A New Narrator in Town
I was certain of one thing, and this one thing gave life its meaning. I was no character in someone else's story. I was free.
The giant eraser appeared, hovering over my backyard, and I began to lose faith. When a massive thumb and index finger blocked the sun, I …
He changed his mind.
2 comments:
Did I create an existential crisis in your life by writing you into my story for your Post-Modern Lit. class?
My bad.
One of the first rules of reading a story (and poetry, for that matter) is to never simply assume that an "I" narrator is the author.
In fact, on the self-reflexive level the story, that is my eraser--those are my fingers blocking the sun.
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