wide grin to spread across her face for a moment, wiping it away as soon as her kill hat came back into view.

At last, after three of the most difficult months of her life, the second to last week of boot camp was ending as Allison led her platoon on the hike home, having completed their three-day long graduation assessment, the Crucible, and earned the right to call herself a Marine. She wasn't a guide or squad leader anymore. Her leadership position had only lasted about a week, but that was par for the course, and she didn't let it bother her. Despite not being a platoon leader, Senior had pulled her to the front of the formation because she was the best hiker in the platoon. She needed people who could keep the proper pace at the front for their return from the Crucible, which would be witnessed by nearly everyone on the island. Allison held her head high, no longer needing to hide her grin as she marched. Her tan camouflage utility uniform, with the painstakingly starched and ironed rolled sleeves, was covered in dirt, and she, like the rest of her platoon, stank of sweat. The smell had sunk so deep into her blouse and trousers and the dirt was so thick, she would have to soak the uniform in a tub of bleach to get the filth out. Her feet ached, and the soles of her boots were so worn she could feel every slap of her toes against the pavement. Still, as the sun rose behind them, bathing the platoon with its summer warmth, and they rounded the corner onto the main street that led through Parris Island, she joined her drill instructors and new comrades in their uplifting cadence, screaming "Marine Corps" after each line Senior sang.

A 1, 2, 3, 4

A 1, 2, 3, 4

A ARMY, NAVY WAS NOT FOR ME

AIR FORCE WAS JUST A TOO EASY

WHAT I NEED WAS A LITTLE BIT MORE

I NEED A LIFE THAT IS HARDCORE

PARRIS ISLAND IS WHERE IT BEGAN

A LITTLE ROCK WITH LOTS A SAND

I CAN'T FORGET ABOUT HOLLYWOOD

SAN DIEGO AND IT'S ALL GOOD

PT DRILL ALL DAY LONG

KEEP ME RUNNING FROM DUSK TO DAWN

A 1, 2, 3, 4

TELL ME NOW WHAT YOU WAITING FOR

A 1, 2, 3, 4

MOMMA NOW I'M GONNA SING YOU SOME MORE

FIRST PHASE IT BROKE ME DOWN

SECOND PHASE I STARTED COMIN ROUND

THIRD PHASE I WAS LEAN AND MEAN

GRADUATION STANDING TALL IN MY GREEN

TO ANYBODY WHO ASKED ME WHY

HERE'S THE DEAL I GAVE MY REPLY

I'LL BE A MARINE TIL THE DAY I DIE

MOTIVATED AND SEMPER FI

Her drill instructors timed the end of the cadence perfectly with the end of their hike as they came to a stop in front of the Iwo Jima Memorial. They scrambled to drop their packs and arrange them in four neat rows, before forming ranks five steps away from the stone statue. Senior took post at the head of the formation and called them to attention so she could give instructions.

"When I step in front of you, you will go to rest, receive your eagle, globe, and anchor with your left hand, and go back to attention when I move to the next person."

Her heart pounded as Senior made her rounds. What felt like an hour before the drill instructor stepped in front of her was really only half that, but her sore feet and sleep deprivation made the wait agonizing. At last, Senior arrived, and she addressed the drill instructor by her rank, a privilege earned along with her new title.

"Good morning, Staff Sergeant."

She held her hand out, heart stuttering as the black eagle, globe, and anchor, no bigger than a quarter, was placed in her sweating, open palm. Staff Sergeant offered her a secret smile as she said under her breath,

"Good morning, Marine. Congratulations. You earned this."

She stepped away. Allison snapped back to attention, clutching the little pin that she had worked so hard for in her hand. She kept the silent, joyful tears at bay until her drill instructor made it to the end of her row. A subtle glance on either side revealed that most of her comrades were crying as well. Their official graduation ceremony would take place in a few days, with just enough time to celebrate Independence Day with their family as new Marines. Her parents would get to see the results of all her efforts, and Allison was proud to show them. She couldn't wait to stand in front of them in her dress uniform, trousers pressed with fresh, perfect creases, shoes shined, and hair pulled back tight and sleek. Allison imagined their awe as they watched her march onto the stage, rifle held tight against her shoulder as she moved with her platoon in sharp, synchronized movement. For the first time in years, she was confident in the future ahead, so she took a moment to appreciate the men and women who came before her. Thanks to them, Allison would build a life that she could enjoy and be proud of. She would sacrifice her life if she was called to, but she would never again sacrifice her wellness for the sake of someone else's happiness. The bright yellow footsteps she had stood on three months ago were the start of a meaningful, fulfilling future, and nothing and no one would take it away from her. From that moment on, the words inked into Dan's arm, always faithful, would hold new meaning. Allison would strive to remain always faithful to her own heart.

This story was previously published in the 2022 Wild Women issue if The Tuliptree Review. I retained all publishing rights. Please do not post this anywhere else without my permission.

#creative writing #creative nonfiction #narrative essay #writing #authors #short story

[peterparkerr06]

For every student a question like “How to Write a Narrative Essay?” is a pain, and when it is a specific essay the pain grows to the next level. But to cure this pain, we have a team of experts at your fingertips.

Instant Assignment Help has created this video to help you prepare a perfect narrative essay with some of the most useful tips to your rescue. By using these 6 tips you are guaranteed to get amazing grades and top the class. You will learn all about ways to perfect your essays.

#narrative essay #narrative #how to write a good essay #english grammar #narrative writing #how to score full marks in essay writing #how to score full marks in essay #how to score full marks in narrative writing #how to score full marks in essay class #narrative essay format #narrative writing essay in #narrative essay writing in english #narrative essay examples #write a perfect narrative essay #how to write a narrative essay? #essay writing tips #writing tips for students #Youtube

[c-f-lindsey]

Well, I have a narrative essay due this Friday. We were only allowed to choose from a few topics, so I chose my own car accident.

└(^o^)┘

#college #community college #school #im toast #student #English 101 #narrative essay #due #Friday

[htenglish]

#eng218 #narrative essay

[lollytea]

I don't dislike the name change theory at all because I understand the thought process behind it, with the need to distance yourself from every trace of your abuser and all that. So like I get it. But I very strongly believe in Hunter reclaiming his name. Mostly cuz of scenes like this

It's important to him!! It's the name he uses to distinguish his true self from the persona he's built. It's the name he uses when he wants to be seen as someone other than the Golden Guard. It's the name others use when they want to express that they do see him. The name might have fucked up origins and he's clearly aware of it but being Hunter is the one thing about himself he's certain of right now.

#if i wasnt tired id write a little essay about this #but i dont want to. so i expect you to read my mind #i feel like the screenshots i used demonstrate what im trying to say right #maybe not #idk i just always felt like the narrative has always treated the usage of hunters name as something significant

[kylalilysworld]

ENG7S_Performance Task 4

Submitted by : Kyla Jane C. Miguel G12_Humss3

Blog Series✨

#narrative essay

[sweatandwoe]

Me when I see a Gale/Astarion simp hating on the other: You FOOL they are parallels, foils, you cannot hate the one without the hating the other (I need blood/magic for nourishment or else I will die, they have a patron they are bound to, they are both bookworms, both can make terrible choices for the world, they have a magic the gathering homoerotic card art, both have the tsim just one is masked and the other is not, etc)

Also if you wanted a morally good man to romance, Wyll is right there.

#Astarion #Gale bg3 #bg3 #bloodweave #<- i want them to kiss like nasty #like all narrative foils should #I would do a whole essay on this but sum it up #Astarion is mostly bad with the potential to be good #while Gale is mostly good with the potential to be bad #In another life we got a Gale and Astarion confrontation like the others got #gale of waterdeep

[visenyaism]

what are your thoughts on nettles?

understanding nettles and criston cole as narrative foils is the key to unlocking the secret good fire and blood that is about unpacking ways in which the targaryen dynasty maintained control through class, gender, and state violence. and also dragon magic.

#asoiaf #i have a notes app essay about it and it’s incredibly not cohesive. but i believe this #no i’ve talked abt nettles a lot in the past this is just the thing i haven’t said out loud yet #love her. queen of escaping the narrative

[soracities]

Patrick Nunn, from "The stories of oral societies aren't "myths"; they're records", pub. Aeon

#q #quotes #essays #patrick nunn #aeon #on narrative #favourite #m #x #* #sanctum

[stylographic-blue-rhapsody]

I was deep in my drunk feelings when I made a joke post threatening to write about episode 5 symbolism and mizu, but then enough people said "where is the essay" so I am here to ramble as requested 

in ep 5, the tale told in the puppet show spliced with the flashback sequence of mizu’s marriage identifies mizu as not only the ronin, but also the bride and, with tragedy, the onryō. I would argue that mizu is also depicted (in a less linear fashion) as the phoenix itself, and will circle back to this thought later

mizu is first presented as the ronin, the warrior with a singular purpose. as the ronin’s lord is assassinated by the rival clan, mizu’s mother is killed in the house fire. the ronin swears his revenge, and dedicates his life to this cause. through his childhood and into his young adult life when he departs from swordfather, mizu is exclusively the ronin. he is not the onryō yet, demonstrated in his honorable unwillingness to harm the men who stab him and throw him out of the shop even after he insists that he wasn't looking for a fight in the first place

the ronin is only able to rest and put away his mission when he meets the bride, the lover. however, mizu’s bride is not literally another person she meets. the bride is not mama, or mikio, but the lover mizu discovers in herself, the one allowed to bloom in place of mizu-as-ronin. mizu’s growth into the bride from the ronin occurs over time, but solidifies in the moment when kai is gifted to her by mikio, paralleling the taming of her own distrust and expectations of being hurt. (side note, giving a nod to effective use of color: the bride puppet, dressed in reds and oranges, has matching coloring to the gifting scene, as it takes place in autumn)

mizu’s transformation into the onryō happens in two parts, beginning with the slaying of the bride and completing with the slaying of the ronin. the betrayal by mikio and mama kills the softness in mizu, kills the lover she has allowed herself to become. mizu-as-onryō retaliates by killing the ronin: the part of himself that hesitates before striking, that part that cares for honor. in not intervening in mama’s death and then murdering mikio in turn, mizu kills the ronin in himself, slaughtering it in retribution for the dead bride

mizu is both the bride and the ronin, peaceful lover and noble warrior, until he is not—he is the onryō, only the onryō. episode 5 opens with the narrator saying, “no one man can defeat an army, but one creature can.” only as the onryō, and not as the ronin or the bride, does mizu have the force of will and capacity for violence it takes to singlehandedly overcome boss hamata’s thousand claw army and protect the brothel

mizu’s identity and place in the world is a constant dialogue. he is too white to have a respectable place in japanese society, but is also seen by abijah (our stand-in for white british society) as filthy and corrupted. he is not perceived as enough of a man to walk through life wholly as one (madame kaji’s comments about his apparent lack of sexual desires, his bones breaking “like a woman’s” under fowler’s hands, his disregard for honor and recognition as a samurai). she is also not enough of a woman to exist peacefully as one with mikio (she is a swordsman, an accomplished rider, bad at domesticity; “what woman doesn’t want a husband?” mama chastises)

the moment when mikio rejects her completely following their spar is a particularly poignant narrative beat about tolerance of “the other” in gender presentation: mikio can accept her as a woman only until she bests him at manhood, at the sword, at violence. she is Other in that she is physically strong, a poor cook, able to wield a sword. these traits are all tolerable to mikio, also an outcast, so long as she is not so Other as to be a man. but her swordsmanship bests his, and bests his in the way the sun outshines a candle. it is too Other, and therefore she is not a woman. she is a monster to him, the onryō, even before she kills the bride and the ronin in herself

(( as an aside, this series does a very good job at discussing the oft-challenging relationship between race and gender (e.g. that it is difficult for mizu to live as a biracial man, but would be deadly for her to live as a biracial woman), and demonstrating how queerness of identity complicates that relationship even further—but that’s a topic for a different post ))

as the narrative has been building on this idea that mizu is both the ronin and the bride, the man and the woman, japanese and white, episode 5 concludes with the heartbreaking reveal that, although mizu is all of these things simultaneously, he has had these identities beaten out of him by tragedy and cruelty and his own self-loathing hand

but mizu does not stagnate as the monster. we return to the metaphor of steel: too pure and it becomes brittle, breaking under pressure. mizu is a sword, a weapon that he has forged for the sole purpose of revenge and blood, but he has excised too much of himself to successfully deliver on his goals—he is not the ronin or the bride, he is the onryō; she is not a woman or a man, she is the onryō; the onryō is nothing but pain and vengeance—and so it breaks

“perhaps a demon cannot make steel,” mizu says. “I am a bad artist” 

swordfather replies, “an artist gives all they have to the art, the whole. your strengths and deficiencies, your loves and shames. perhaps the people you collected… if you do not invite the whole, the demon takes two chairs, and your art will suffer”

to be reforged, mizu must not only acknowledge the impurities she has beaten out of her blade, out of herself, but lovingly, radically accept them and reincorporate them into the blade, into herself. he adds impure steel—the people he has collected, with their own dualities—to the sheared meteorite sword: the broken blade that fit so perfectly in taigen’s hand (the archetypal ronin, but a man seeking happiness over glory), the knife akemi tried to murder mizu with (the archetypal bride, but with ambition for greatness), the bell given to ringo and returned to mizu in broken trust (the man unable to hold a sword, but upholding samurai principles of honor and wisdom), the tongs that honed mizu’s smithcraft under swordfather’s guidance (the artisan, a blind man who sees more than most). to make of herself a blade strong enough to see her promises through, she must hold her monstrosity and honor and compassion and artistry in equal import

she is the onryō, and the ronin, and the bride, and all the people she has collected.

with this we finally come to mizu as the phoenix. mizu undergoes many cycles of death and rebirth, both in the main storyline and the flashbacks into her life leading up to the present. often, mizu is juxtaposed against literal flames—the burning of his childhood home, swordfather’s forge, the fire as he battles the giant in the infiltrated castle, the heart sutra forge of her own making, the climactic second confrontation with fowler. not every death/rebirth mizu undergoes is thematic to flame, of course. the fight with the four fangs, spliced with the rebirth ceremony of the town, for example, or the deaths of her ronin-self and bride-self, giving rise to the onryō

he is the phoenix, unable to truly die: every fatal combat he pulls back from the brink, reborn over and over in the wake of failure and setback. in episode 1, mizu prays for the gods to “let [him] die.” not to help him to face death unafraid, not to die with honor or victory, but to die at all. mizu has experienced death a thousand times over, but not once has it stuck

(( as a parting aside: the ronin’s rage at the phoenix clan for killing his lord parallels mizu’s self hatred of his mixed heritage (which he believes to be the thing that killed his mother), and so the ronin’s quest for revenge against the phoenix clan is mirrored in mizu’s quest to kill the white part of himself as best he can, by killing the white men who could be his father ))

mizu, the ronin. mizu, the bride. mizu, the onryō. mizu, the phoenix.

#blue eye samurai #mizu blue eye samurai #hopefully this is mostly coherent #I have more things to say but this was getting lengthy #there's also a lot of gender and racial nuance I've glossed over here for an attempt at brevity and structure #god also the COLOR. do you know how much I have to say about the use of color and shadow as a reflection of the narrative #maybe I'll write another damn essay who knows #this show really scratches the part of my brain that was academically trained in film analysis #blue speaks