the open door narrative essay

• Short Story

The open door

• Madeleine Macfarlane, Grade 5

In May 2001 my friends and I went on an over night cruise with my dad. While we were all sleeping we got caught in a storm. The thunder boomed and we all woke up because of the horrible noise. We where very frightened of the noise and before we knew it, the ship was starting to sink. Luckily, we accessed an inflatable boat but we weren’t safe yet. We all watched the ship sink as we drifted away. Eventually we all fell asleep once again. When the sun rose we woke up and to our surprise we were on an island. We were not exactly sure where we were. As we explored the island we found rather unusual foods that we have never seen before. We were very lucky my dad had seen some of these foods before. The foods he hadn’t seen we were not allowed to eat. At least we didn’t have to starve. We searched further into the island. As soon as we got to the center of the island, I jumped and heard a loud thud as I came down. There was something hollow under the dirt. We dug it up and to our surprise it was a medium sized box which had a lock on it. We tried to break off the lock with a rock. We tried with several rocks. Finally, we managed to open it. In the box was a key. We kept the key and carried on walking further across the island. Eventually we got to the other side of the island and we saw other islands. The next thing we knew dad yelled out loud” I KNOW WHERE WE ARE! ” He pulled out a map. “See these islands here on the map, well they are in the same position out there. We’re on this island in between these other three islands. The island we’re on is called Mauritius, which is deserted. My friends and I were horrified to hear this news I yelled out “DID YOU SAY DESERTED?” when I stopped yelling you could hear it echoing throughout the island. Still we had to find a way off the island. Five minutes later we were looking for huge non-hollow logs. We managed to find ten logs. Next we had to find something to tie them all together. We found some palm leaves on the ground, which worked really well. Then we realized what he was making he was making a raft to sail to one of the other public islands. He started to set the raft a sail and stopped and told us to get on so we got on. Once we were half way to the other island we noticed there were whirlpools. We were sucked down faster than a car. We had finally made it to the ocean floor. Next to the end of the whirlpool was a sunken ship. We swam to the ship and found scuba diving gear. We all put on the gear as fast as we could. We started to explore the ocean. We had swum at least ten kilometers when we ran into a door. We tried to open it but we couldn’t. It was locked. Suddenly I remembered the key we found in the box. I scurried across to dad to get the key thinking it would fit. Just as I was going to put the key in the door, the door swung open, I thought it must have jammed. I was wrong. We all stared at the door in despair, all of a sudden we started to hear strange noises. We were all horrified except dad of course. Dad wanted to go in but the rest of us didn’t. Dad made us. We went in. Suddenly the door closed and disappeared out of sight. WE WERE TRAPPED! We were still wondering what the key was for? All of us, except Melanie, were staring at where the door was. Melanie had discovered a very large chest sitting in the middle of the room. She tried to open it we were astonished to see what she had found. I got the key I had in my pocket and put the key in and it fitted! The chest swung open. We stared at the chest in total amazement. It was a chest full of GOLD!! We were rich after all. Dad closed the chest and moved it out of the way. Under the chest was a trap door, dad opened the door and there was a tunnel. We went down the tunnel carrying the heavy chest the tunnel seemed to go on and on. Whitney saw a ladder. We went up the ladder and to our surprise, it was one of the islands near a desert island called Thursday Island. There were heaps of people there that where very friendly and helpful. Maybe they were being that helpful because we had a chest full of gold, who knows? We had a mighty feast and were able to find an airport and make our way home. THE END Madeleine Macfarlane Year 5 St. Joseph’s Primary School 50 Box Street Clermont QLD 4721

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I Opened The Door, and I Saw...

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Published: Feb 7, 2024

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A threshold of possibilities, a world beyond imagination, unveiling hidden truths, a doorway to transformation.

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The Short Story Project

This is heading animation, the open door, abd al rahman munif.

Why this story is worth your time

The text you see before you is a typical example of Abdul Rahman Munif’s monumental literary achievement. Munif who, alongside Naguib Mahfouz, was considered the architect of modern Arab literature, wrote both essays and literary pieces, placing a critical mirror in the face of the depraved Arab regimes and the exploitive and corrupt Western colonialism. After publishing his monumental novel Cities of Salt he was declared a persona non grata in Saudi Arabia. This may be why this delicate and sensitive story won me over. This is an almost universal story that stirred the sweet and sad memories I have of my grandmother Farhaa Moalem may she rest in peace, who died in the nineties when she herself was in her nineties. This is not only because Munif was, towards the end of his life, an Iraqi who spoke her Arabic; not only because my grandmother Farhaa had become very old and her steps became measured; and not only because she sat and waited with endless patience for our rare visits. Her door was also open. She too said the same things. From her I learnt that I wasn’t secular, that I was also Arabic and that my politics would always identify with the weak. She also spoke of those who grow up and then leave, or those who travel to study and never return. Later, I too went to say goodbye to her before going away.  

Translated by: Hannah Amit-Kochavi

The last thing I decided I would do before going away was to say farewell to my grandma.

By noon I was watching Ghasreen, a small town located at the heart of a small valley. It looked strange to me, repulsive with its long bare trees and old densely packed houses in the middle, with some distant houses at the edge of the strange hills. Wind crosses the roads coarsely, making me shiver, combining cold with fear.

Even the tiny rivulet, as I was crossing the bridge, seemed to me different from what it was before.

I did not want to look at people’s faces too much. Under my arm I was carrying a small gift that I wanted to leave my grandma as a last token. I strongly felt I would not see her again after this encounter, for when I returned from my mad journey she would have left the world.

My grandma had grown very old these last few years and was getting older by the day. Walking had become an exhaustingly heavy task for her, the wrinkles on her face resembled lines made in the soft ground by two oxen, and the stick she had used for pleasure was now an inseparable third leg.

Crossing the alley at the end of which my grandfather’s house is located, I told myself: “I won’t let her speak of memories tonight. I will flood her with talking about trees, animals and rain, and feign fatigue early, so that at sunrise I’ll endure all of her sad words and run away fast.”

The children in the alley are playing with clay, chasing dogs and cats, while women are standing by the doors of the houses as they always did.

I hastened to stop staring so no one would suddenly recognize me and stop me. Women may often remember sad things.

I said to myself: “I don’t need additional sadness,” remembering the often told story of the trees, a meaningless one, resembling lament over oneself.

These words created a rebellion-like nervousness deep inside me.

Chasing away my sad thoughts I said: “Everyone must die. My grandma will die just like my grandpa and maternal uncle. Sadness is usually reminiscent of death. I don’t want to be sad, nor do I want my grandma to die now.”

I briefly greeted two women who had been my mother’s friends, giving them no opportunity to speak, and then walked on. I realized I was followed by their gaze.

My steps were steady and quick. I no longer cared much what people were saying about me. I am not a snob, nor do I like people who show off, yet I have nothing to say to them.

People nowadays are overwhelmed by pessimistic thoughts, instead of, at least taking care of a living, while I am leaving now for that very purpose.

Documents were examined, an interview was held, numerous questions were put to me, and that was it. They told me: “You’re leaving on Wednesday.”

The town doesn’t look now like the one where I spent those lovely long gone summers. I feel it has incredibly changed. It has inwardly changed.

Although some familiar locations are just as they were when I left them ten years ago,   they have aged, wrinkled by both the wind and death, and been hit by dizziness as the result of what they have seen and heard. And yet they keep on standing, tall and stupid, awaiting some new catastrophe.

I sadly said to myself: “Places, like people, change considerably.”

Next I thought: “It is people who change. Places only change slowly and mutely. They are inwardly peeled up, they become empty like a hollow cane, then they suddenly collapse all at once. People don’t act like that. They are eaten up by a worm named sadness. It is black and has tiny invisible breasts. At night, however, it grows until it becomes as large as a grey whale lying on one’s chest.”

Kicking a tiny stone I said to myself: “That worm that has killed other people is going to kill me as well, so if I decide to leave my grandma and my memories behind, I must first forget the tale of that accursed worm.”

My grandma’s house is located at the end of the alley. It had changed so much that I hardly recognized it. I said to myself: “It doesn’t matter much whether it has changed or hasn’t. I am the one who has changed.”

I gave it a closer look, and it seemed to have remained as tall as before, but the stones of the wall surrounding the garden had fallen down on the left side of the wall.

I can see the chickens playing with their dirty feet close to the wall and inside the garden.

The walnut tree close to the door is completely bare, as if it were a heavy winter now.

I asked myself, reminiscing: “Is this the same tree that served as both a swing and a bird nest during that summer?”

Coming closer I thought: “A house always needs a man able to repair the outer wall and the roof. A woman, even one like my grandma, cannot do everything by herself.”

The door is swinging. The wind is blowing gently, pushing it effortlessly. It’s the very door I entered thousands of times. Do doors tire of movement, of remaining where they are?

I imagined my grandma inside the house, for why else should she leave the door open?

Her features came to my mind – short and skinny, wide eyes that move slowly as if the thoughts that light up her mind leave her no leisure to move her eyes, her lips resolutely tight the way only harsh desperate people do. And her hands so bony that anyone looking at them might think they are upside down. Her veins are swollen and blue, her bones bare and sharpened as if they were covered with delicate scales.

Her nose is sharp and small, involuntarily moving like an open door.

When my grandma sees me, she will calmly look at me. She won’t act like other women, even when she has made sure who I am. She’ll hit the ground with her stick and get up like a kitten, pushing away both memory and thought, bringing back her suffering through remembering.

I used to hear my grandma say the same words which, as I remember them now, breed in my mind thoughts I don’t like.

She would say: “You must not grow up fast. Those who do are gone just as fast,” then she would embrace me nervously.

In her clothes and breath I smell some past time smell. Is it the smell of dreams, or, perhaps, that of some hidden wish for sadness? I really don’t know.

She would hold me tight for long minutes, and whenever I tried to escape her I would find the palm of her hand behind my back, just like a plough digging deep into the ground.

I did not rebel against it, but often gave in, thinking: “This old woman must have something to cling to, now that they are all gone.”

As soon as that embrace ended, slowly, hardly did I look at her face than I found traces of a tiny tear she knew very well how to wipe off or hide.

In order to suck out my grandma’s sadness I would use pompous words.

I remember saying to her once: “Do you know no other bridge whereby to reach my love but sadness?”

She looked at me when she heard those unripe words crossing my lips: “You must not grow up like them. They grew up fast, and then were gone fast. I would like to remember you only as a child, do you hear, a child, just as you were before you learnt how to talk.”

Both of us tried hard, with clearly visible effort, to create a new atmosphere.

She started asking me the same questions: “Are you tired? Are you hungry?”

I would shake my head, meaning a negative reply, then she would look at me close and ask me, using a new harsh tone: “Why do you look so pale?”

I would repeat the same words over and over again: “Traveling, studying, nothing, Grandma, tomorrow I’ll be as agile as ever, you’ll see for yourself.”

The door moans as I proceed. A few more steps and I’ll see her. She’ll be sitting on the window bench facing the door, or in the middle room, smoking. She’ll hit the ground with her cane and get up. This time she seems to have grown old.

I remember the last time she came to see us in the city. She was extremely old. I saw her grow old as if some years had passed during those four days she spent with us. She insisted on refusing to stay any longer, angrily shouting at my father:

“Would you like to kill everything? The old woman, the animals and the trees? Let me go back. If I stay here a day longer I’ll drop dead!”

No one was able to face her anger. My mother tried hard in vain, while my aunts tried very hard. They made her some enticing promises, all of which she flatly rejected. When I instructed the driver how to get to my grandpa’s house in the village, she leaned towards me, saying calmly, annoying me extremely: “Don’t grow up! You of all people must not grow up!”

As I put down my foot on the threshold, the door shook as if wishing to stop me. I pushed it open and entered. I looked under the vine but didn’t find my grandma.

The door of the middle room was open, darkness mingling with the remains of the past.

I took my time, wishing to leave her the joy of discovering me there. I coughed lightly as men do, and looked.

This is my grandma’s house: four rooms, my uncle’s room on the left, next an inner room behind a tall roofless wall, followed by two rooms on the right, then, close to my uncle’s room, there’s a well. In the middle there are seed containers, two vines and a cherry tree. Facing the well, on the other side, there’s a tall large chicken coop, and a smaller one for the rabbits.

Nothing moved but the sound of the wind playing with the last autumn flowers in the rectangular container along the earthen path up to the rooms, while the door behind me was moaning in an accursed hoarse sound.

I let myself walk. Surely my steps will draw my grandma’s attention. My shadow precedes me and she must see it, even if she doesn’t wish to hear my voice.

The door of the middle room is open, my grandma’s pipe is in its place, but the bed has been pushed to the right side of the front of the room.

I advanced much more, until I could no longer bear her ignoring me.

I shouted with a voice I tried to charge with both glee and fear: “The imp has come! Where are you, Grandma?”

Without stopping, I kept talking to her: “Where are you hiding?”, yet heard no reply.

I entered the room and found no one there. I went into the next room and looked, but found no one there either.

I considered the possibility of bursting into my uncle’s room, but this idea brought back an unbearable scene, so I gave it up.

I went to any place where I might find her, yet she wasn’t there.

I approached the well, sat down on its brim and looked at my uncle’s room.

A white curtain dangled down the window diagonally, letting anyone who wished to look there see everything.

From where I was sitting I looked hard, in the hope of seeing my grandma’s silhouette, but both the sound of the wind and the soft darkness inside the room let me see absolutely nothing.

I touched the door knob and turned it. Up till then I had never thought that grandma might leave that door open.

Every house has a room considered as the house sanctuary. My uncle’s room occupies this role in this house. As a sanctuary, it must not be left insufficiently protected.

No one may ever enter it. It was always secret and obscure.

It has been like that for a very long time, since we were very young.

“Don’t come closer, he is reading! He is sleeping. Don’t annoy him!”

When we grew older it became: “Don’t come closer, he couldn’t sleep all night. Let him sleep now an hour or two! He has taken a sleeping pill, yet sleep refuses to visit him!”

So this room became a scary site.

“How does my grandma leave this room unlocked?” I asked myself, entering it.

It was so clean that I couldn’t think of any other room in our entire city that could possibly be just as clean.

The walls are painted white with some blue, covered with photos of a plain horse, a football player and noble horses, followed by a group of smaller photos stuck together: birds and women and a man who puts his head between his hands, thinking.

The bed had sunk in the middle, taking the shape of the body, and the bedclothes were turned upside down at the edge in order to offer enticing ease for anyone who wished to go to sleep there.

The desk, standing under the window, was covered with several books, a clothes brush, a comb and a small round mirror, part of which had been painted, making the desk look dark.

What else was there in this room? I looked around, wishing to find out.

I found some other things that made the roof the same as any other one: a long bench that may serve as both a bed and a bench, two chairs, ash trays and a bundle of wheat in a ceramic vase.

There was something invisible in the room which, however, was more present than anything else. There was warmth there, and a presence, traces of cigarette smoke, and some breath.

I couldn’t possibly identify what it was, yet I felt it, dense and heavy. As though someone had just left it and was about to return in a minute.

Just as I had foreseen, women possess two particular kinds of senses – sadness and love of curiosity.

No longer had I spent some minutes in the attempt to decipher my uncle’s room than I heard the sound of my grandma’s cane hitting the floor.

I sat down on a chair, near the window, and started looking at her as she approached me.

She had aged as though she had grown some decades older than she was when I last saw her four months before in the city. Her footsteps were fast yet faltering, while her head was turning like a swimmer’s, attempting to get a breath of air in order to neither die nor drown.

I left all other rooms and went in the direction of my uncle’s room.

She seemed to have felt I was there, so, using the same calm I had known for many years, she opened the door in order not to bother anyone, and entered.

I did something wrong for which I’ll never forgive myself, for as soon as she saw me she threw away her cane like someone who had finally lost all hope and fell down on the floor, crying.

I filled up with remorse, feeling somehow I was guilty. I tried to raise her up, yet failed, hearing her cry like that.

It was the first time I heard her cry like that. Previously I had seen her tears, but this time I saw something graver than tears – it was deadly despair.

After a while, that seemed like eternity to me, some women came. My grandma got up sad and exhausted. She washed her face and smiled, or attempted to do so, while I pretended to speak plainly, speaking of my aunts and city life, asking the women about the town and the rain, while my grandma remained completely silent, looking at me from time to time, posing a fearful question that I saw rising between her eyes and her head that was moving mechanically and purposelessly.

At night I tried to alleviate the pain I had caused my grandma. I said to her: “You should move to the city, because staying in this accursed house is burning up your nerves.”

She did not reply, only smiled a challenging mocking smile. She looked at me but remained silent.

I realized my words were melting in the air before settling down in her memory. I also realized that similar words had been spoken to her endless times, yet to no avail, and had merely made her angry on most of such occasions.

Encouraging me to eat, my grandma said: “You must never grow up! I think now I see how much you’ve grown.”

I said, asking her to share my meal: “You must eat! Don’t worry about me, Grandma, I’m still very young! I have just started living!”

She unexpectedly got up, tearing away the shawl from the bed. I wanted to surprise her, so I put it back into place, then shaped it into a triangle, threw both of its edges over her shoulders, letting its top drop over her back.

It was a black shawl embroidered with gentle silver threads. She hurriedly looked at it, then looked at me. Her eyes had filled with a question that was more like anger, as though she were scolding me.

I said, somewhat unsettled: “My mother sent it to you. Did she do something wrong by sending it?”

She looked at it again, touched its edge with her dry wrinkled fingers, then pulled me up to her and kissed me on the cheek a kiss not as warm as her previous one, nor in the manner I was used to.

Then came silence, in which I could hear my grandma’s thoughts hovering over my head, scolding me for the waste of money, possibly also regarding the inutility of bringing her city trinkets she didn’t really need.

Up to that moment I had been unable to tell her anything about my journey. I figured out that even a single word might kill her, and even if it didn’t, it would cause her more pain than she could take.

Before I went to sleep, just the way I decided not to plunge into the kind of talk that might pain my grandma, she threw herself down on the bed, close to my pillow, and said, touching my hair with her wrinkled hand: “Today I saw you had grown older so fast as to cause me pain.”

“Grandma, is this the reason why you cried when you saw me?”

“It is, as well as some others.”

“I am sorry you cried. If I had imagined that coming here would hurt you so much, I wouldn’t have come.”

“I’ve got used to it, my son, and so will you.”

“So why did you cry so bitterly?”

“I did because I couldn’t find him. I thought you were…”

She was unable to speak any longer. Tears streamed down her cheeks fast and strong, yet soundless. I was very happy she had spoken, hoping this would put an end to her sadness, yet it only renewed her tears.

Following a heavy wordless pause, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve, saying in a voice demonstrating traces of her tears: “If I had known it was you who were coming, I would be happy now, yet the women who asked me to hurry up to my home didn’t tell me who had arrived.”

I stupidly asked her in order to alleviate her pain: “Were you not expecting me?”

“You told me you were coming, but those accursed women…”

“Did they tell you something different?”

“Oh, I wish they had said something different, but they shouted: ‘Run, old woman, run, for there’s a dear guest in your house.’ This made me think and speculate.”

“Still, were you expecting someone other than me, Grandma?”

“You must go to sleep now. I, however, must make fresh dough, go to sleep now!”

I wondered and looked at her large indecisive eyes, I pondered long. My thoughts wandered and I felt there was something shady here, otherwise why would my grandma act like that?

I let her get up. She went away, then returned several times, carrying flour, then water, then when she settled on a small mattress ready to start making her dough I asked her: “Grandma, what would you say if I traveled somewhere far?”

She turned towards me, wishing to look me in the eye in order to read my thoughts before she replied.

I was unable to look at her. Her eyes were as sharp as burning iron nails, and her lips were locked up with strong determination close to disdain.

When I looked away to escape her, she cried sharply: “Look at me!”

I looked at her, as obedient as an errant child.

“You have grown up more than necessary.”

Following a short silence she added: “You must never grow up!” Then she went on to talk to herself in a tone of harsh reprimand: “I won’t let you grow any older than this!”

Softening my wondering words with playfulness in order to ease her state of mind I replied: “Grandma, my journey won’t be long, and I’ll bring you generous presents!”

“Quiet! You must go to sleep now!”

“I cannot bear sleeping, and before I go away I wish you would approve of my journey and accept it!”

She got up calmly. It didn’t occur to her to make use of her cane. She jumped up like someone walking over hot sand. As soon as she reached the closest part of the bed, she seized my feet in order to be able to reach me.

I sat up and offered her both of my hands. As soon as she grabbed them, she squeezed them saying: “I am not giving you my word of consent, nor do I want you to go away from here!”

“But I won’t be away for long; I will write you letters and return very soon.”

“Those who travel far never return, and if they do, it’s only after a very long time.”

“But I will, Grandma!”

“Do you know why I cried when I saw you today?”

“I don’t, and I’m still afraid of asking you.”

“I thought it was he who had returned .The women just told me there was a beloved guest in my house.”

“I am the one who came. Don’t you want me?”

“But I thought it was he. I have been waiting for him for so long, his journey has lasted so long, yet he is sure to return!”

It was only then that I realized my grandma was waiting for my uncle’s return.

My uncle was the only brother of three sisters, and only my mother was younger than him. He was close to us in a very special way, and therefore visited us every few days.

And yet, whenever I saw my uncle, I felt something like sadness shade our home.

It was sadness with no clear source. I would see him sitting near the pool in our city house or in the guest room, silence hovering over him like a cloud.

My mother would bring him coffee but never spoke to him unless he wanted to, while his silence made him slip away minute by minute, as if he wished to evaporate and not be noticed by anyone.

His pale face and tired red eyes evoked a hidden sadness within us.

I often tried to ask my mother about my uncle’s silence, but each time I was confronted by a dry reply that only begot further unanswered questions.

In the village, where we regularly used to spend our summers following the end of our school year, I would see him quite often. He was tall and white skinned, and so slim that his shape would raise in our hearts an awareness of a kind of sensitivity uncommon to the kind of men we used to see in the fields or shops.

He did nothing but read, and when my mother felt he was exhausted by reading, she would whisper in his ear trying to revitalize him: “You exhaust yourself far too much! You must stop staying up so late! Why do you stay up every night?”

She never waited for him to answer, but kept on talking in the same sad whisper: “It’s enough for you to read for an hour or two!”

My uncle would smile, but not answer. If she insisted, he would say:

“I prefer reading to any other occupation!” Then his tone changed and he asked her: “What do you want me to do?”

“Read, but reading has its limits! Human beings are not made of steel, so you cannot endure this for long.”

“Don’t be afraid on my behalf! I am strong and healthy and when I tire of reading I go to sleep.”

Then he smiled, speaking further, in order to make her trust him: “Reading is a fine pastime, and every pastime strengthens people rather than weakens them!”

“But my mother says that you sleep no longer than a single hour per night, and whenever she gets up she finds you reading!”

“Your mother doesn’t want me to read at all. She says: ‘Your eyes, your health…'”

Then his tone changed completely as he added: “I do sleep a lot! I sleep both at night and in the afternoon!”

Reading was my uncle’s sole pastime. I don’t remember ever seeing him in the company of any friends. He did have some acquaintances, but the time he spent with them was difficult for him, and he could only relax when he was back with his books and silence.

He didn’t read incessantly, though, for I often watched him fold up his book and his look would wander, staring at the walls or the vine. Sometimes he would drop the book, and this woke him up. Sometimes I would see him mutter in a low voice as though he was repeating some verses or singing.

Once back to his book he would read slowly, so that the pages were only rarely turned.

Was he reading? Was he thinking? No one can answer such questions.

When I got a rare opportunity to look into the books he used to read, they seemed to me incomprehensible but exciting.

My mother would insist on keeping us away from those books, following my father’s instruction: “Look after the children! I don’t want him to do them any harm with his books and ideas. These books cause trouble. It’s politics and heresy.”

I saw French books whose titles were incomprehensible to me. Some of them had covers with pictures of girls and men carrying guns and smoking. Only very few of his books were written in Arabic, and he seldom read them.

Once my uncle decided to get himself a governmental position, only after he had failed to become a farmer. His father had told him time and again he could work with him, though all of the latter’s efforts were to no avail. The old lady did not interfere, except in order to side with her son. She used to struggle with my grandpa, using harsh words. when he once tried to be rude to her, she said: “This boy was not made to be a farmer. Agriculture can make do with a horse…” and pointed her finger at him.

My grandpa would laugh, pleased with himself, but this only lasted a minute, after which he would burst out asking:

“What would you like him to be if he is not a farmer?”

“Let him choose for himself!”

“Let him do something, then, anything!”

“Don’t you worry, he’s my son, I suckled him at my breast and know what he’s going to become.”

“I am not worried, yet you know very well that men were not made to stay at home.”

“Would you like to kill him?”

“He’ll kill himself if he goes on like this.”

My grandma mostly had the upper hand at the end of discussion. My grandpa would always be persuaded by her, though his persuasion was mixed with doubt and uncertainty.

My grandma would talk to my mother, asking her to try and persuade my uncle to do something with himself, and think of his future.

Whenever my mother spoke with him, she would use quiet respectful words she had learnt at elementary school, and the two of them often agreed with each other.

He would say to her: “I would like to go on studying. I don’t want to stay here.”

No one could really understand my uncle.

Then one day, three months after my grandpa died, my uncle took a position at the urban court of law.

He was a clerk. When he returned from work he seemed to have completely changed.

Pallor and challenge, which had been his most prominent features, now became a shadow hanging over his eyes and face all night and all day long.

Once I asked my mother about my uncle’s troubles and silence. First she hesitated, then she said: “He always had a single worry, but since he started working at court it has doubled up.”

“Which worries do you refer to, Ma?”

“Your uncle always felt insecure with regard to everything. He used to think that life was nothing but misery and failure, and nothing helped him get rid of this belief. But since he started working at court, he has daily experienced an incredible number of facts supporting this sad worldview.”

I asked my mother about the thoughts that preoccupied my uncle, but her words dwindled off and I could understand nothing of what she said.

Next, after my uncle had completely changed, combining sadness with insomnia, his pallor spread from his face down to his entire person.

His fingers were shaking, his eyes were red, tears sometimes flowing down his face, and his clothes became so loose as to seem to belong to some other man, larger than himself.

On that day, following a long discussion between my mother and my uncle, he went away.

He went to Marseilles after my mother was persuaded to give him some money for his expenses and after he took a leave from the court of law.

Still, as soon as he left town, the court confiscated my grandfather’s money as a guarantee for my uncle’s debt to them.

Up till then my grandmother had thought this was some temporary joke that must somehow end. Things, however, now took a different shape.

My uncle had put his trust in a Frenchman who lived in Marseilles, who had come here earlier and had a strong contact with my grandfather that had resulted in his selling him a large quantity of wheat from both our village and several neighboring ones.

As the result of this deal, and some similar ones, for which my uncle served as an interpreter, the two men talked long about studying, Marseilles and France.

My uncle, then, went to Marseilles, hoping to continue his studies there, but things did not go well.

No sooner had he arrived in Marseilles than he found out that the Frenchman had passed away. His demise put an end to all the hopes he had nurtured of getting a scholarship or continuing his studies.

The money he had brought was spent during the first months of his stay there, and the letters he sent my mother began expressing despair.

He never asked for money, nor did he want anything. He would repeatedly tell episodes depicting both his sad state and suffering, using words that scared my mother.

Finally my mother bought a flight ticket and sent it to Marseilles to my uncle’s address.

My grandma refused to believe that my uncle had gone on such a faraway journey. She thought he was hiding somewhere close for some time, due to an affair with some woman who was sure to show up sometime, and never believed what my mother said, thinking she was keeping the existence of this woman a secret.

The ticket my mother had sent returned, and the university office sent my father a sad letter that left us no hope.

“We are sorry to inform you that we got your address through the late student’s documents. He had been ill and hospitalized following a two month absence from our university. His illness was caused by poor nutrition. The hospital informed us that the late student was almost well again, but the matter ended strangely and abruptly, and so hints it was his decision. He left this world on Monday, November 17 1960. The hospital’s administration has requested us not to do anything with the deceased’s body before we learn what his family wished to be done with it.

The university’s administration wishes to express its condolences and sadness regarding this painful affair. We hope you send us your reply regarding your wish as soon as possible. We had rather some member of the family come here in case you wish to have him buried in his home country.

Awaiting your reply let us again express our heartfelt emotions with regard to this unfortunate incident.”

That was how my uncle’s life ended, remaining a troubling mystery for all of us.

Yet when my grandma heard about this from the town women, she said:

“He couldn’t possibly have died! Liars, whoever says he has died is a liar! He is sure to return!”

No one contradicted her, everyone kept still out of respect for her grief.

Both my aunts and relatives’ wives cried bitterly over my uncle but spoke harshly of my mother, saying it was she who had killed him by encouraging him to go abroad.

The men said his suicide must never be discussed, as not only is suicide shameful, but it is also a breach of religious law.

In order to end this story quietly, without leaving any trace whatsoever, they sent both the hospital and university administrations telegrams requesting that my uncle be buried in Marseilles, insistently requesting that the burial be conducted according to Islamic law.

So this was my uncle’s end, and yet my Grandma has refused to believe it.

Therefore, when I came into town to bid her farewell, she thought my uncle had returned.

This is what I gathered or guessed from what she repeatedly said before she kneaded the dough, resting in my lap on the mattress that night.

I left town without disclosing my leaving. I didn’t tell my grandma the whole truth. I only told her the necklace was a gift sent to her by my mother. I had some business to finish in our home country, then I might have to go abroad for a while.

My grandma considered everything I said as lightheartedness or as some kind of coarse joke unsuitable for one like me.

All night long, as well as the next morning, she repeatedly said:

“You must never grow older! You must return to your grandpa’s land! You won’t be by yourself – one day your uncle will come, and you’ll work together. The land, the land, my child, needs men. The land, the land, since your grandpa passed away, has not regained its strength. You have to stay here and till the land, and when your uncle returns he’ll fall in love with the green land and fruitful trees, but if he returns and finds the land hard, devoid of trees and vegetables, he may go away again.”

I remained silent and did not say a single word. I knew my uncle had passed away many years before and his bones were now lying in a Marseilles cemetery.

It is a Christian one, no doubt, because when people die they all look alike, with no difference between Christians and Moslems. They are all equally dead, and the dead don’t differ from one another. They all sleep peacefully, without remembering anything about their relatives, as well as their former conflicts.

I left town the following morning.

The trees were old, big and desperate. The walls of the houses had lost their color and they seemed painted with the pale color of graves. Even the rivulet seemed superfluous and strange, and I was unable to look at its water as I crossed the bridge in the direction of the bus station that was to take me to the city.

My grandma took off her shawl, and when I asked her to put it on, she replied:

“I won’t put it on unless you or your uncle return. Then I’ll be able to take out of my chest many lovely things I haven’t worn for ever so long!”

I left everything behind, feeling pain and sadness, my mind full of stupid questions to which I can never find an answer: “Why did my uncle go away? Why did he kill himself? And I… if I go away, will I ever return? And my grandma, will she survive until I do?”

These kinds of questions went on bothering me, remaining unanswered.

I returned in the summer, following an exhausting year of study during which I felt that traveling meant suffering, and that like a flowing river it, too, both rejuvenates you and pushes you towards dangerous waterfalls.

I was carrying a present I had tried to choose carefully for my grandma.

I had bought a shawl, this time a black one.

I don’t know why I chose this color, and yet I figured out that my grandma, waiting for my uncle, had aged considerably, and that black would suit her better than any other color.

I had asked my mother about my grandma, but she didn’t answer me, attempting to avoid my question. I repeated my question, yet got no answer.

When I went into town on the following day, I was convinced everything had ended.

My mother’s silence was a sharp final answer to my earlier question, stronger than any words, yet I don’t know why she let me come.

The town was still lying between the mountains, the trees were green and covered by leaves, the air was dry, coarse and almost hot, but the water of the river as I crossed the bridge was flowing with deaf energy.

I made a stop on the bridge, and many thoughts flooded my mind: “Has my uncle returned? Is my grandma still alive, or did she die long ago? Have I grown up, or remained a small boy?”

Still the water passed on under the bridge, energetic and plentiful.

When I hurriedly passed the alley, approaching my grandpa’s house, I found the door open.

My heartbeats increased and I strongly felt that my grandma was standing at the door and if she wasn’t there, she was no doubt waiting in the middle room.

She’ll be standing there on her three feet, she’ll jump at me, and I’ll breathe in her bosom and clothes the smell of childhood and of green trees, the smell of the land…

I passed through the door, went around the rooms, found my uncle’s room looking exactly the same as always, clean and full of photos, and yet a single thing touched me, filling me with inexplicable sadness – the dust lying on the bed and table.

Before I could end my tour, several women, my grandpa’s neighbors, came by. Their eyes that preceded their words made me feel everything had come to an end.

When I left town, everything seemed strange and unfamiliar to me – the trees, the alleys, and the rivulet.

At the end of the alley I stopped to look back.

The door was still open, as though expecting someone to arrive.

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Creative Writing - The door creaked open as the young boy stepped out but was quickly slammed shut by the viscous wind the noise echoed through the hills disturbing some pigeons roosting in the near by trees.

 Robin Lawson        Page         

Creative Writing

The door creaked open as the young boy stepped out but was quickly slammed shut by the viscous wind the noise echoed through the hills disturbing some pigeons roosting in the near by trees. The moon was out illuminating the night sky with a milky glow which illuminated all land creating large disturbing shadows. The trees bent in submission to the howling wind which forced their branches to brush along the ground sweeping the dust away from the track. The solitary building which could barely be described as a house stood alone and solitary on the hillside. The walls were crumbling from the water logged plaster and only one window still contained a pain of glass. The door had almost come off its hinges and with one more slam it would break. Off in the distant hill tops stood a wolf howling at the moon its silhouette easily visible from miles around.

         The child standing at the door way looked older than he was with jet black hair and dark bushy eyebrows that almost seemed to crawl across his face like giant caterpillars. His eyes were large and round with black pupils white when he looked into the pale glow of the moon. His lips were thin and pale with deep cracks. They looked like they belonged to a fifty year old. His face was white and worn with long wrinkle stretching across his cheeks. He was wearing a long grey trench coat which danced in the wind behind him. He grabbed it and wrapped it tightly round himself like a cocoon. Then he started off along the dirt road keeping his head low in a desperate battle against the wind. Slowly, with each foot crunching it to the leaves which were strewn along the path he fought a constant battle against the wind.

The moon was rising higher in the sky throwing streaks of light like icicles across the darkened land. Then from nowhere a rogue cloud streaked across the sky to shield the moon from view. Suddenly the land turned black like some giant hand had just turned off the huge light floating in the sky. The moon fought hard to pierce the shield formed by the cloud but to no avail. The cloud appeared to slow down as it passed by the moon but gradually it began to pass and then suddenly two large streaks of light shot out from the side of the moon the whole land gradually began to reappear under the moonlight. Within a matter of minutes the moon had reappeared from its shade and was shining with extra brightness to make up for the time which it was blocked. Once again the shadows of the trees began to dance in the moonlight. Swaying like mystical dancers in the wind.

This is a preview of the whole essay

The child continued on his journey along the moonlit path leading up over a hill and off in to the distance. The road began to climb the boy slowed his pace wrapping his long trench coat even tighter round his small frail body. Suddenly the wind grabbed hold of his jacket pulling him back he fell and stumbled for a few seconds he sat there with his hands and knees resting on the ground. He composed himself stood up and once again cocooned himself within his jacket. The gradient of the road climbed even higher slowly he began to crawl higher up the hill. Eventually he reached the top of the hill and stood there looking over the landscape. Over to his left and his right outstretched two long lines of trees which appeared to be moving from one side to the other with the wind. However by now the wind was beginning to die down, the clumps of trees were not swaying so ferociously in the wind. The trees encircled one huge clearing of small hills with odd areas of flat land which had small hermit pine trees strewn over the ground. Every now and then a pair of sparkling diamond eyes would dart across the area quickly disappearing into the tress. Streaks of moonlight stretched out over the hills and off into the distance.

He stood there for about ten minutes with his trench coat blowing in the wind. Gradually the wind began to die until the trees were still and lifeless. The boy continued on his journey at a much quicker pace down the hill no longer fighting the wind. Gradually the gradient of the land began to lessen and eventually the land became flat once again. Finally the boy sighted his goal on old barn off in the distance. The barn was situated at the bottom of the tallest hill in the area it was nearly a mountain, it stretched up towards the heavens and could not be seen in the gloom of the night. The roof was thatched but the thatch desperately needed replacing. There were many holes on the roof and most of it had turned green with mould. There were two small windows located on the top half of the house on either side they glared out like a pair of dead black eyes. The door was ajar it stood there like a huge gaping mouth waiting to engulf the next visitor to enter the darkness. The barn with its green hair dark lifeless eyes and gaping mouth was terrifying. But still the boy carried on walking along the path towards the monstrous house.

Off in the distance the headlights of cars sped past and the pounding sound of great tankers and lorries could be heard carrying their many unknown substances across the countryside. As he drew nearer the number of headlights and noises seem to grow louder spoiling the peace and tranquillity of the whole area. Suddenly a flock of birds driven from their roost by the noise shot off into the night sky, he jumped back startled and tripped over a discarded plastic bottle. He fell to the ground landing on his back quickly he scurried to get up again. Now startled by the fall he began to run along the path then darting off to take a short cut through the trees their long fingers hindering his passage and scratching his face. Tired and with his face scratched he emerged from the blanket of trees. He stopped and rested with his hands on his knees panting hard, steam bellowed from his mouth with every breath. Eventually he stood up straight and looked up at the decrepit old barn; he stared up at the barn with its dark eyes constantly looking ahead. Slowly, cautiously he entered into the gaping mouth and the darkness of the building.

Once inside he pulled a torch from his pocket and began to examine the area, once his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he replaced the torch in his pocket and looked around. Stacked in the corner of the barn was a huge pile of straw and despite the fact that it had been left there for the last few years it was surprisingly dry. The rest of the floor was empty. But the upper rafters were teeming with life, many owls sat on the beams every few minutes another one would enter and a different one would leave. Rats and mice ran back and froth across the beams of wood and many other birds sat perched somewhere on the roof.

Gradually the boy reached into his left pocket and pulled out a bottle of mentholated spirit casually he began spreading it over the pile of straw humming to himself as he worked. He then turned his attention to the rest of the barn splashing the last few drops over the walls. He then reached in to his other pocket and pulled out a tiny box of matches he held the box up to his ear and shook a small rattling sound came from the box. He opened the box to reveal five small matches, he took out one of the matches and laid it on the palm of his hand just staring at it. He clenched his fist around the match and then walked out of the barn. Returning a few minutes later with some small twigs and dry bracken he stacked them up into a pile on top of the straw and then took a second bottle of mentholated spirit and soaked the small fire in the liquid. He pulled the single match and the match box from his pocket. He stuck the match quickly on the box there was a fizzle and the match erupted in flame. He leaned over the soaked fire he had constructed and dropped the match on to the fire. The entire fire erupted in flame the small flames began to chase each other all over the huge pile of straw and along the walls. The flames began to grow larger and hotter and the familiar crackling that is associated with fires began to sound. The boy stepped back to admire his masterpiece this burning leaving breathing thing which he had created it moved around the building with the speed of a cat. The flames began lapping at the ground on the edge of the straw stack searching for substances to fuel their destructive path. The walls glowed red with the heat from the flames and loud cracking noises could be heard. The burning heat began to engulf the structure, mice and other animals began to scurry high up into the rafters where they believed they would be safe. The boy stood their mesmerised by the dancing waves of flame as his very own creation began to grow to an uncontrollable height and size. In distance the whirring sirens of the petrol fuelled fire trucks came echoing.

The Sun rose in the sky illuminating the charred remains of the barn surrounded by fire trucks and police cars. The few remaining pockets of fire were being extinguished by men dressed in large jackets. The report filed later stated that the fire had been started by flammable chemical possible petrol being lit within the barn. There were no suspects as to who started the fire all that was found was the remains of an old trench coat.

Document Details

• Word Count 1709
• Page Count 3
• Subject English

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Sat / act prep online guides and tips, 3 great narrative essay examples + tips for writing.

General Education

A narrative essay is one of the most intimidating assignments you can be handed at any level of your education. Where you've previously written argumentative essays that make a point or analytic essays that dissect meaning, a narrative essay asks you to write what is effectively a story .

But unlike a simple work of creative fiction, your narrative essay must have a clear and concrete motif —a recurring theme or idea that you’ll explore throughout. Narrative essays are less rigid, more creative in expression, and therefore pretty different from most other essays you’ll be writing.

But not to fear—in this article, we’ll be covering what a narrative essay is, how to write a good one, and also analyzing some personal narrative essay examples to show you what a great one looks like.

What Is a Narrative Essay?

At first glance, a narrative essay might sound like you’re just writing a story. Like the stories you're used to reading, a narrative essay is generally (but not always) chronological, following a clear throughline from beginning to end. Even if the story jumps around in time, all the details will come back to one specific theme, demonstrated through your choice in motifs.

Unlike many creative stories, however, your narrative essay should be based in fact. That doesn’t mean that every detail needs to be pure and untainted by imagination, but rather that you shouldn’t wholly invent the events of your narrative essay. There’s nothing wrong with inventing a person’s words if you can’t remember them exactly, but you shouldn’t say they said something they weren’t even close to saying.

Another big difference between narrative essays and creative fiction—as well as other kinds of essays—is that narrative essays are based on motifs. A motif is a dominant idea or theme, one that you establish before writing the essay. As you’re crafting the narrative, it’ll feed back into your motif to create a comprehensive picture of whatever that motif is.

For example, say you want to write a narrative essay about how your first day in high school helped you establish your identity. You might discuss events like trying to figure out where to sit in the cafeteria, having to describe yourself in five words as an icebreaker in your math class, or being unsure what to do during your lunch break because it’s no longer acceptable to go outside and play during lunch. All of those ideas feed back into the central motif of establishing your identity.

The important thing to remember is that while a narrative essay is typically told chronologically and intended to read like a story, it is not purely for entertainment value. A narrative essay delivers its theme by deliberately weaving the motifs through the events, scenes, and details. While a narrative essay may be entertaining, its primary purpose is to tell a complete story based on a central meaning.

Unlike other essay forms, it is totally okay—even expected—to use first-person narration in narrative essays. If you’re writing a story about yourself, it’s natural to refer to yourself within the essay. It’s also okay to use other perspectives, such as third- or even second-person, but that should only be done if it better serves your motif. Generally speaking, your narrative essay should be in first-person perspective.

Though your motif choices may feel at times like you’re making a point the way you would in an argumentative essay, a narrative essay’s goal is to tell a story, not convince the reader of anything. Your reader should be able to tell what your motif is from reading, but you don’t have to change their mind about anything. If they don’t understand the point you are making, you should consider strengthening the delivery of the events and descriptions that support your motif.

Narrative essays also share some features with analytical essays, in which you derive meaning from a book, film, or other media. But narrative essays work differently—you’re not trying to draw meaning from an existing text, but rather using an event you’ve experienced to convey meaning. In an analytical essay, you examine narrative, whereas in a narrative essay you create narrative.

The structure of a narrative essay is also a bit different than other essays. You’ll generally be getting your point across chronologically as opposed to grouping together specific arguments in paragraphs or sections. To return to the example of an essay discussing your first day of high school and how it impacted the shaping of your identity, it would be weird to put the events out of order, even if not knowing what to do after lunch feels like a stronger idea than choosing where to sit. Instead of organizing to deliver your information based on maximum impact, you’ll be telling your story as it happened, using concrete details to reinforce your theme.

3 Great Narrative Essay Examples

One of the best ways to learn how to write a narrative essay is to look at a great narrative essay sample. Let’s take a look at some truly stellar narrative essay examples and dive into what exactly makes them work so well.

A Ticket to the Fair by David Foster Wallace

Today is Press Day at the Illinois State Fair in Springfield, and I’m supposed to be at the fairgrounds by 9:00 A.M. to get my credentials. I imagine credentials to be a small white card in the band of a fedora. I’ve never been considered press before. My real interest in credentials is getting into rides and shows for free. I’m fresh in from the East Coast, for an East Coast magazine. Why exactly they’re interested in the Illinois State Fair remains unclear to me. I suspect that every so often editors at East Coast magazines slap their foreheads and remember that about 90 percent of the United States lies between the coasts, and figure they’ll engage somebody to do pith-helmeted anthropological reporting on something rural and heartlandish. I think they asked me to do this because I grew up here, just a couple hours’ drive from downstate Springfield. I never did go to the state fair, though—I pretty much topped out at the county fair level. Actually, I haven’t been back to Illinois for a long time, and I can’t say I’ve missed it.

Throughout this essay, David Foster Wallace recounts his experience as press at the Illinois State Fair. But it’s clear from this opening that he’s not just reporting on the events exactly as they happened—though that’s also true— but rather making a point about how the East Coast, where he lives and works, thinks about the Midwest.

In his opening paragraph, Wallace states that outright: “Why exactly they’re interested in the Illinois State Fair remains unclear to me. I suspect that every so often editors at East Coast magazines slap their foreheads and remember that about 90 percent of the United States lies between the coasts, and figure they’ll engage somebody to do pith-helmeted anthropological reporting on something rural and heartlandish.”

Not every motif needs to be stated this clearly , but in an essay as long as Wallace’s, particularly since the audience for such a piece may feel similarly and forget that such a large portion of the country exists, it’s important to make that point clear.

But Wallace doesn’t just rest on introducing his motif and telling the events exactly as they occurred from there. It’s clear that he selects events that remind us of that idea of East Coast cynicism , such as when he realizes that the Help Me Grow tent is standing on top of fake grass that is killing the real grass beneath, when he realizes the hypocrisy of craving a corn dog when faced with a real, suffering pig, when he’s upset for his friend even though he’s not the one being sexually harassed, and when he witnesses another East Coast person doing something he wouldn’t dare to do.

Wallace is literally telling the audience exactly what happened, complete with dates and timestamps for when each event occurred. But he’s also choosing those events with a purpose—he doesn’t focus on details that don’t serve his motif. That’s why he discusses the experiences of people, how the smells are unappealing to him, and how all the people he meets, in cowboy hats, overalls, or “black spandex that looks like cheesecake leotards,” feel almost alien to him.

All of these details feed back into the throughline of East Coast thinking that Wallace introduces in the first paragraph. He also refers back to it in the essay’s final paragraph, stating:

At last, an overarching theory blooms inside my head: megalopolitan East Coasters’ summer treats and breaks and literally ‘getaways,’ flights-from—from crowds, noise, heat, dirt, the stress of too many sensory choices….The East Coast existential treat is escape from confines and stimuli—quiet, rustic vistas that hold still, turn inward, turn away. Not so in the rural Midwest. Here you’re pretty much away all the time….Something in a Midwesterner sort of actuates , deep down, at a public event….The real spectacle that draws us here is us.

Throughout this journey, Wallace has tried to demonstrate how the East Coast thinks about the Midwest, ultimately concluding that they are captivated by the Midwest’s less stimuli-filled life, but that the real reason they are interested in events like the Illinois State Fair is that they are, in some ways, a means of looking at the East Coast in a new, estranging way.

The reason this works so well is that Wallace has carefully chosen his examples, outlined his motif and themes in the first paragraph, and eventually circled back to the original motif with a clearer understanding of his original point.

When outlining your own narrative essay, try to do the same. Start with a theme, build upon it with examples, and return to it in the end with an even deeper understanding of the original issue. You don’t need this much space to explore a theme, either—as we’ll see in the next example, a strong narrative essay can also be very short.

Death of a Moth by Virginia Woolf

After a time, tired by his dancing apparently, he settled on the window ledge in the sun, and, the queer spectacle being at an end, I forgot about him. Then, looking up, my eye was caught by him. He was trying to resume his dancing, but seemed either so stiff or so awkward that he could only flutter to the bottom of the window-pane; and when he tried to fly across it he failed. Being intent on other matters I watched these futile attempts for a time without thinking, unconsciously waiting for him to resume his flight, as one waits for a machine, that has stopped momentarily, to start again without considering the reason of its failure. After perhaps a seventh attempt he slipped from the wooden ledge and fell, fluttering his wings, on to his back on the window sill. The helplessness of his attitude roused me. It flashed upon me that he was in difficulties; he could no longer raise himself; his legs struggled vainly. But, as I stretched out a pencil, meaning to help him to right himself, it came over me that the failure and awkwardness were the approach of death. I laid the pencil down again.

In this essay, Virginia Woolf explains her encounter with a dying moth. On surface level, this essay is just a recounting of an afternoon in which she watched a moth die—it’s even established in the title. But there’s more to it than that. Though Woolf does not begin her essay with as clear a motif as Wallace, it’s not hard to pick out the evidence she uses to support her point, which is that the experience of this moth is also the human experience.

In the title, Woolf tells us this essay is about death. But in the first paragraph, she seems to mostly be discussing life—the moth is “content with life,” people are working in the fields, and birds are flying. However, she mentions that it is mid-September and that the fields were being plowed. It’s autumn and it’s time for the harvest; the time of year in which many things die.

In this short essay, she chronicles the experience of watching a moth seemingly embody life, then die. Though this essay is literally about a moth, it’s also about a whole lot more than that. After all, moths aren’t the only things that die—Woolf is also reflecting on her own mortality, as well as the mortality of everything around her.

At its core, the essay discusses the push and pull of life and death, not in a way that’s necessarily sad, but in a way that is accepting of both. Woolf begins by setting up the transitional fall season, often associated with things coming to an end, and raises the ideas of pleasure, vitality, and pity.

At one point, Woolf tries to help the dying moth, but reconsiders, as it would interfere with the natural order of the world. The moth’s death is part of the natural order of the world, just like fall, just like her own eventual death.

All these themes are set up in the beginning and explored throughout the essay’s narrative. Though Woolf doesn’t directly state her theme, she reinforces it by choosing a small, isolated event—watching a moth die—and illustrating her point through details.

With this essay, we can see that you don’t need a big, weird, exciting event to discuss an important meaning. Woolf is able to explore complicated ideas in a short essay by being deliberate about what details she includes, just as you can be in your own essays.

Notes of a Native Son by James Baldwin

On the twenty-ninth of July, in 1943, my father died. On the same day, a few hours later, his last child was born. Over a month before this, while all our energies were concentrated in waiting for these events, there had been, in Detroit, one of the bloodiest race riots of the century. A few hours after my father’s funeral, while he lay in state in the undertaker’s chapel, a race riot broke out in Harlem. On the morning of the third of August, we drove my father to the graveyard through a wilderness of smashed plate glass.

Like Woolf, Baldwin does not lay out his themes in concrete terms—unlike Wallace, there’s no clear sentence that explains what he’ll be talking about. However, you can see the motifs quite clearly: death, fatherhood, struggle, and race.

Throughout the narrative essay, Baldwin discusses the circumstances of his father’s death, including his complicated relationship with his father. By introducing those motifs in the first paragraph, the reader understands that everything discussed in the essay will come back to those core ideas. When Baldwin talks about his experience with a white teacher taking an interest in him and his father’s resistance to that, he is also talking about race and his father’s death. When he talks about his father’s death, he is also talking about his views on race. When he talks about his encounters with segregation and racism, he is talking, in part, about his father.

Because his father was a hard, uncompromising man, Baldwin struggles to reconcile the knowledge that his father was right about many things with his desire to not let that hardness consume him, as well.

Baldwin doesn’t explicitly state any of this, but his writing so often touches on the same motifs that it becomes clear he wants us to think about all these ideas in conversation with one another.

At the end of the essay, Baldwin makes it more clear:

This fight begins, however, in the heart and it had now been laid to my charge to keep my own heart free of hatred and despair. This intimation made my heart heavy and, now that my father was irrecoverable, I wished that he had been beside me so that I could have searched his face for the answers which only the future would give me now.

Here, Baldwin ties together the themes and motifs into one clear statement: that he must continue to fight and recognize injustice, especially racial injustice, just as his father did. But unlike his father, he must do it beginning with himself—he must not let himself be closed off to the world as his father was. And yet, he still wishes he had his father for guidance, even as he establishes that he hopes to be a different man than his father.

In this essay, Baldwin loads the front of the essay with his motifs, and, through his narrative, weaves them together into a theme. In the end, he comes to a conclusion that connects all of those things together and leaves the reader with a lasting impression of completion—though the elements may have been initially disparate, in the end everything makes sense.

You can replicate this tactic of introducing seemingly unattached ideas and weaving them together in your own essays. By introducing those motifs, developing them throughout, and bringing them together in the end, you can demonstrate to your reader how all of them are related. However, it’s especially important to be sure that your motifs and clear and consistent throughout your essay so that the conclusion feels earned and consistent—if not, readers may feel mislead.

5 Key Tips for Writing Narrative Essays

Narrative essays can be a lot of fun to write since they’re so heavily based on creativity. But that can also feel intimidating—sometimes it’s easier to have strict guidelines than to have to make it all up yourself. Here are a few tips to keep your narrative essay feeling strong and fresh.

Develop Strong Motifs

Motifs are the foundation of a narrative essay . What are you trying to say? How can you say that using specific symbols or events? Those are your motifs.

In the same way that an argumentative essay’s body should support its thesis, the body of your narrative essay should include motifs that support your theme.

Try to avoid cliches, as these will feel tired to your readers. Instead of roses to symbolize love, try succulents. Instead of the ocean representing some vast, unknowable truth, try the depths of your brother’s bedroom. Keep your language and motifs fresh and your essay will be even stronger!

Use First-Person Perspective

In many essays, you’re expected to remove yourself so that your points stand on their own. Not so in a narrative essay—in this case, you want to make use of your own perspective.

Sometimes a different perspective can make your point even stronger. If you want someone to identify with your point of view, it may be tempting to choose a second-person perspective. However, be sure you really understand the function of second-person; it’s very easy to put a reader off if the narration isn’t expertly deployed.

If you want a little bit of distance, third-person perspective may be okay. But be careful—too much distance and your reader may feel like the narrative lacks truth.

That’s why first-person perspective is the standard. It keeps you, the writer, close to the narrative, reminding the reader that it really happened. And because you really know what happened and how, you’re free to inject your own opinion into the story without it detracting from your point, as it would in a different type of essay.

Stick to the Truth

Your essay should be true. However, this is a creative essay, and it’s okay to embellish a little. Rarely in life do we experience anything with a clear, concrete meaning the way somebody in a book might. If you flub the details a little, it’s okay—just don’t make them up entirely.

Also, nobody expects you to perfectly recall details that may have happened years ago. You may have to reconstruct dialog from your memory and your imagination. That’s okay, again, as long as you aren’t making it up entirely and assigning made-up statements to somebody.

Dialog is a powerful tool. A good conversation can add flavor and interest to a story, as we saw demonstrated in David Foster Wallace’s essay. As previously mentioned, it’s okay to flub it a little, especially because you’re likely writing about an experience you had without knowing that you’d be writing about it later.

However, don’t rely too much on it. Your narrative essay shouldn’t be told through people explaining things to one another; the motif comes through in the details. Dialog can be one of those details, but it shouldn’t be the only one.

Use Sensory Descriptions

Because a narrative essay is a story, you can use sensory details to make your writing more interesting. If you’re describing a particular experience, you can go into detail about things like taste, smell, and hearing in a way that you probably wouldn’t do in any other essay style.

These details can tie into your overall motifs and further your point. Woolf describes in great detail what she sees while watching the moth, giving us the sense that we, too, are watching the moth. In Wallace’s essay, he discusses the sights, sounds, and smells of the Illinois State Fair to help emphasize his point about its strangeness. And in Baldwin’s essay, he describes shattered glass as a “wilderness,” and uses the feelings of his body to describe his mental state.

All these descriptions anchor us not only in the story, but in the motifs and themes as well. One of the tools of a writer is making the reader feel as you felt, and sensory details help you achieve that.

What’s Next?

Looking to brush up on your essay-writing capabilities before the ACT? This guide to ACT English will walk you through some of the best strategies and practice questions to get you prepared!

Part of practicing for the ACT is ensuring your word choice and diction are on point. Check out this guide to some of the most common errors on the ACT English section to be sure that you're not making these common mistakes!

A solid understanding of English principles will help you make an effective point in a narrative essay, and you can get that understanding through taking a rigorous assortment of high school English classes !

Melissa Brinks graduated from the University of Washington in 2014 with a Bachelor's in English with a creative writing emphasis. She has spent several years tutoring K-12 students in many subjects, including in SAT prep, to help them prepare for their college education.

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The Open Window

Ask litcharts ai: the answer to your questions.

Framton Nuttel is visiting the quiet English countryside in the hope of curing his nerves. Upon arriving at Mrs. Sappleton ’s home, he is greeted by her self-assured 15-year-old niece named Vera . Mr. Nuttel searches in vain for the proper greeting for a teenage girl, while privately lamenting that these meetings with strangers, arranged by his sister , likely won’t do him any good. Vera proceeds to ask her guest about his knowledge of the area and learns that Mr. Nuttel knows “next to nothing” about her aunt. Vera then points out a large, open window , and launches into a story about Mrs. Sappleton’s “great tragedy.”

Vera tells Mr. Nuttel that three years ago Mrs. Sappleton’s husband, two brothers, and spaniel left through that window for a hunting trip, during which they were all “engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog.” Vera includes specific details about the outing that all ground her tale, such as the white raincoat one man was wearing and how her uncle Ronnie sang “Bertie, why do you bound?” to tease his sister. Now, Vera says, her aunt keeps the window open because she believes the men will still come home. Vera adds that on quiet evenings, she gets a “creepy feeling” that the dead men will indeed walk through the window.

Just then Mrs. Sappleton enters the room, much to Mr. Nuttel’s relief, and asks her guest whether Vera has been amusing him. She proceeds to apologize for the open window, remarking that her husband and brothers enter the house that way after hunting trips to avoid dirtying the carpet. Mr. Nuttel grows horrified by her cheerful rambling about hunting, and attempts to change the subject by discussing his illness and various cures. He notices that Mrs. Sappleton’s eyes keep wandering toward the window, and considers it an “unfortunate coincidence” to have visited on such a tragic anniversary. Mrs. Sappleton barely stifles a yawn before “brightening to attention” to something outside.

Mrs. Sappleton excitedly remarks that her brother and husband have arrived just in time for tea. For a moment Mr. Nuttel pities her delusion, before catching a look of terror on Vera’s face. Turning to look out the window himself, he sees three men and a dog walking across the yard, one with a white raincoat slung over his arm and another singing “Bertie, why do you bound?”—just as in Vera’s story. Terrified, Mr. Nuttel sprints out of the house and down the driveway.

The men enter the home and the one with the white coat asks Mrs. Sappleton who the man running past was. She responds that he was a “most extraordinary gentleman,” who left without saying goodbye, in such a hurry that “one would think he had seen a ghost.”

Immediately Vera explains that Mr. Nuttel ran off because of the spaniel, adding that he is scared of dogs due to a traumatic incident in India. The story concludes with the line, “romance at short notice was her specialty.”

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Descriptive Essay, When one door closes another one opens.

Did you ever have your heart set on something that you wanted really bad? Remember that feeling?  That feeling when you had so much hope that you were going to get it but you felt it wasn’t for you? That feeling when you felt like you were so close, you could just reach out and grab it...but then it slipped between your fingers. You didn’t get what you were hoping for. Know that feeling? I do. Maybe it wasn’t meant to happen at that time or maybe not at all. Maybe it wasn’t meant for me, I ponder in those thoughts.

It was a beautiful sunny morning. I’d been excited for this day all week and it  had finally come. There was so much I expected this house to have. I just knew it was going to be the one. The one that my mom and I were finally going to get for us, just us. We headed on our way down there with my mom’s best friend. The real estate agent wasn’t there yet, so we waited. In the meantime, we investigated the outside of the house.

“Wow, this is nice.”, my mom said. The outside of the house had a white picket fence with a latch, followed by a cement pathway that led up to cement stairs, where a white door greeted you. On each side of the cement pathway there was green grass and bushes. Just around the corner of the house there were wooden steps painted brown, that led to a beautiful balcony in the back. I could see tiny lights decorating the walls of it. It must’ve been from the old owners.

“I’m here!” said the loud voice of Emma Jean, the real estate agent. She unlocked the door. We stepped inside a porch first. The floors were wooden brown and the walls had a built in bookshelf. The walls were also wooden and painted green. We walked into the living room first. It was wide with light smooth wooden floors. The crumb ceilings were white and there was a slide-in door that led to the backyard.

I ran upstairs expecting to run into this huge hallway and big rooms. Since the downstairs was big, why not the upstairs? So, I ran upstairs and to my surprise, I stopped on a single square carpeted floor, with two small rooms on each side of me, and right in front of my face was a huge bathroom. That was it. That was the upstairs. My face went from a big smile to a confused stare. My mom came upstairs with the same expression on her face. I looked up at her with a disappointed look and she returned it with the same.

“You can make it work. I like it.” My mom’s friend said. My mom still looked unsure. She pulled me aside in private. “What do you think?” She said. I looked up at her, my face still disappointed, and I shook my head, “No.”

Those were one of many moments when I wished I hadn’t put my whole heart into this house being “the one” for my mom and I. Not only was this a big let down, but it was something that I was hoping and expecting would happen this summer and it didn’t. That didn’t necessarily mean something else wasn’t coming our way, another thing we both were believing and praying for.

“Look, I’m sorry but I just can’t give it to you for this price.” said the car dealer. He had a button-down shirt with a tie. It was neatly tucked into his dress pants.

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The Donald Trump I Saw on The Apprentice

For 20 years, i couldn’t say what i watched the former president do on the set of the show that changed everything. now i can..

On Jan. 8, 2004, just more than 20 years ago, the first episode of The Apprentice aired. It was called “Meet the Billionaire,” and 18 million people watched. The episodes that followed climbed to roughly 20 million each week. A staggering 28 million viewers tuned in to watch the first season finale. The series won an Emmy nomination for Outstanding Reality-Competition Program, and the Television Critics Association called it one of the best TV shows of the year, alongside The Sopranos and Arrested Development . The series—alongside its bawdy sibling, The Celebrity Apprentice —appeared on NBC in coveted prime-time slots for more than a decade.

The Apprentice was an instant success in another way too. It elevated Donald J. Trump from sleazy New York tabloid hustler to respectable household name. In the show, he appeared to demonstrate impeccable business instincts and unparalleled wealth, even though his businesses had barely survived multiple bankruptcies and faced yet another when he was cast. By carefully misleading viewers about Trump—his wealth, his stature, his character, and his intent—the competition reality show set about an American fraud that would balloon beyond its creators’ wildest imaginations.

I should know. I was one of four producers involved in the first two seasons. During that time, I signed an expansive nondisclosure agreement that promised a fine of $5 million and even jail time if I were to ever divulge what actually happened. It expired this year.

No one involved in The Apprentice —from the production company or the network, to the cast and crew—was involved in a con with malicious intent. It was a TV show , and it was made for entertainment . I still believe that. But we played fast and loose with the facts, particularly regarding Trump, and if you were one of the 28 million who tuned in, chances are you were conned.

As Trump answers for another of his alleged deception schemes in New York and gears up to try to persuade Americans to elect him again, in part thanks to the myth we created, I can finally tell you what making Trump into what he is today looked like from my side. Most days were revealing. Some still haunt me, two decades later.

Nearly everything I ever learned about deception I learned from my friend Apollo Robbins. He’s been called a professional pickpocket, but he’s actually a “perceptions expert.” Apollo has spent his life studying the psychology of how we distort other people’s perceptions of reality and has done so by picking pockets onstage for the entertainment of others. He is a master of deception, a skill that made him, back in the day, the so-called best-kept secret in Las Vegas. After “fanning” his marks with casual, unobtrusive touch designed to make them feel safe or at ease, Apollo determines where the items reside—the wallet inside a breast pocket, the Rolex fastened to a wrist—and he removes these items without detection. He’ll even tell you what he intends to steal before he does it. He does this not to hurt people or bewilder them with a puzzle but to challenge their maps of reality. The results are marvelous. A lot of magic is designed to appeal to people visually, but what he’s trying to affect is your mind, your moods, your perceptions.

As a producer working in unscripted, or “reality,” television, I have the same goal. Like Apollo, I want to entertain, make people joyful, maybe even challenge their ways of thinking. But because I often lack the cinematic power of a movie, with its visual pyrotechnics or rehearsed dialogue, I rely on shaping the perceptions of viewers, manipulating their maps of reality toward something I want them to think or feel.

The presumption is that reality TV is scripted. What actually happens is the illusion of reality by staging situations against an authentic backdrop. The more authentic it is to, say, have a 40-foot wave bearing down on a crab boat in the Bering Sea for Deadliest Catch , the more we can trick you into thinking a malevolent Russian trawler is out there messing with the crabber’s bait. There is a trick to it, and when it works, you feel as if you’re watching a scripted show. Although very few programs are out-and-out fake, there is deception at play in every single reality program. The producers and editors are ostensibly con artists, distracting you with grand notions while we steal from you your precious time.

But the real con that drove The Apprentice is far older than television. The “pig in the poke” comes from an idiom dating to 1555: “I’ll never buy a pig in a poke / There’s many a foul pig in a fair cloak.” It refers to the time-honored scam of selling a suckling pig at market but handing over a bag (the poke) to the purchaser, who never looks inside it. Eventually, he discovers he’s purchased something quite different.

Our show became a 21 st -century version. It’s a long con played out over a decade of watching Trump dominate prime time by shouting orders, appearing to lead, and confidently firing some of the most capable people on television, all before awarding one eligible person a job. Audiences responded to Trump’s arrogance, his perceived abilities and prescience, but mostly his confidence . The centerpiece to any confidence game is precisely that— confidence .

As I walk into my interview for The Apprentice , I inadvertently learn how important it is for every one of us involved to demonstrate confidence above all else.

I sit down with Jay Bienstock, the showrunner, who has one last producer position to fill and needs somebody capable and hardworking. His office is sparse, and the desk is strategically placed directly across from the couch, with a noticeable angle downward from his desk to whomever is seated across from him. (I’m recalling all of the quoted conversations here to the best of my ability; they are not verbatim.)

He is smiling and even laughing throughout the interview, but from the steep angle at which he gazes down on me, there is no mistaking who is in charge. He seems to like what he hears and offers to follow up with my agent. “But I have to check your references before I can hire you,” he says. “You’d be crazy not to,” I reply. He laughs, claps his hands together, and grins. “ THAT’S what I’m talking about,” he says. “That’s the confidence this show needs!”

I sit there, several inches below eyeline, and ponder what just happened. What, I wonder, is so “confident” about suggesting he’d be crazy to not check my references? Then it dawns on me. He thinks I meant “You’d be crazy not to hire me.” The signal to noise begins.

Listen to Bill Pruitt discuss this story on What Next , Slate’s daily news podcast:

Before I leave, I have to ask: Why Trump? Bienstock discovers that we both lived in New York for a time. Knowing what we know about Trump, selling the idea that intelligent people would compete to land a job working for him will be a challenge.

“The idea is to have a new and different billionaire every season—just like there’s a new and different island on Survivor . We reached out to Spielberg, Katzenberg, Geffen, among others,” he says. “Trump is the only one who agreed to sign on.” (Bienstock didn’t respond to a request for comment.)

“We’ll make it work,” Bienstock says confidently. I rise, shake his hand, and leave, and head over to Dutton’s bookstore to pick up a used copy of Trump’s The Art of the Deal . It is filled with takeaways about branding and strategizing but conveniently omits Trump bluffing his way through meetings with contractors, stiffing them when it is convenient to do so, and betraying his most trusted colleagues to get what he wants. (The book’s ghostwriter, Tony Schwartz, has since tried to get the bestseller recategorized in the Library of Congress as a work of fiction.)

Another show of confidence is the budget the series commands. It’s not as expensive as a scripted series, but for a reality show, the price is high. Never have I worked on a series with this level of funding, but the cost is justified. This needs to feel real.

New York City is the perfect—though expensive—backdrop. Trump’s actual offices are, however, less than telegenic. They are cramped, and a lot of the wood furniture is chipped or peeling. None of it is suitable to appear on camera. We need what grifters call the Big Store: a fake but authentic-looking establishment in which the con goes down. Trump Tower, at the time, is mostly condos and some offices situated in the high-rise. The mezzanine comprises vacant and overpriced retail space, all of it unfinished. Trump offers the space to the production—at a premium, naturally—and it is inside this location that we create our own “reception area” with doors leading to a fake, dimly lit, and appropriately ominous-feeling “boardroom.”

Next door, there’s the “suite” where the contestants will live, which is made to look like a trendy loft-style apartment they all share. The lodgings are made up of partitions surrounding tiny, hard bunks upon which the candidates sleep; the illusion comes from elegantly appointed common areas, where most of the interplay will go down.

During a tour of the set, I have my first encounter with Trump. I leave the suite and enter the gear room, the only vacant retail space that will remain unfinished. It is filled with equipment and crew members milling about. In walks a trio of men. In the middle is Trump, in a navy blue suit and scarlet tie. He’s surprisingly tall, and not just because of the hair. He is flanked by two even taller men. Bienstock makes introductions, and I watch as Trump shakes hands with everyone. I’d been told he would never do this, something about fearing unwanted germs. When it is my turn, I decide on the convivial two-hander and place my right hand into his and my left onto his wrist as we shake. His eye contact is limited but thorough. He is sizing me up. He looks like a wolf about to rip my throat out before turning away, offering me my first glimpse at the superstructure—his hairstyle—buttressed atop his head with what must be gallons of Aqua Net.

I watch as Trump saunters around the room, snatches up a fistful of M&Ms from the craft service table set aside for the crew, and shoves them into his mouth. Then he is gone, ushered away toward some important meeting he must attend, as if to say, to one and all present, This is unimportant .

Eventually, it’s time to roll cameras. When Trump is called to perform, we are filming the first scene of the first episode on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, and he is about to deliver the first task. Filming inside this beacon of capitalism and wealth gives the series the legitimacy it needs. A con artist would call staging the scam inside a legitimate institution “playing a man against the wall.”

From the balcony overlooking the famed trading room floor, Trump will set up the entire premise of the show on camera and engage in a little banter with the other participants. This includes introducing his advisers, George Ross, an older, grouchy attorney devoted to Trump’s legal affairs, and Carolyn Kepcher, a perpetual skeptic who runs his hospitality units and one of his golf clubs. (They might be called “the shills,” others in on the con who will act as Trump’s eyes and ears.)

The contestants are there, lined up and zeroed in on by camera operators getting reaction shots to whatever it is Trump says. Although they mostly just stand and wait, they patiently go along with the proceedings. They are not in on the con. They act as “the little blind mice,” who, in fraudster terms, convey a sense of authenticity by reacting to the goings-on, like lab rats caught in a maze.

Nothing is scripted—except for what Trump needs to say. Cue cards are present, but mostly it is Bienstock running up, coaching Trump, tossing out suggestions from the script he has written for the man. The feeling is that while doing a fair job of repeating the necessary words verbatim, Trump also appears to be inadvertently shouting at the contestants. His hands shuttle back and forth as if holding an invisible accordion, a gesture now famous in memes .

Each episode is filmed over three days. For the first episode, the two teams of contestants, divided by gender, take to the streets to carry out the initial task of trying to sell lemonade for the most money. The women pulverize the men.

Having won, the women are invited upstairs for a direct look at Trump’s very own apartment in Trump Tower, a reward designed specifically to introduce viewers to the gaudy but elevated world of Donald Trump at home. The men, who lost, go back to the loft to await their fate at the hands of Trump. He will be sending one of them home.

Inside the now-empty boardroom set, a meeting with the producers is called for the first briefing of Trump before the anticipated firing. With Trump are his cronies, Ross and Kepcher. Trump is “too busy,” so they have each observed both teams in the field and make an assessment of who prevailed and who fell behind.

Now, this is important. The Apprentice is a game show regulated by the Federal Communications Commission. In the 1950s, scandals arose when producers of quiz shows fed answers to likable, ratings-generating contestants while withholding those answers from unlikable but truly knowledgeable players. Any of us involved in The Apprentice swinging the outcome of prize money by telling Trump whom to fire is forbidden.

Considering this, Bienstock wisely chooses to record these off-camera briefings in case the FCC ever rolls up on us. Rather than blurt out who they think should get canned, the two producers of that week’s episode—each following one team—are coached to equitably share with Trump the virtues and deficiencies of each member of the losing team. This renders a balanced depiction of how and why they lost. There are obvious choices of whom to fire, but we want it to be something of a horse race, to sustain the drama and keep people watching.

Satisfied he has what he needs, Trump dismisses the prefiring discussion with the wave of a hand, claiming he has places to be, let’s get on with it, etc. We proceed to set up for what will be our first boardroom.

The producers retreat to the adjacent control room to watch the event unfold. Per the show’s format, the losing team is summoned in anticipation of one of its members being sent home. Leaving their luggage in the reception area, the men walk into the boardroom, where Trump is flanked by Ross and Kepcher, waiting for them solemnly. Trump just frowns from a gigantic red leather chair, his eyeline noticeably well above those sitting across from him.

The men proceed to verbally go after one another like gladiators jousting before the emperor. Trump takes the conversation into potentially dangerous terrain, asking one contestant, who is Jewish, whether he believes in “the genetic pool.” The contestant’s retort is swift and resolute: He tells Trump that he does, in fact, have the genes, “just like you got from your father, Fred Trump, and your mother, Mary Trump.” It pours out of him. It is dramatic. It is good reality TV.

The project manager must then choose two of the men to come back to the boardroom with him while everyone else is dismissed. An off-camera prefiring consultation with Trump takes place (and is recorded), right before the three men are brought back for the eventual firing. We film Trump, Ross, and Kepcher deliberating and giving the pluses and minuses of each, remarking on how risky it was for one of the contestants to stand up for himself the way that he did. Trump turns back and forth to each, listening. His cronies stick to their stories and give added deferential treatment toward Trump, with Ross strategically reminding him, “You’ve been taking risks your entire life.”

Trump summons the three men back into the boardroom for final judging. Trump grills one and says, “I will let you stay.” ( Wow! we think. A benevolent leader. ) When he turns his attention to the other man—the one he asked about genetics—it looks clear. He is doomed. So much so that the man stands when Trump tells him, “It seems unanimous.” Trump then offhandedly tells him to sit down, calling him “a wild card,” echoing Ross’ earlier observation of the boss, Trump.

After this comes an unwieldy moment when, at the behest of Bienstock, Trump fumbles through a given line. “We have an elevator,” he says to the remaining contestant, named David, “that goes up to the suite and an elevator that goes down”—he pauses to recall the exact wording—“to the street. And, David, I’m going to ask you to take the down elevator.”

The men react and awkwardly rise. It is an unsatisfactory conclusion, given all the preceding drama.

From the control room, we all watch as the three men depart the boardroom. A quick huddle takes place between the producers and the executive from NBC. We bolt from the control room out into the boardroom and confer with Trump, telling him we will need him to say something more direct to conclude the moment when David is let go.

“Well, I’d probably just fire him,” Trump says. “Why not just say that?” Bienstock asks. “Fine,” Trump says.

We return to the control room. The three men from the losing team are brought back into the boardroom, and Trump repeats his line about the elevator, then turns to David, who already knows his fate, and adds, “David, you’re fired.”

The line insertion happened in a perilously scripted way, but it is deemed satisfactory. “You’re fired” becomes the expression we will stick with. It works. Trump comes off as decisive and to the point.

Later, Trump will try to trademark “You’re fired.” He is not successful.

Trump’s appearances make up so little of our shooting schedule that whenever he shows up to film, it isn’t just the wild-card on-camera moments we both hope for and are terrified of that put everyone on edge. It is the way he, the star (and half owner) of the show, targets people on the crew with the gaze of a hungry lion.

While leering at a female camera assistant or assessing the physical attributes of a female contestant for whoever is listening, he orders a female camera operator off an elevator on which she is about to film him. “She’s too heavy,” I hear him say.

Another female camera operator, who happens to have blond hair and blue eyes, draws from Trump comparisons to his own Ivanka Trump. “There’s a beautiful woman behind that camera,” he says toward a line of 10 different operators set up in the foyer of Trump Tower one day. “That’s all I want to look at.”

Trump corners a female producer and asks her whom he should fire. She demurs, saying something about how one of the contestants blamed another for their team losing. Trump then raises his hands, cupping them to his chest: “You mean the one with the …?” He doesn’t know the contestant’s name. Trump eventually fires her.

(In response to detailed questions about this and other incidents reported in this article, Steven Cheung, a spokesman for the Trump 2024 campaign, wrote, “This is a completely fabricated and bullshit story that was already peddled in 2016.” He said that it is surfacing now because Democrats are “desperate.”)

Trump goes about knocking off every one of the contestants in the boardroom until only two remain. The finalists are Kwame Jackson, a Black broker from Goldman Sachs, and Bill Rancic, a white entrepreneur from Chicago who runs his own cigar business. Trump assigns them each a task devoted to one of his crown-jewel properties. Jackson will oversee a Jessica Simpson benefit concert at Trump Taj Mahal Casino in Atlantic City, while Rancic will oversee a celebrity golf tournament at Trump National Golf Club in Briarcliff Manor, New York.

Viewers need to believe that whatever Trump touches turns to gold. These properties that bear his name are supposed to glitter and gleam. All thanks to him.

Reality is another matter altogether. The lights in the casino’s sign are out. Hong Kong investors actually own the place—Trump merely lends his name. The carpet stinks, and the surroundings for Simpson’s concert are ramshackle at best. We shoot around all that.

Both Rancic and Jackson do a round-robin recruitment of former contestants, and Jackson makes the fateful decision to team up with the notorious Omarosa, among others, to help him carry out his final challenge.

With her tenure on the series nearly over, Omarosa launches several simultaneous attacks on her fellow teammates in support of her “brother” Kwame. For the fame-seeking beauty queen, it is a do-or-die play for some much-coveted screen time. As on previous tasks, Ross and Kepcher will observe both events.

Over at Trump National Golf Club, where I am stationed, it is sunny and bright, set against luscious fall colors. I am driven up to the golf club from Manhattan to scout. With me are the other producers, all of whom are men. We meet Trump at one of the homes he keeps for himself on the grounds of the club.

“Melania doesn’t even know about this place,” he says out loud to us, snickering, implying that the home’s function is as his personal lair for his sexual exploits, all of which are unknown to his then-fiancée Melania Knauss.

We are taken around the rest of the club’s property and told what to feature on camera and what to stay away from. The clubhouse is a particularly necessary inclusion, and it is inside these luxurious confines where I have the privilege of meeting the architect. Finding myself alone with him, I make a point of commending him for what I feel is a remarkable building. The place is genuinely spectacular. He thanks me.

“It’s bittersweet,” he tells me. “I’m very proud of this place, but …” He hesitates. “I wasn’t paid what was promised,” he says. I just listen. “Trump pays half upfront,” he says, “but he’ll stiff you for the rest once the project is completed.”

“He stiffed you?”

“If I tried to sue, the legal bills would be more than what I was owed. He knew that. He basically said Take what I’m offering ,” and I see how heavy this is for the man, all these years later. “So, we sent the invoice. He didn’t even pay that,” he says. None of this will be in the show. Not Trump’s suggested infidelities, nor his aversion toward paying those who work for him.

When the tasks are over, we are back in the boardroom, having our conference with Trump about how the two finalists compare—a conversation that I know to be recorded. We huddle around him and set up the last moments of the candidates, Jackson and Rancic.

Trump will make his decision live on camera months later, so what we are about to film is the setup to that reveal. The race between Jackson and Rancic should seem close, and that’s how we’ll edit the footage. Since we don’t know who’ll be chosen, it must appear close, even if it’s not.

We lay out the virtues and deficiencies of each finalist to Trump in a fair and balanced way, but sensing the moment at hand, Kepcher sort of comes out of herself. She expresses how she observed Jackson at the casino overcoming more obstacles than Rancic, particularly with the way he managed the troublesome Omarosa. Jackson, Kepcher maintains, handled the calamity with grace.

“I think Kwame would be a great addition to the organization,” Kepcher says to Trump, who winces while his head bobs around in reaction to what he is hearing and clearly resisting.

“Why didn’t he just fire her?” Trump asks, referring to Omarosa. It’s a reasonable question. Given that this the first time we’ve ever been in this situation, none of this is something we expected.

“That’s not his job,” Bienstock says to Trump. “That’s yours.” Trump’s head continues to bob.

“I don’t think he knew he had the ability to do that,” Kepcher says. Trump winces again.

“Yeah,” he says to no one in particular, “but, I mean, would America buy a n— winning?”

Kepcher’s pale skin goes bright red. I turn my gaze toward Trump. He continues to wince. He is serious, and he is adamant about not hiring Jackson.

Bienstock does a half cough, half laugh, and swiftly changes the topic or throws to Ross for his assessment. What happens next I don’t entirely recall. I am still processing what I have just heard. We all are. Only Bienstock knows well enough to keep the train moving. None of us thinks to walk out the door and never return. I still wish I had. (Bienstock and Kepcher didn’t respond to requests for comment.)

Afterward, we film the final meeting in the boardroom, where Jackson and Rancic are scrutinized by Trump, who, we already know, favors Rancic. Then we wrap production, pack up, and head home. There is no discussion about what Trump said in the boardroom, about how the damning evidence was caught on tape. Nothing happens.

We go home and face the next phase of our assignment, the editing. In stitching the footage together, the swindle we are now involved in ascends to new levels.

Editing in a reality TV show is what script writing is to a narrative series. A lot of effort goes into the storytelling because, basically, in every single unscripted series—whether it’s a daytime talk show, an adventure documentary, or a shiny floor dance-off—there are three versions: There’s what happens, there’s what gets filmed, and there’s what gets cut down into 43 minutes squeezed between commercial breaks. Especially for a competition series, it’s important that the third version represent the first as much as possible. A defeated contestant could show up in the press and cry foul if they’re misrepresented. Best to let people fail of their own accord. That said, we look after our prized possessions in how we edit the series, and some people fare better than others.

We attend to our thesis that only the best and brightest deserve a job working for Donald Trump. Luckily, the winner, Bill Rancic, and his rival, Kwame Jackson, come off as capable and confident throughout the season. If for some reason they had not, we would have conveniently left their shortcomings on the cutting room floor. In actuality, both men did deserve to win.

Without a doubt, the hardest decisions we faced in postproduction were how to edit together sequences involving Trump. We needed him to sound sharp, dignified, and clear on what he was looking for and not as if he was yelling at people. You see him today: When he reads from a teleprompter, he comes off as loud and stoic. Go to one of his rallies and he’s the off-the-cuff rambler rousing his followers into a frenzy. While filming, he struggled to convey even the most basic items. But as he became more comfortable with filming, Trump made raucous comments he found funny or amusing—some of them misogynistic as well as racist. We cut those comments. Go to one of his rallies today and you can hear many of them.

If you listen carefully, especially to that first episode, you will notice clearly altered dialogue from Trump in both the task delivery and the boardroom. Trump was overwhelmed with remembering the contestants’ names, the way they would ride the elevator back upstairs or down to the street, the mechanics of what he needed to convey. Bienstock instigated additional dialogue recording that came late in the edit phase. We set Trump up in the soundproof boardroom set and fed him lines he would read into a microphone with Bienstock on the phone, directing from L.A. And suddenly Trump knows the names of every one of the contestants and says them while the camera cuts to each of their faces. Wow , you think, how does he remember everyone’s name? While on location, he could barely put a sentence together regarding how a task would work. Listen now, and he speaks directly to what needs to happen while the camera conveniently cuts away to the contestants, who are listening and nodding. He sounds articulate and concise through some editing sleight of hand.

Then comes the note from NBC about the fact that after Trump delivers the task assignment to the contestants, he disappears from the episode after the first act and doesn’t show up again until the next-to-last. That’s too long for the (high-priced) star of the show to be absent.

There is a convenient solution. At the top of the second act, right after the task has been assigned but right before the teams embark on their assignment, we insert a sequence with Trump, seated inside his gilded apartment, dispensing a carefully crafted bit of wisdom. He speaks to whatever the theme of each episode is—why someone gets fired or what would lead to a win. The net effect is not only that Trump appears once more in each episode but that he also now seems prophetic in how he just knows the way things will go right or wrong with each individual task. He comes off as all-seeing and all-knowing. We are led to believe that Donald Trump is a natural-born leader.

Through the editorial nudge we provide him, Trump prevails. So much so that NBC asks for more time in the boardroom to appear at the end of all the remaining episodes. (NBC declined to comment for this article.)

When it comes to the long con, the cherry on top is the prologue to the premiere. It’s a five-minute-long soliloquy delivered by Trump at the beginning of the first episode, the one titled “Meet the Billionaire.” Over a rousing score, it features Trump pulling out all the stops, calling New York “ my city” and confessing to crawling out from under “billions of dollars in debt.” There’s Trump in the back of limousines. Trump arriving before throngs of cheering crowds outside Trump Tower. Trump in his very own helicopter as it banks over midtown—the same helicopter with the Trump logo that, just like the airplane, is actually for sale to the highest bidder. The truth is, almost nothing was how we made it seem.

So, we scammed. We swindled. Nobody heard the racist and misogynistic comments or saw the alleged cheating, the bluffing, or his hair taking off in the wind. Those tapes, I’ve come to believe, will never be found.

No one lost their retirement fund or fell on hard times from watching The Apprentice . But Trump rose in stature to the point where he could finally eye a run for the White House, something he had intended to do all the way back in 1998. Along the way, he could now feed his appetite for defrauding the public with various shady practices.

In 2005 thousands of students enrolled in what was called Trump University, hoping to gain insight from the Donald and his “handpicked” professors. Each paid as much as $35,000 to listen to some huckster trade on Trump’s name. In a sworn affidavit, salesman Ronald Schnackenberg testified that Trump University was “fraudulent.” The scam swiftly went from online videoconferencing courses to live events held by high-pressure sales professionals whose only job was to persuade attendees to sign up for the course. The sales were for the course “tuition” and had nothing whatsoever to do with real estate investments. A class action suit was filed against Trump.

That same year, Trump was caught bragging to Access Hollywood co-host Billy Bush that he likes to grab married women “by the pussy,” adding, “When you’re a star, they let you do it.” He later tried to recruit porn actor Stormy Daniels for The Apprentice despite her profession and, according to Daniels, had sex with her right after his last son was born. (His alleged attempt to pay off Daniels is, of course, the subject of his recent trial.)

In October 2016—a month before the election—the Access Hollywood tapes were released and written off as “locker room banter.” Trump paid Daniels to keep silent about their alleged affair. He paid $25 million to settle the Trump University lawsuit and make it go away.

He went on to become the first elected president to possess neither public service nor military experience. And although he lost the popular vote, Trump beat out Hillary Clinton in the Electoral College, winning in the Rust Belt by just 80,000 votes.

Trump has been called the “reality TV president,” and not just because of The Apprentice . The Situation Room, where top advisers gathered, became a place for photo-ops, a bigger, better boardroom. Trump swaggered and cajoled, just as he had on the show. Whom would he listen to? Whom would he fire? Stay tuned. Trump even has his own spinoff, called the House of Representatives, where women hurl racist taunts and body-shame one another with impunity. The State of the Union is basically a cage fight. The demands of public office now include blowhard buffoonery.

I reached out to Apollo, the Vegas perceptions expert, to discuss all of this. He reminded me how if a person wants to manipulate the signal, they simply turn up the noise. “In a world that is so uncertain,” he said, “a confidence man comes along and fills in the blanks. The more confident they are, the more we’re inclined to go along with what they suggest.”

A reality TV show gave rise to an avaricious hustler, and a deal was made: Subvert the facts, look past the deficiencies, deceive where necessary, and prevail in the name of television ratings and good, clean fun.

Trump is making another run at the White House and is leading in certain polls. People I know enthusiastically support him and expect he’ll return to office. It’s not just hats, sneakers, a fragrance, or Bibles. Donald Trump is selling his vision of the world, and people are buying it.

Knowing all they know, how could these people still think he’s capable of being president of the United States?

Perhaps they watched our show and were conned by the pig in the poke.

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• Location: Moscow Oblast, Russia
• Latitude: 55.79. Longitude: 38.46
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