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PARTS & SECTIONS

Click on any  part or section below:

Part I. Basics/Process

  A. Chapters 1-6: Start

  B. Ch. 7-13: Organize

  C. Ch. 14-20: Revise/Edit

Part II. College Writing

   D. Ch. 21-23: What Is It?

   E. Ch. 24-30: Write on Rdgs.

   F. Ch.31-35: Arguments

  G. Ch. 36-42: Research

  H. Ch. 43-48: Literature

   I.  Ch. 49-58: Majors & Work

Part III. Grammar 

   www.OnlineGrammar.org
 
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 Study Questions
     

 

                                                   

Chapter 53. STORY WRITING

Student Samples of Story Writing

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Introduction

All samples in WritingforCollege.org's chapters are by students, unless otherwise noted.  They are examples of "A" level undergraduate writing or entry-level graduate or professional work.  If more than one sample is provided, be sure to read all samples.  Then compare each to what the "Basics" section says for this type of paper. 

If you do not have time to read every sample below, word for word, then use a form of skim reading: read the entire introduction and conclusion paragraph of a sample, and then read just the first and last sentence of all the other paragraphs in the sample.  This method of skimming often provides an understanding of the basic contents and of the paper's form or structure.  Another method of faster reading is to choose just one or two of the samples that are most like the paper you will be required to write; then read, either fully or using skim reading as described here.

Unless otherwise noted, sample papers do not necessarily meet all requirements an individual instructor or professional supervisor may have: ask your instructor or supervisor.  In addition, the samples are single spaced to save room.  However, a proper manuscript given to an instructor or supervisor normally should be double spaced with margins set at or close to 1" unless another format has been requested.

The authors of all sample student papers in this Web site have given their permission in writing to have their work included in WritingforCollege.orgAll samples remain copyrighted by their original authors.  Other than showing it on this website, none should be used without the explicit permission of the author.

  

Sample One: Very Short, Rough-Draft, True Story about Giving Birth

TO HEAR YOU CRY
by
Senora Thompson

        I fought to stay alert, but my weary, painful body wouldn't obey.  I ached to hear her cry, to bellow out at the shock of her new world, only my ears listened to the silence of the heart monitor.

        I felt my husband, David's, trembling hands caress my forehead, pushing my hair back from my face.  I couldn't bring myself to look into his eyes and face the truth.  I heard his words, soft and loving, flow through me as he told me, "I'll hold her; go ahead and sleep," and I drifted away, exhausted.

        Awakening, I realized I had slept only fifteen minutes.  My mind screamed "Father, bring her life, here and now."  I prayed, but like David, I knew in my heart it would not come to pass.

        I turned my head towards my husband, who was cradling our tiny daughter as he held her tightly in his arms, rocking back and forth in the rocking chair.  His soothing, loving voice sang a melody that only a daughter and father share.  He was keeping her tiny body warm by letting it draw warmth from his, trying desperately to give her his lifetime of protection in one lifetime's moment.

        Our eyes met, and I could see his spirit empty, dying hopelessly, feeling the powerlessness of his manhood.  He wanted to exchange his life for hers.  It was written on his face, the anguish and anger.  He wanted a chance to fight with all his might against the intruder taking his little girl's life.

        When he stood up from the rocking chair, carrying our baby to me, a cry of agony escaped his soul.  He placed her in my arms.  I reached up to hold him, too, while his whole body shook with the anguished sobs of a broken heart.  We embraced our daughter throughout the night.  We both ached to hear her first cry; only our own cries echoes in the delivery room.

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Sample Two: Longer True Love Story

Sam Nitzkowski
ENGC 3027 sec.8-Jewell
Graded paper #1: Due week #5 10/6/00

The Number

by Sam Nitzkowski

Scene I: Introduction

        I was sitting with Doug Chini on the porch of a restaurant in Florence, Italy on an autumn day at 4:30 in the afternoon. Doug was my roommate at the hotel down the street. Our college had put us up in the hotel for a week to allow us to find an apartment for the year. "What are you hungry for?" I asked Doug as I skimmed the menu.

        Doug looked up at me and said with a slight hint of irony, "I think I’ll try the pizza." That was a logical choice, I thought. After all, we had just arrived in Italy and were anxious to taste "real" pizza.

        While deciding what kind of pizza I wanted, out of the corner of my eye I saw her. She was the only person working at the time. God she was beautiful—tall, thin, and full figured. She detected my gaze and approached us to take our order. After taking our order, she quickly interrupted, "I’m sorry, we’re not serving food now, but you guys can get drinks if you want."

        "I’ll have a Guinness," I said.

        "And I’ll have a Beck’s," Doug chimed in.

        Then she disappeared behind the bar. As she left, her perfume lingered in the air behind her. I could not identify what it was, but it smelled good. When she came back with our drinks, I said to her, "We’re both students here for the year. If I could have your phone number, maybe we could go out and do something sometime."

        Insulted, she quickly retorted, "Italian girls aren’t like American girls. We don’t just give out our phone numbers." Then she turned and marched back into the restaurant. While her words rang in my ear, a determination to get a date with this girl built up inside me. Feeling a little disappointed, I took a sip of my beer. It tasted unusually acidic for Guinness, but then again, maybe that was due to my depressed mood. Doug and I promptly finished our beers, paid and walked out.

Scene II: Café Decò

        Two days later I returned to the restaurant to get a drink. It was late evening, about 9:00. As I grabbed a seat at the bar, I realized that the mysterious girl from the other day was the bartender. I also recognized the smell of her perfume, barely detectable amidst the cloud of cigarette smoke that hovered over the bar. "Hi," I said smiling cheerfully.

        "Oh," she sighed, rolling her eyes, "it's you again."

        I noticed a faint smile flash across her face. That half smile encouraged me to initiate a conversation, so I said casually, "At least you remembered me"; then in a more worried tone, I continued, "Is that good or bad?"

        She smirked and replied, "It’s neither. I just have a good memory for faces."

        "Do you work here a lot?" I asked. This was a crucial point in our interaction. Either she would answer the question, indicating an interest to     talk with me, or she would blow it off and go back to work. As I waited to see if she would answer, I felt my heart drop to the pit of my stomach.

        I must admit that I was somewhat surprised when she went with the former, answering in a tone that was friendlier than expected: "My family owns the restaurant, so I get stuck working a lot to help out when it’s busy. In the fall, Florence is packed with tourists, so I have to work about ten hours a day."

        At that moment an impatient client blurted out, "What the hell do I have to do to get a drink around here?"

        While she scurried off to the other end of the bar, she murmured over her shoulder, "Be back in a second." When she returned she said, "It’s really busy tonight; I should probably get back to work."

        Feeling a little defeated, I asked, "Can I at least get your name?"

        She smiled again and replied, "My name is Anna"; then appearing slightly interested, she asked, "What is your name?" 

        I said, full of confidence, "My name is Sam."

        "Well, Sam, I get off work tomorrow at 10:00. If you want to do something, meet me here."

        Delighted, I said, "Okay, see you tomorrow." As I finished my drink, I patted myself on the back and thought, "Well, you still don’t have her number, but at least you’ve made some progress." As I returned to the hotel, I kept thinking about Anna and wondering what we would do on our first "date."

Scene III: The Walk

        The next day I returned to the restaurant at 10:00 p.m. sharp to meet Anna. Upon seeing me enter, Anna rushed over to me and whispered, "I’ll be done in a few minutes: wait for me outside."

        It seemed a little strange that she wanted me to wait outside, but I said to myself, "You’ve got nothing to lose; maybe she’ll take off while you’re standing outside like an idiot by yourself, but at least you’ll know then if she’s sincerely interested."

        About ten minutes after I had left, I saw Anna walk out. "Sorry to make you wait outside," she said. "It’s just that I don’t want everyone to see that I’m leaving with a guy. Then they’ll all give me a hard time about it tomorrow at work."

        "Okay," I said not really knowing what else to say. "What do you want to do?"

        Anna, immediately revealing herself to be fairly intelligent, replied, "Well, we don’t really know each other that well. Why don’t we just go for a walk?"

        That was better than nothing, so I agreed and we started walking. As we walked, I slipped my hand into her hand. It felt pleasantly warm and reassured me that Anna was happy to be in my company. The night air was filled with the sound of traffic and the strange stench, which by now I had gotten used to, which so distinguishes Florence from any other city in Europe. While we walked Anna told me that her family owned not only the restaurant but a hotel as well. She explained that she had gone to college for a couple of years to study chemistry, but then she had felt obligated to help out with the family businesses.

        At the end of our walk, I asked again, "Now that you know me, can I have your phone number?"

        Somewhat alarmed, Anna asked me, "Why do you want my number so bad? I’m always at work."  Then she said in a more friendly tone, "If you ever want to talk to me, just come to the restaurant." She could see my disappointment and added, "Look, I have to work for the rest of the week until close, but I get off early on Saturday night. If you want, we can go out."

        I quickly nodded, and she continued, "Alright, meet me outside Decò at 10:00 Saturday night and we’ll go out."

        Having said this, she jumped on her motorino and took off. Once again another encounter had come to an end, and I still didn’t have a number. I did have another date to look forward to and so, as I returned to the hotel. The only thing I could think of was our next meeting and I thought to myself, "Good God, I hope she doesn’t want to go on another walk Saturday."

Scene IV: Café Torino

        By the time Saturday night had rolled around, I had convinced myself that Anna wouldn’t make me go on another walk with her, so I had taken the liberty to dress more for the club scene that night. Again I waited outside Decò, and again at about ten minutes after 10:00, I saw Anna walk out.

        "Ciaò Anna," I said.

        "Ciaò Sam," she responded.

        "What do you want to do?" I asked.

        "There’s this cool disco-pub up the street; let's go hang out there," she replied.

        That was fine with me, so we walked up the street, away from piazza della Libertà for about fifteen minutes. Then we stopped in front of building with the words "Café Torino" written over the door. I looked around: just like Decò, the restaurant/bar that Anna’s family owned, Café Torino had a patio area crowded with people. Inside there was music, a dance floor, and tables around the perimeter of the main room where people could sit down and sip cocktails. We walked in and sat at a table.

        Being a gentleman, I asked, "What do you want to drink?"

        "I’ll have a Campari," Anna said coolly.

        When a waitress came to take our order, I said, "She’ll have a Campari soda, and I’ll have a martini with Bombay Sapphire gin."

        "Olives with the martini?" the waitress asked.

        "Yes," I said, "I’ll take olives."

        While we drank our cocktails, we exchanged novelties of the week and talked more about what was going on in our lives. It was a little difficult to hear each other over the loud music, but I could tell that she was enjoying herself. Everything was going well. Even the martini tasted unusually good. It had just the right amount of vermouth in it. After we had each had a few drinks, I inquired, "What do you want to do now?"

        Anna said, "I don’t know; this is getting kind of boring, though."

        I tried to think quickly, and then I got an idea. During the week, I had found an apartment; my roommate, Christina, an Italian in her late twenties, was having a party at our apartment that night. "My roommate is having a little party tonight. Do you want to go there and see what’s going on?"

        "Sure," Anna answered. Having decided, we got on her motorino and headed for my apartment on the other side of Florence. As I sat on the back of her scooter, our bodies pressed together momentarily when she took off. The warmth of her touch shot through my body, and it felt wonderful.

Scene V: Viale Redì 37

        It was about a ten-minute ride to my apartment. When we got there, everyone was hanging out and having drinks. It seemed like a pretty nice party. We walked in, and I introduced Anna to everyone.

        "What did you guys do tonight?" Christina asked us.

        "We went to Café Torino," I said, "but that got old, so we decided to come back here and hang out." Her little party had grown into a full-fledged bash. Loud music and the smell of cigarette smoke filled the room, overwhelming my senses.

        "Great!" Christina exclaimed, "What do you want to drink?"

        "We’ll just have some red wine," I said. The question made me chuckle because I knew for a fact that we didn’t have any other alcoholic drinks in the house. Although it was cheap, the wine tasted surprisingly good, but then again, just about any wine tastes good when it’s not contaminated with sulfites, like all of the wine sold in the U.S.

        "Do you want to dance?" Anna asked.

        "Sure," I yelled over the music.

        As we danced, our bodies pressed together the same way that they had when we were on Anna’s scooter. We were so close that I thought I could feel her heart beat.

        "Are you glad that we came here?" I asked her.

        "Yes," She replied. Then she added, "Now I know where you live."

        "What do you think of the apartment?" I asked her.

        "Its pretty nice, not really what I expected for a college student’s apartment," she answered.

        We continued to dance and chat idly until late into the night, or early into the morning, depending on how you look at it. All good things must come to an end, however, and unfortunately, that included our date.

Scene VI: Conclusion

        By 4:00 a.m. my apartment was almost empty. The smell of red wine and stale cigarette smoke hung in the air. Anna turned to me and said, "I had a really nice time tonight, but it’s late and I should probably get going."  

        I shrugged and gulped down the last bit of wine in my cup with difficulty. At some point in the evening, someone had lost the cork for the bottle, so the wine had acquired a strong acidic taste that made me shudder as I swallowed it.  While she was getting ready to go, I saw her grab the pen and pad that was by our phone. "What are you doing?" I asked, surprised.

        "I’m writing my number," she said with a smile. "Why, don’t you want it anymore?"

        "Of course I do," I said. I felt my face get warm as I blushed. "I’ve never had to work so hard in my life just to get a number. Do you think that  I don’t want it now?"

        We laughed and said good night to each other. Another date had come to an end, but this time I had actually got her number, and I felt content that I had succeeded in my personal struggle. Now, two years later, looking back at this makes me smile. Anna is my wife, now, and she is living with me in my country. In my case, perseverance paid off. Not only did I get the number in the end, but I also met the woman who became my wife. Both would have passed me by if I had given up.

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Sample Three: Fanciful Short Fiction about Using the 5 Senses

Describing What You've Always Been Afraid To, or What You Love:

Is there someone or something you've always wanted to describe but were afraid to?  Is there something or someone you like or love very much?  Describe every last detail of it, him, or her, top to bottom, inside out, or however you wish.  If you have a favorite event, a favorite dialogue, or some other favorite moment in time, describe it in detail and/or remember what was said and done in detail as best you can.  Go to the best part right away, or even start in the middle, so you won't get bogged down.

The five senses are a primary element of writing good descriptions.  Here is a humorous story about using them.  

    Anoka Ramsey Community College
© by Peggy Sorrell.

What Sense

by Peggy Sorrell

“Fill out these forms, and bring them to me when you are done.” 

Harold took the clipboard from  the receptionist’s hand and settled down in a corner chair near the ceiling-mounted television.   He glanced at the top form, then at the television.  A soap opera.  His eyes wandered to the occupants of the waiting room.  An old man with a hacking cough was leaning over his chair while his wife (Harold assumed it was his wife) patted his backside.  Three toddlers were in the corner play area.  One was sliding down a plastic slide while the other two were fighting over a book. 

Brats, he thought, as he noticed a woman, obviously their mother, so engrossed in a magazine that she wasn’t aware of how vocally disruptive her children were.  He looked at the title of the magazine she was reading--Working Mother.

Figures, too busy with a career to raise her kids right.... Well, nothing he could do about it. Harold’s attention went back to the medical forms.  He hated changing clinics, hated filling out new forms.  Hated doctors, period. 

He’d been healthy most of his 43 years until Sadie died four years ago.  God, how he missed his wife. Every day when he came home from his road construction job, he was guaranteed a home-cooked meal, and more often than not, a lot of loving in bed.  Even when Sadie wasn’t in the mood for the latter, she still curled her warm body up next to his at night and let him fall asleep with a hand on her breast. 

And her cooking.  He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and savored the tastes. Chili with chunks of venison steak, ham and navy bean soup cooked slowly in a crock pot for 24 hours, pork roast so tender that when he tried to pick up a big piece with his fork, it fell apart and dropped onto his plate.  And always homemade bread, never store bought. 

Harold didn’t know a thing about cooking, so now that Sadie was gone, he lived on canned stew, Kraft macaroni & cheese , and peanut butter spread on soft un-Wonder-ful bread.  His new eating habits had wrecked havoc on his bowels ever since, so once again, back to the clinic, and once again a new clinic.  After Sadie died, he didn’t see any reason to stay put in the same place, since he had only stayed put because Sadie wanted to.  He could make more money moving where the work paid best.

Back to the form.  Harold filled out the first two pages, the typical stuff like address, home and work number, medical insurance provider, the list of previous health problems and allergies to  medication that one checked with a “yes” or “no.”  Harold quickly checked “no” through all of them until he got to the “bowel problems.” 

He put a fat X on the bowel problem yes-square, then turned the page.  More on medical insurance.  He scanned the bold heading at the top of the page, and what followed: 

Pick 4 of the 5 major senses you wish to be covered for under your medical policy:

1       Sight

1       Taste

1       Hearing

1       Touch

1       Smell

What the hell is this?  Harold had never seen anything like this on a medical form.  He walked over to the receptionist desk.

            “Excuse me, miss . . .”  The woman who had handed him the form was on the phone, so motioned him with her hand that she’d be with him in a minute.  Harold stood at the desk, tapping his foot with impatience, and wishing he could close his ears to the children in the corner who were now becoming even louder.

            The receptionist finally hung up the receiver.  “Yes, how can I help you?”

            “This form, about the four senses, I don’t get it.”

            “Oh.  You must not be aware of the recent legislative reforms.  The bill was passed last month for medical insurance across the board.”

            “I still don’t get it, what bill?”

            “Too many people with bad eyesight complaining how eye exams and eyeglass prescriptions weren’t covered under general insurance.  Complained that eyesight was as important as hearing, and the latter was covered, so why not the former?  Don’t remember all the details of how the bill passed, but supposedly a powerful senator who was close to becoming blind was the instigator in getting the bill passed. The compromise with the health insurance companies is what you see above.  So, pick the senses you want covered.”

            Harold scratched his balding head, then went back to his corner chair.  He stared at the five boxes: 

Touch.  Well, he didn’t know quite what he wanted to touch, now that Sadie along with her soft breasts was buried deep under the ground.  But it was a useful sense, in case one got burnt, or broke a bone, or had a painful bowel movement . . . to feel the pain and know that one was not in the right way.

            Smell.  Harold could no longer smell Sadie’s wonderful cooking, but he did like the smell of fresh cut grass, the smell of fresh tar laid on the road while working his job, the smell of home cooking wafting from the apartments next to his as he walked down the hallway.

            Taste.  Harold could only think of the tastes of Sadie’s cooking.  Losing his taste might not be that bad, since what he ate nowadays was mostly to fill his belly.  But then again, he often dreamed of meeting another woman someday that could cook like her.

            Sight.  Sight was definitely necessary, but Harold wasn’t worried about that because of the family genes.  No one in his family, that he knew of, had worn eyeglasses except for reading, and well, once people got to a certain old-age, they all needed reading glasses.

            Hearing.  Harold thought of his job, the constant noise of the vehicles creating new roads, laying tar and cement, the pounding of the cement chopper, the yelling between fellow employees that was a worthless effort above the continuous din.  His hearing mind was abruptly brought back to the corner of the waiting room.  The Working Mother had set her magazine aside and was now yelling at her children to shut up.

            Harold made up his mind real quick.  He X’d Touch, Smell, Taste, and Sight, then walked once again to the receptionist desk and handed over the clipboard.

            “Are you sure of your selection?” the receptionist asked. “The Plan allows you to change your sense options, but only on a yearly basis.  So, let’s see . . . it is September 17, so you have to wait until next year at this time to change your options.”

            Harold hesitated for a moment, until he once again heard the Working Mother  This time she was using foul language to shut up her brats.  He could live without that, forever.

            “I’m sure.”

            “Okay.  Sign the bottom of the form.  The doctor will be with you shortly.”

            As usual, the doctor told Harold his bowel problems were due to wrong eating habits and stress.  Once again, Harold had wasted his money with the fifteen dollar co-pay.  No prescription, just a suggestion to take Metamucil for a few weeks, eat more fiber, learn to relax.  Harold headed toward the outside clinic door, so frustrated with doctors and clinics that he did not even notice the silence in the waiting room, even though Working Mother was yelling louder than ever at her brat kids.  When he walked across the parking lot, self-absorbed in indignation, he also didn’t hear the honking of the car horn.

* * *

            “I’m not sure this 5-senses policy is working,” the receptionist said to her fellow co-worker.  “Like that last guy, and those before them.  They keep ending up dead.”

            Her fellow co-worker shrugged.  “Medical insurance is no different than any other.  It all has the fine print, and most people don’t bother to read it . . .when will they learn?”  She filed Harold’s form into the dead-file, the form that had the fine print at the bottom:

"*Once you choose the sense not to be covered under medical insurance, you will no longer have that sense."

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I. WRITING FOR MAJORS & WORK

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Chapters:

 49. Case Study

 50. IMRaD Science Report

 51. Magazine/Nwsltr. Article

 52. News Article/Release

 53. Story Writing
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 54. Applying for Jobs

 55. Process/Instructions

 56. Professional Report

 57. Professional Proposal

 58. Recommendation Report

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Related Chapters/Pages:

Details & Images

Creating Websites

Leading Writing Groups

                    

                    

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 Related Links in
OnlineGrammar.org:

  16. Research Writing

  17. Citation & Documentation

  18. References & Resources

  19. Visual/Multimodal Design

  20. Major/Work Writing              

 

Updated 1 Aug. 2013

  

   

 

WritingforCollege.org also is at CollegeWriting.info and WforC.org

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1st through 5th Editions:: Writing for School & Work, 1984-1998; CollegeWriting.info, 1998-2012.
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