Narrative- My Suppressed Wild Side :: Personal Narrative Writing

Narrative- My Suppressed Wild SideTen years senescent 1975, still in my son body, my boy mind. Solid and strong with the survival to play all day moving from the tangled, viney jungle on the out-of-the-way(prenominal) side of the pond to the secret play house in the fall in dark basement of my best friend Davids house, to the high hurrying heroics played out on our banana-seated roulette wheels. I was not a boy of course, but wanted to be. I climb trees, even ones sticky with sap. The emotional state of pine hangs on me as I lie in whop at night. I ride up the hill on Saturday, reign David and set to digging a big hole in the dirt. We gather in old pans and buckets from his moms messy kitchen and create a stuff booey stew. We are hobos having our meal by the tracks we are Davy Crockett or Daniel Boone eating by the fire fertile in the wilderness. The meal over, David and I pour our concoctions into the deep hole, add dirt and more water he yells, Get the hose and then r olling up our tuff jeans, we stand in the filthy mix of grass and water and dirt, stomping up and down, giggling and falling over. What pleases me is to feel it amongst my toes and to feel the tightness of mud drying on my shins as we catch our snorkel breather lying by the hole sun-baked. Afterwards, bellies to the ground, David and I crawl under the prickly, holly branches to puff to our secret fort. It pleases me to taste the salty sweet of blood from a excoriation that I refuse to get a band-aid for. Later, I ride my bike home from Davids full speed down the hill, but not fast enough to appease my full bladder. Wonder what it would feel same to just pee as I ride my bike? So I pee my pants and the sensation is a wonderful boot out a naughty rule-breaking. And in the summer I jump with my brothers and sisters bump off a 25 foot high cliff down into the river where my soda waits for us. Ohthe force of the cold water on my skin and the strength of my get downs big hand as he guides each of us towards the rock to climb out. Summer nights I lie on the dewy grass, watch for shooting stars and try to the name the constellations as my dad has taught me.