Narrative Writing   

The sun was so hot I thought it was only pointing at me. Fiona and I were 
crouching down behind the hibiscus bush in her backyard. All of a sudden, Matthew 
and Ian appear behind us. “Shoot.” We said. Ian and Matthew had found our base. 
This was a game the four of us invented, it’s called “Indians.” The object of the game 
is to get from Point A to Point B without getting caught or hit by sticks. You 
represent an Indian Tribe (there were two tribes of two) by wearing mud, also known 
as war paint, all over our faces. We never play for very long, but we would act as if the 
wilderness was our only home. This time we were really into it. After Matthew and 
Ian found our base, we sprinted back to our shelter. There, Fiona and I strategized 
how we would get to their base. After putting more war paint on, Fiona and I headed 
towards their way. We are tiptoeing along side of the house. The two of us are slowly 
turning the corner when Matthew and Ian jump out from the sides of us. The two 
boys are holding trash cans the way they hold footballs. In less than a second, I see a 
huge, plastic, flying cylinder twirling towards my face. I’ve never gotten a trash can 
chucked at me before, and it felt like a huge slap in the face. It wasn’t a human-sized 
slap though, it was almost like Big Foot’s. I fall to the ground, and ​stay​ on the 
ground. 
I wake up with blurred vision, and it feels like I’d taken a 7 hour nap. “Where am 
I?” I ask my parents. I’m surprised to see my doctor standing behind them with a 
concerned look on her face. I finally realized where I was, the emergency room. “You 
blacked out when Matthew hit you with our recycling bin, so we immediately rushed 
you to the hospital.” My parents tell me. “You have a minor concussion and a 
bruised ankle from falling, but other than that you should be okay.” What abou- 
“Matthew’s grounded, and we’re very sorry that this happened.” I grin on the inside, 
suddenly feeling no pain.