Narrators and Narration by Jordan Wedderburn,Tanaka Ngwenya and Fleuranelle Duwhaz

A narrator is a person who recounts the event of a novel or a narrative poem. They are otherwise known as a storyteller, chronicler, reporter or annalist to name a few.

A narrator can be viewed as a bridge between a narrative and the reader. The narrator gives a commentary to a narrative and helps contextualize the actions made by characters in a novel or narrative poem. The narrator can be of first or third person. A first person narrator is very common in literature. It is a point of view of one character who speaks about themselves

There are different ways a first person narrator can be used;

Ø  Interior monologue – This is also known as an inner voice. It is where the character tells the story from their direct point of view.

Ø  Dramatic monologue – This is a long excerpt where a single character’s thoughts and feelings are revealed. It usually addresses a silent listener and not the actual reader.

Ø  Peripheral narrator – This is where a first person narrator, who is not the main character, witnesses the main’s character’s story and conveys it to the reader.

A third person narrator has a limited point of view since they only know the thoughts and feelings of the main character. They are not a figure in the story but rather an observer who is outside the action being described. A third person narrator is often omniscient meaning they can tell what the characters are thinking and they describe all characters using pronouns such as ‘he’ and ‘she’.

In film, voice-overs are a very popular, Morgan Freeman is perhaps the most famous example within film. His ability as a narrator in film has made him a world famous storyteller. He is regarded by many as a popular choice for the narrator’s voice.

A contrast exists between literature and film on how the voice of the narrator is portrayed. Within a film, the narrator’s voice is given to the viewer and they cannot influence it, whereas in literature the voice of the narrator can vary depending on the reader as well as the genre of text.

“The Count halted, putting down my bags, closed the door, and crossing the room, opened

another door, which led into a small octagonal room lit by a single lamp, and seemingly

without a window of any sort. Passing through this, he opened another door and motioned me

to enter. It was a welcome sight. For here was a great bedroom well lighted and warmed with

another log fire, also added to but lately, for the top logs were fresh, which sent a hollow roar

up the wide chimney. The Count himself left my luggage inside and withdrew, saying, before

he closed the door”

This is an extract from Dracula by Bram Stoker, it is a Gothic novel. When reading that extract the reader develops a voice for the narrator which fits the spooky mood of the setting, which would be different to them reading a romantic novel.

:The act or process of telling a story or describing what happens

:Words that are heard as part of a movie, television show etc...,
and that describe what is being seen'

However, narrators can only have an impact where a narration is present. In recent years, development within education and technology has caused narration to change. Through time narration has been seen in hieroglyphics, scriptures, novels and really any and all narratives. In all these, each narration has its own structure and despite the fact the different cultures around the world all have their own unique way of telling stories, there are some common traits in them all.

Vladimir Propp created a theory called ‘Propp’s narrative functions’ after noticing events in some narratives being repeated. This theory was made to clarify the 31 functions within those narratives. Of them all, there were seven common character types being the hero, villain, donor, helper, princess, false hero and the dispatcher. As we look over some of the narratives of the past and of today, we can still see these functions being used and therefore, the assumption of a narration having these functions within them is more than justified to say so.

Tzvetan Todorov simplified the idea of a narrative having five different stages to two, being his theory of Equilibrium and Disequilibrium. As narration is the “process of telling a story” Todorov’s theory is the stages of which this process is told. In most conventional narratives he argues the five stages to them are the equilibrium, the disruption, the recognition, the repair, and the new equilibrium. So, by Todorov’s standards if there was no conflict or disruption there would be no narration. 

To summarise, narrators and narration intertwine in storytelling. In order for an author to effectively tell a story, they need to go through a process of telling the story according to Todrov's standards while including a narrator that tells the story from a specific point of view - it is entirely up to the writer and the effect they want to give to their reader.

The girls toilets

Cold smiles are exchanged in the girls toilets. 

Empty glances and drunken strides.

We have below average conversations with no intention to contact one another ever again. 

The toilet mirror.

The watering hole for females all over.

They fix their hair and makeup hoping to impress that handsome guy at the bar.

"He's so hot and he bought me a drink!" I hear a girl say as she saunters past me.

While her friend slowly follows behind, thinking to herself "Why didn't he buy me one?"

The girls toilets.

A place of self doubt and loathing.

Why's she prettier, skinnier, funnier than me?

What does she have that I don't?!

Ugh I hate her!

The girls toilets, a place of hatred and jealousy.

A place of mean comments and dirty looks.

I hate the girls toilets. 

Tyler Alexander

Similes, Metaphors and Analogies by Shelley Abbey, Ellora Sutton and Sky

As a writer you need to enrich your work with figurative language and imagery. Three basic but super effective tools to have in your arsenal are similes, metaphors and analogies.

Similes

A simile is a literary device commonly found in creative pieces. A commonality between a simile and a metaphor is that they are both comparative literary devices. They both, however, use dissimilar language phrases to compare. To locate a simile in writing, the reader would have to look out for phrases that liken or juxtapose one thing to another, using the words ‘like’ or ‘as’. Two examples of similes are the phrases ‘As light as a feather’ and ‘ like two peas in a pod’.

I do enjoy locating similes in articles as I find that a simile can transform a piece because it provides effective imagery for readers. This can make a piece more interesting and eye-catching. I support this with an example of an extract from Roald Dahl’s novel, James and the Giant Peach.

‘She had small piggy eyes…She was like a great white soggy overboiled cabbage’.

How did the simile impact the sentence?

By Roald Dahl using words such ‘ soggy overboiled and cabbage’, it provides the reader with a visual representation of the disdain and disgust the character,James, has for his aunt. By comparing his relative to a 'overboiled cabbage', it gives the reader an idea of her shapely appearance, as well as her rotten behaviour, and possibly her stench.

In my opinion, similes are very significant in language and important for writers for many reasons. Firstly, similes can be found in any piece of writing. This is because it is a describing device that many writers use to create a vivid picture for the reader, and so it becomes much more than a phrase. It holds importance as it can shape the way a reader interprets a creative piece. Another reason why they're important is because it can rejuvenate a dull piece of writing. An example of this is Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita.

‘Elderly American ladies leaning on their canes listed toward me like towers of Pisa.’ — Lolita, by Vladimir Nabokov

By likening the women’s frail frames to the leaning tower of Pisa, it creates a clear image that they rely on the cane for the upmost support, and their physical health is deteriorating.

Metaphors

A metaphor is a form of imagery where you describe something by calling it something else, usually something that is completely different to what the subject actually is.

‘A metaphor fails if it’s obvious. Comparing two alike things is meaningless in terms of providing engagement and enlightenment’ (Wending C, 2012).

A metaphor is the paint that a writer uses to create a picture for the reader. Connotations play a large part in achieving this strong imagery – saying someone is a weasel, to use the above example, is effective as ‘weasel’ has connotations of slyness and trickery. On the other hand saying that a character you want to be seen as beautiful is a ‘weed’ is a poor use of metaphor as ‘weed’ has connotations of ugliness.

Similarly, an overused metaphor becomes a cliché and is thus ineffective as it has lost its impact. The best metaphors are unique and striking; they should make the reader think.

So how do you come up with a good metaphor? First of all, you need to understand what a metaphor is – hopefully this blog post has helped with that! Secondly, you need to pick a certain aspect of the thing you are trying to describe; for this example let’s use a chair, and the certain aspect will be the uncomfortableness of that chair. Thirdly, you need to choose something that shares that aspect (the uncomfortableness) but wouldn’t normally be associated with the thing you are trying to describe (the chair). To go with our example, we could say ‘the chair was a fist punching into his bottom’. So: understand, specialise, and think outside of the box.

Analogies 

An analogy is a literary device that helps to establish a relationship between two different concepts or ideas.

It aims to explain that idea by comparing it to something that we already know. This is effective because we can use our understanding of a known concept as a basis for understanding the new idea.

Some examples of analogies:

‘Tim looked like a fish out of water when he arrived at the farm, and that comes as no surprise because he is used to living in a big city.’

This implies that Tim was not comfortable in his surroundings, just like a fish out of water, he felt like he did not belong there. By using this concept, the reader can understand Tim’s feelings of discomfort and alienation. 

‘I didn't hear you come in last night. You must have been as quiet as a mouse.’

In the same way this sentence uses an analogy to compare the person to a mouse.

Stranded Between - Hayden - YEAR 2

Stranded between

I can see two islands in the distance, and the night is closing in ever so gradually. To my feet, I can feel the icy water slowly submerging my raft in what seems to be an inescapable void where I am condemned to perish. Salt water is sprayed into my eyes making it difficult to see clearly, when it is at this moment that I value vision the most. Vicious winds start to sway me back and forth but I calm my mind and it eases slightly, enough to allow me stability once again.

Storm clouds hover above me, ready to throw their bolts once the moon arrives, yet I am still floating in this vast space between two exits. Too afraid to move, and too afraid to choose, for I am the product of both and cannot survive without the other. Which island should I swim to? I look around in helpless thought, only to find countless pairs of seagull eyes honing in on my next move as if it were a game of chess. Their eyes gleaming yellow, ready to squawk at the wrong choice for the sharks to hear and the dolphins to sneer at my daft error.

With my bones and flesh belonging to one but my mind and values owing the other, I feel a wave of confusion about to crash down on my existence, anchoring my body to the dark depths of the seabed. Hissing whispers from the sea swerve right to left in attempt to drown out my consciousness, forcing me to wail for aid yet the sky turns a blind eye and renders me absurd.      

Stranded in the middle, I begin to see no end, as the waves are continuous and everlasting. In thought, to stay at sea seems like an awfully good idea, for acceptance from either comes so very dear.

feel

Year 2 - Malachi Fernandez

Day after day I question its legitimacy. Joy, heartache, euphoria, melancholy… am I truly able to feel?

Attachments, intimacy and friendships. Are they genuine? Or do I form such relationships because society has taught me it’s necessary to do so in my lifetime. It sometimes seems like make-believe during late nights lost in the endless labyrinth of my subconscious. The search for an answer to my question is never-ending. Maybe I’m a soulless fraud that has deceived everyone I have ever claimed to love or care about. What if I’ve been lying to myself all my life just to feel normal, you almost fooled me.  There’s emptiness deep in my chest yearning to be filled. The torturous thoughts that keep my mind prisoner must end. I want to feel.

Yr 1:The Beginning of the End- Shelley Abbey

Distant, distressed moans could be heard throughout the ward, as death engulfed the room. Frederick’s eyes wandered frantically, as he tried to steady his heart rate. A putrid smell violated his nostrils to the extent that breathing itself, was a battle. His vision was obstructed, as the dimmed light from a nearby candle symbolised the glimmer of hope, that was diminishing as more soldiers succumbed to their war injuries . With every minute that went by, Frederick pondered over his place in life. The stitching had begun to tear, causing him insufferable anguish. The pain from the loss of his forearm had become an unbearably heavy burden to bear. The glass on the bedside table began to shake, until it fell to the ground in an ear-splitting motion. Frederick jumped in an instant. Memories of the men, women and children tussled with his conscience, making him ponder if he could ever return to his previous self, before the war.

As he focused his mind to a place of clarity, Frederick overheard high pitched chatter coming from the nurses in the neighbouring room. 

“How do you know its true? It can’t be”.

“ The doctors are all in a state of panic. Not even Churchill himself could've foreseen this.”

“ What are we to do now? Just sit and wait for the Germans to slaughter us”?

A loud thud could be heard from one of the entrances on the main floor. The banging became deafening. After one final push, the hospital gradually filled with inaudible chatter, as the Germans bombarded their way through the dilapidated infirmary.

As the boots of the enemy trudged closer and closer, Frederick became paralysed with fear, but not only for himself, but also for the state of his beloved country.

“ We’ve surrendered. The Germans have won”. He said sorrowfully.

(Present day)

10 years had passed since Nazi Britain had begun. Frederick was awoken by the familiar, yet dreaded tune of the national anthem. 

“ God save our Nazi king, long live our noble Hitler…”

With a sigh, Frederick prepared himself mentally and physically, for the day ahead.

After numerous stretches, he walked towards his bedroom mirror and recited the same sentence.

“My name is Frederick McDonnell. I am not a supporter of our false leader Hitler”. 

Year 1: Blissful Ignorance - Claire Fraser

Hey everyone, this an extract from one of my pieces involving two guys having a normal working day at the morgue, when one of the men has one of those 'what is life?' moments. Because the piece was so long I took my favourite bits from the piece and put them together as best I could. Hope you like :3

Barry and Henry

The room was dingy, tiles of a dirty green-grey colour reflected the clinical white walls lined with, what look like filing cabinets or cupboards. The fluorescent lights shone on the grey metal cupboards, giving the surroundings a greyish dreary tint.

A door at the far end of the room clangs as it is opened.

“Hey Barry” A man says as he walks in, taking off his coat and placing it on a hook, out of the way of the drawers.

“Hello Henry, how’s the wife?”

“Shelley’s good, just got a new job at the school down the road” Henry walks into the centre of the room with a grin on his face as he puts on some transparent plastic gloves.

“Ah, good for her, tell her well done from me” He says as he smiles at Henry. He then turns back to the metal drawers that lay before him.

“We’ve got a new one” States Barry, pointing to one of drawers.

Henry notices that Barry seems a little distant and places one hand on his shoulder.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing, just thinking about work” Barry says, slipping out of Henry’s friendly hold.

“Nah, come on man, what’s up?” Henry walks towards Barry with concerned eyes.

“Have you ever just looked at the cold chambers and felt like there’s a thousand stories in there that just ended, and you’ll never know them?”

“I try not to think about it too much to be honest” He pats Barry on the back and then walks across the narrow room, leaving Barry to get his head straight.

“Seriously though, when you think about it, they’re all here with years and years of experience and stories that won’t go on any further. They’re just numbers now, I don’t even know their names”

“Of course we do, we have it on our database, I have number 6’s name right here… Mr. Goldwin” says Henry, gesturing to the piece of paper with his name on it.

“That’s my point! ‘Number 6’s name’” Barry mocks Henry, with a sarcastic tone.

“Oh, you know what I meant!” Henry sulks.

“Seriously though, look at him and tell me that you’re fine with calling him ‘number 6’ ”Barry walks over to drawer number 6 and pulls it open.

On the metal slab lay a man, in his mid-thirties. His eyes and mouth are closed yet his face seems distorted, as if his death was horrific enough to mould it into a petrified look, the last expression he’ll ever make.

Mr. Goldwin – number 6

“Daddy, will you play football with me?” These words soared through Mr. Goldwin’s head as he remembered his son, Danny.

After his funeral last week, seeing a miniature sized coffin lowered into the ground, Mr. Goldwin had finally been broken. All of his life he had carried on, no matter what life hit him with. He worked his way up in his job, now a well-respected business man, but in doing so he neglected to realise that his wife was sick of him. A year ago they had divorced, but still Mr. Goldwin brought in more and more money from his business, giving a large amount to his ex-wife so that his son would lead a happy life, without worry.

That ended one month ago when Danny, at the age of seven and a half, ran in front of the car of a distracted driver. Danny did not leave this earth because of any heroic action, as he always said he would when he had convinced himself that he would be a fire fighter, he died because someone wasn’t looking.

Mr. Goldwin mulled this over, his sons voice in his head happily chirping “When I die daddy, I will die because I will be saving people from buildings, I’ll die a hero!” to which Mr. Goldwin said to him “When you become a fire fighter, nothing will stop you Danny boy, you’re not dying for years and years! That means that we can play football every weekend for however long you want”. Mr. Goldwin regretted these words every time he remembered them.

As these words suffocated his mind he felt the icy cold breeze slap his face. He looked down at the street sprawled out before him, people the size of ants walking around below him going on with their daily lives. He looked ahead of him, examining the horizon where the sun was now setting below the tops of tall buildings, and then he jumped.

Barry and Henry

“Close the drawer, you’re creeping me out!” Henry walks to the other side of the room.

“I wonder how he died, he looked so… so… worried” Barry twiddled his fingers, now regretting looking at the dead corpse judgingly when he was only meant to look after it until someone came to take it away.

“Yeah, I don’t know, he looked like he was happy when he died to me. His face seemed worried but his mouth was almost wrinkled into a sort of… smile” curiosity had now overtaken Henry as it had done with Barry at the beginning.

“Let’s get number 9 sorted, Barry” Henry opens the drawer of number 9.

“She’d look like a younger version of Charlotte, if she wasn’t so burnt” Barry says looking down at the young girl in her 20s.

“Your new bird?” Henry nudges Barry with his elbow.

“Yes Henry, my girlfriend, the one that I’ve been dating for four months”

“Details. Let’s get this one sorted” Henry says as he starts to move her.

Rosie – number 9

Ben and Rosie, walking side by side while holding hands, headed off to the train station after a weekend of cinema, restaurants and shopping.

“So, did you have a nice weekend?” Ben asked with a huge grin on his face.

“Nah, your bathroom is disgusting, I didn’t want to go to the toilet the whole time I was at your house” Rosie joked sarcastically, although the comment about the bathroom was true.

“Very funny, I’ll try and sort that out when I get back home but the plumber keeps cancelling on me”

A bell starts ringing to warn people that a train is about to pull up into the station.

“This is my train, I had a great time, hopefully I’ll see you in two weeks, love you” Rosie wraps her arms around Bens neck, his warm body shielding her from the winters cold, making her feel safe.

“Love you too, message me when you get home so that I know that you’re safe” Ben returned the hug, intimate at first, but before they finally let go he ended with a big bear hug.

Rosie looked back and waved at him as she stepped onto the train, she then purposely sat in a seat by the window so that she could look out and see Ben.

The clock turned to quarter past four. Again the bell rang, indicating that the train was now about to leave the station.

As the train started rolling away, Ben with a smile on his face, waved goodbye to Rosie’s train.

In the next instant Bens face, and everyone else’s that was in the station, had a second of shock that swept across it which slowly turned into horrific realisation. Everyone on the platform stood, mouths slightly open and eyebrows turned up in a concerned frown, not yet able to cry but their hearts feeling as shredded as they had ever felt. Looking into the distance, across the tracks, they had just witnessed the train that was only just in sight turn into a ball of flames in the space of two seconds, their ears still ringing from the mighty sound of the explosion. The warmth from the red and orange spectacle slowly reaching their cold, ridged bodies.

Ben stood, his hand still in the air from waving goodbye.