Rosa Parks occasionally asks me to help her on school essays and I become jealous. She actually gets to do quite interesting writing projects. I, on the other hand, have not been assigned a decent essay in awhile. As in, I disliked one of my English teachers with a passion because I probably have not developed a single skill the entire time I was imprisoned in his class. Welp.
But sadly I do not have to time to be partaking in such things as of right now but I will probably try to devote my time later to this (most likely not). Someone just needs to spark my creative genes. Instead, I shall leave with a previously written s_______ narrative (I forgot what it was called, but it started with an s). The assignment was for us to research a character and creative a nonfiction narrative in first person of an event that occured. I, being the clever person I am :), chose Julius Ceasar and what was the imporatnt event I decided to narrate? HIS DEATH.
Anyway, it was an essay we actually cared about and was graded (mainly because I had an English teacher that wasn’t lazy) and I got a pretty darn good grade. Once I find them I’ll probably add in more from my 8th grade adventures in writing, namely an epic and another historical narrative. Say hello to my 8th grade self! 😀 Speaking of which, another assingment was a letter written to myself that was supposed to be sent when I graduated high school. Hmm.. something to look foward to. Although I remember I put very minimal amount of effort into that letter, which I regret quite a bit.
I also don’t know if this was my final draft. It probably was.
Where am I? What is this place? I frantically look around at what seems like nothing but a never-
ending sea of white. I can’t see a horizon, any walls, or ceiling. There are no windows in this desolate
place and the ground has no end. I turn to find a golden gate standing out in front of me with a bright
light behind it and an overpowering pureness. As I take a few steps back, the presence of a dark, creping
“You’re waiting for judgment,” a voice suddenly thunders.
“What? Who said that?”
“I did.” I turn to see a man clothed in a robe that fell to his refined bronze feet. Around his chest
he wore a golden sash. His fiery eyes stand out against his snowy white hair. When he speaks, it’s like
the roar of waters. (Rev. 1.13-15).
“You are here to be judged for your days on Earth,” he says.
“Do you mean I’m dead!? What happened!?” I reply panicking.
“I want you to remember what happened. Think back to how you died.”
I try to remember the events that occurred. My life flashes before my eyes as I witness myself
holding the crying face of my newborn daughter Julia, the expressions of respect as Bibulus and I were
elected for consul (Isenberg 52), and Vercingetorix taking off his robe and armor to sit at my feet as all of
Gaul laid conquered (95). Then, I suddenly see flashes of daggers as I remember it all.
I spot myself walking down the long corridor away from the chamber I’m suppose to meet with
the Senate in. The night before I had tossed and turned in bed while having strong ominous feelings. As I
am about to send a messenger to request to postpone the meeting, Decimus comes up to me (120).
“Julius, where are you going?” he asks worriedly.
“I don’t think I should attend the meeting today. I was going to send a messenger right away.”
With pleading eyes he says, “Please Julius, don’t upset the Senate. We are all waiting for you.”
“Very well then.”
I walk down the long corridor alongside Decimus and reached the elaborately decorated door to
the chamber. When I enter, I am greeted with respect by the rising Senate. I spot Tillius Cimber coming
towards me and I remember how I had to give his brother punishment by exiling him. Surely, he
probably doesn’t hold a grudge. But suddenly, he’s by my side and tugging at my robe to reveal my
Casca is coming straight at me to strike first aiming for my neck. However, I am able to turn
quickly to catch his arm. “Why, this is violence!” I shout among the commotion.
“Help, brother!” Cascus calls. His brother responds by driving his sword into my ribs. Cassius
appears and is slashing my face while Decimus pierces me on the side. I watched as pain fell across my
face and feel it within me as I speculate my own death by the comrades I trusted. Attacks continue as
I’m trying to get away but tripping due to my own blood blinding me.
As this tragic scene plays in my head, I keep an eye on one person, Marcus Brutus. I notice the
hurt and betrayal that washes over my face when I finally noticed him among the killers. A man who I
loved as my own son and trusted dearly had been a part of a plan to assassinate me. “You too, Brutus?”
are the last words spoken as a I wrap my robe around me and cover my shameful face. I fall at the foot
of Pompey’s statue and there I die (122). The Senators flee leaving my body with twenty-three deep
wounds. My lifeless body remains for a few hours before three horrified slaves take it to my wife.
“Do you remember now?” The powerful voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Yes, I do.” I reply quietly.
“You need to be judged now.”
I wanted no more memories of this assassination or my entire life with people who I thought I
trusted. I just wanted to forget everything so I followed the man into the decision of my fate in the