For the contemporary memoir class I took this past semester, we were told to write a ten page memoir as our final paper assignment. The opening passage from mine:
"The only recurring dream I have ever had was painted in soft hazy strokes, much like a dark-hued painting you might find on the tall walls of a museum. Throngs of people traveled together in brown cloaks and coarse fabrics, hauling baskets of food and belongings. There were always chickens pecking at scattered grain with pointed beaks, clucking along with the crowd as it traveled through an enormous metal tunnel; a great exodus of bodies and lives. I never knew the destination, or the starting point, for that matter—just the humming clang of talk and movement along the journey."
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