DESCRIPTIVE NARRATIVE WRITING MS ZOHFISHAN BHATTI

Setting of a Story – Examples

I stood, still and silent, gazing in awe at the monstrosity before me. My throat tightened due to
the thick dust drifting through the gentle wind. Dark shadows lurked in the still air, along with
the faint smell of death that hung in the chilled darkness of night. Whispers of lost voices
echoed all around, creating a gloomy ambience. Before me, was a sight many would hope to
forget. The house itself was in dreadful shape, it was heavily dilapidated. There were icicles
hanging down from the roof like frozen teeth bared by a cold and heartless beast. A thick
blanket of dust also lay still on top of the roof. (The Haunted House)

There was crisp, dry snow under his feet and more snow lying on the branches of the trees.
Overhead there was pale blue sky, the sort of sky one sees on a fine winter day in the morning.
Straight ahead of him he saw between the tree-trunks the sun, just rising, very red and clear.
Everything was perfectly still, as if he were the only living creature in that country. There was
not even a robin or a squirrel among the trees, and the wood stretched as far as he could see in
every direction. (The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis)

As the moon rose, the graveyard of my ancestors transformed. The translucent light breathed
life into the worn, faceless statues of praying children and winged angels. It smoothed away
fissures and softened broken edges. In the moonlight, the crooked headstones stood proud,
keeping to their duty even as time wore away the messages they bore. I walked through the
tangled weeds until I reached the back gate and an empty plot. This space, beneath the bower
of an old oak, was my own. How odd to stand here in the dewy grass, knowing someday I
would never leave it again. (Graveyard – Settings Thesaurus)

Here the tall trees with their barks of a dozen hues, ranging from marble white to scaly greens
and reds, thrust their way up to a hundred feet or even double that height, straight as
symmetrical cathedral pillars, until they find the sun and burst into a green carpet far, far above;
trees covered with tortuous vines and creepers, some hanging like the crazy rigging of a
wrecked schooner, some born in the fork of a tree, branching out in great tufts of fat green
leaves or flowers; others twisting and curling around the massive trunks, throwing out arms
like clothes-lines from tree to tree. In places, the jungle stretches for miles at sea level – and
then it often degenerates into marsh, into thick mangrove swamp that can suck a man out of
sight in a matter of minutes. (The War of the Running Dogs by Noel Barber)

Something pulled me out of my research and I glanced up. The entire floor, usually bustling
with library-goers, stood empty. No backpacks lay on the floor as owners slouched in chairs,
the always-busy computer terminals had black screens, and an utter lack of noise made the
silence seem too obvious. The stacks on the floor above, usually well lit and busy with book
browsers, had become a meeting point for shadows, hazy strangers huddled in the dark. I laid
my pencil down on my notebook as the desk lamp hummed. I wanted to clear my throat just to
hear something familiar, something human, but I didn't. A greasy flutter filled my chest. It was
like one of those apocalyptic movies where a person wakes up to find everyone and everything
gone. (Library – Settings Thesaurus)