Narrative Voice By Amanda Atkins Analysis

Abstract: The narrative voice in this story is first person limited, told through the character of Amanda Hopkins. It is dramatized, active, and unreliable. I chose to tell the story through Amanda’s perspective because by doing so, the reader understands her thought processes and motives while at the same time understanding the horror of her actions. In order to make her voice come to life, so to speak, I used foreshadowing to show the reader that her perspective contradicted her actions. By doing that, I showed that she was an unreliable narrator. Amanda is the main character of the story, so she is dramatized and active.

Miss Fortune I hated my landlord. He stood in my apartment, inspecting the rooms and parading around as if he owned
Hopkins--” “I told you not to call me that! That’s my ex-husband’s name!” The stupid man did not have any manners. First he barged into my apartment without even asking, and then he had the audacity to refer to me as Ms. Hopkins. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” he muttered, “Is there a different name I can call you by?” “My name is Amanda!” He had been coming into my apartment every month but he still didn’t know my name? What an idiot. “But you told me not to call you Amanda the last time I came…” “My name doesn’t change just because it’s been a few months!” “Alright, Amanda—”
“Did I say you could call me Amanda?”
“But you just said—”
“I never said you could call me Amanda. Have some
I spun around to see who had interrupted my thoughts. A woman with long, curly hair in a colorful gypsy style outfit stood behind me. My interest shot up. What was my fortune? Would I ever win the lottery I always tried for? Would my landlord ever leave me alone? Questions streamed through my head.
“Why not?” With a grand flourish, she opened her tent flap.
“Come in my dear,” she whispered. The inside of her tent was dimly lit and smelled of incense, spices, and something earthy. The fortune teller walked in behind me, closing the flap. There was a jangling noise as the anklets and bracelets she wore clanged together as she walked to her table and sat down. She moved gracefully, like one of those dancers from The Real Housewives of Fort Worth. Or maybe it was Dancing with the Stars. I’d have to check that later. “Give me your hands,” she said. I pushed my hands into hers.
“Do you see my future yet?” I said, my eyes glued to her as she gazed intently into her misty crystal ball.
“Delphina sees great danger in your future,” she murmured, her eyes never leaving the