ENC1101 Miami Dade College All Summer in A Day Narrative Essay Narrative essay Topic: Immigration You should write a story that is not about you, but that

ENC1101 Miami Dade College All Summer in A Day Narrative Essay Narrative essay Topic: Immigration You should write a story that is not about you, but that contains at least two characters other than yourself. The idea is that you are able to think beyond just you and can see the world from a different point of view. Your characters can be human, animals, a plastic bottle, a fish, a turtle, an alien from Mars, anyone or anything. Be creative. Its up to you, but it definitely can not be about you. Your opening scene must contain the following:a descriptive setting (describe your fictional world using the senses. Describe how it looks and feels to be there. Use the stories we read as models for your setting, especially “All Summer in a Day”)add character development (introduce the the two main characters. Who are they? What makes them unique? How do they look?)Dialogue (make the characters have a conversation and interact with each other)Find a couple of quotes in the “All Summer in a Day” story, and use creative imitation to add figurative language to your narrative–things such as similes, metaphors and imagery. ML style All Summer in a Day
by Ray Bradbury
No one in the class could remember a time when there
wasn’t rain.
“Ready?”
“Ready.
“Now?”
“Soon.”
“Do the scientists really know? Will it happen today, will
it?”
“Look, look; see for yourself!”
The children pressed to each other like so many roses, so
many weeds, intermixed, peering out for a look at the hidden
sun.
It rained.
It had been raining for seven years; thousand upon
thousands of days compounded and filled from one end to the
other with rain, with the drum and gush of water, with the
sweet crystal fall of showers and the concussion of storms so
heavy they were tidal waves come over the islands. A
thousand forests had been crushed under the rain and grown
up a thousand times to be crushed again. And this was the way
life was forever on the planet Venus, and this was the
schoolroom of the children of the rocket men and women who
had come to a raining world to set up civilization and live out
their lives.
“It’s stopping, it’s stopping!”
“Yes, yes!”
Margot stood apart from these children who could never
remember a time when there wasn’t rain and rain and rain.
They were all nine years old, and if there had been a day, seven
years ago, when the sun came out for an hour and showed its
face to the stunned world, they could not recall. Sometimes, at
night, she heard them stir, in remembrance, and she knew they
were dreaming and remembering and old or a yellow crayon or
a coin large enough to buy the world with. She knew they
thought they remembered a warmness, like a blushing in the
face, in the body, in the arms and legs and trembling hands.
But then they always awoke to the tatting drum, the endless
shaking down of clear bead necklaces upon the roof, the walk,
the gardens, the forests, and their dreams were gone.
. All day yesterday they had read in class about the sun.
About how like a lemon it was, and how hot. And they had
written small stories or essays or poems about it:
. I think the sun is a flower,
That blooms for just one hour.
That was Margot’s poem, read in a quiet voice in the still
classroom while the rain was
falling outside.
“Aw, you didn’t write that!” protested one of the boys.
“I did,” said Margot. “I did.”
“William!” said the teacher.
But that was yesterday. Now the rain was slackening, and
the children were crushed in the great thick windows.
“Where’s teacher?”
“She’ll be back.
“She’d better hurry, we’ll miss it!”
They turned on themselves, like a feverish wheel, all
tumbling spokes.
Margot stood alone. She was a very frail girl who looked as
if she had been lost in the rain for years and the rain had
washed out the blue from her eyes and the red from her mouth
and the yellow from her hair. She was an old photograph
dusted from an album, whitened away, and if she spoke at all
her voice would be a ghost. Now she stood, separate, staring
at the rain and the loud wet world beyond the huge glass.
“What’re you looking at?” said William.
Margot said nothing.
“Speak when you’re spoken to.” He gave her a shove. But
she did not move; rather she let herself by moved only by him
and nothing else.
They edged away from her, they would not look at her.
She felt them go away. And this was because she would play
no games with them in the echoing tunnels of the underground
city. If they tagged her and ran, she stood blinking after them
and did not follow. When the class sang songs about happiness
and life and games her lips barely moved. Only when they sang
about the sun and the summer did her lips move as she
watched the drenched windows.
And then, of course, the biggest crime of all was that she
had come here only five years ago from Earth, and she
remembered the sun and the way the sun was and the sky was
when she was four in Ohio. And they, they had been on Venus
all their lives, and they had been only two years old when last
the sun came out and had long since forgotten the color and
heat of it and the way it really was. But Margot remembered.
“It’s like a penny,” she said once, eyes closed.
“No it’s not!” the children cried.
“It’s like a fire,” she said, “in the stove.”
“You’re lying, you don’t remember!” cried the children.
But she remembered and stood quietly apart from all of
them and watched the patterning windows. And once, a
month ago, she had refused to shower in the school shower
rooms, had clutched her hands to her ears and over her head,
screaming the water mustn’t touch her head. So after that,
dimly, dimly, she sensed it, she was different and they knew
her difference and kept away.
There was talk that her father and mother were taking her
back to earth next year; it seemed vital to her that they do so,
though it would mean the loss of thousands of dollars to her
family. And so, the children hated her for all these reasons of
big and little consequence. They hated her pale snow face, her
waiting silence, her thinness, and her possible future.
“Get away!” The boy gave her another push. “What’re
you waiting for?”
Then, for the first time, she turned and looked at him. And
what she was waiting for was in her eyes.
“Well, don’t wait around here!” cried the boy savagely.
“You won’t see nothing!”
Her lips moved.
“Nothingl” he cried. “It was all a joke, wasn’t it?” He
turned to the other children. “Nothing’s happening today. Is
it?”
They all blinked at him and then, understanding, laughed
and shook their heads. “Nothing, nothing!”
“Oh, but,” Margot whispered, her eyes helpless. “But this
is the day, the scientists predict, they say, they know, the sun..
“All a joke!” said the boy, and seized her roughly. “Hey,
everyone, let’s put her in a closet before teacher comes!”
“No,” said Margot, falling back.
They surged about her, caught her up and bore her,
protesting, and then pleading, and then crying, back into a
tunnel, a room, a closet, where they slammed and locked the
door. They stood looking at the door and saw it tremble from
her beating and throwing herself against it. They heard her
muffled cries. Then, smiling, they turned and went out and
back down the tunnel, just as the teacher arrived.
“Ready, children?” she glanced at her watch.
“Yes!” said everyone.
“Are we all here?”
“Yes!”
The rain slackened still more.
They crowded to the huge door.
The rain stopped.
It was as if, in the midst of a film, concerning an avalanche,
a tornado, a hurricane, a volcanic eruption, something had,
first, gone wrong with the sound apparatus, thus muffling and
finally cutting off all noise, all of the blasts and repercussions
and thunders, and then, second, ripped the film from the
projector and inserted in its place a peaceful tropical slide
which did not move or tremor. The world ground to a
standstill. The silence was so immense and unbelievable that
you felt your ears had been stuffed or you had lost your
hearing altogether. The children put their hands to their ears.
They stood apart. The door slid back and the smell of the
silent, waiting world came in to them.
The sun came out.
It was the color of flaming bronze and it was very large.
And the sky around it was a blazing blue tile color. And the
jungle burned with sunlight as the children, released from their
spell, rushed out, yelling, into the springtime.
“Now don’t go too far,” called the teacher after them.
“You’ve only two hours, you know. You wouldn’t want to get
caught out!”
But they were running and turning their faces up to the sky
and feeling the sun on their cheeks like a warm iron; they were
taking off their jackets and letting the sun burn their arms.
“Oh, it’s better than the sun lamps, isn’t it?”
“Much, much better!”
They stopped running and stood in the great jungle that
covered Venus, that grew and never stopped growing,
tumultuously, even as you watched it. It was a nest of octopi,
clustering up great arms of flesh-like weed, wavering, flowering
this brief spring. It was the color of rubber and ash, this jungle,
from the many years without sun. It was the color of stones
and white cheeses and ink, and it was the color of the moon.
The children lay out, laughing, on the jungle mattress, and
heard it sigh and squeak under them, resilient and alive. They
ran among the trees, they slipped and fell, they pushed each
other, they played hide-and-seek and tag, but most of all
they squinted at the sun until the tears ran down their faces,
they put their hands up to that yellowness and that amazing
blueness and they breathed of the fresh, fresh air and listened
and listened to the silence which suspended them in a blessed
sea of no sound and no motion. They looked at everything and
savored everything. Then, wildly, like animals escaped from
their caves, they ran and ran in shouting circles. They ran for
an hour and did not stop running.
And then
In the midst of their running one of the girls wailed.
Everyone stopped.
The girl, standing in the open, held out her hand.
“Oh, look, look,” she said, trembling.
They came slowly to look at her opened palm.
In the center of it, cupped and huge, was a single raindrop.
She began to cry, looking at it.
They glanced quietly at the sky.
“Oh. Oh.”
A few cold drops fell on their noses and their cheeks and
their mouths. The sun faded behind a stir of mist. A wind blew
cool around them. They turned and started to walk back
toward the underground house, their hands at their sides, their
smiles vanishing away.
A boom of thunder startled them and like leaves before a
new hurricane, they tumbled upon each other and ran.
Lightening struck ten miles away, five miles away, a mile, a half
mile. The sky darkened into midnight in a flash.
They stood in the doorway of the underground for a
moment until it was raining hard. Then they closed the door
and heard the gigantic sound of the rain falling in tons and
avalanches, everywhere and forever.
“Will it be seven more years?”
“Yes. Seven.
Then one of them gave a little cry.
“Margot!”
“What?”
“She’s still in the closet where we locked her.’
“Margot.”
They stood as if someone had driven them, like so many
stakes, into the floor. They looked at each other and then
looked away. They glanced out at the world that was raining
now and raining and raining steadily. They could not meet
each other’s glances. Their faces were solemn and pale. They
looked at their hands and feet, their faces down.
“Margot.
One of the girls said, “Well…?”
No one moved.
“Go on,” whispered the girl.
They walked slowly down the hall in the sound of the cold
rain. They turned through the doorway to the room in the
sound of the storm and thunder, lightening on their faces, blue
and terrible. They walked over to the closest door slowly and
stood by it.
Behind the closed door was only silence.
They unlocked the door, even more slowly, and let Margot
out.

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