July 11th, 2001 cold rain poured from the sky, through blurred vision as I struggled to stand up from the damp dirt road, and look at the damage around me, I saw a lone silver car quickly approaching. Have you ever gotten a car with a stranger, without thinking of what the consequences could be? The next thing I remembered I was climbing out of that cramped crowded car, followed by my aunt, three cousins, and two siblings. The moment I looked down to wipe the rocky dirt from my skin, was when I realized there was no dirt to wipe off - the rocks were resting within the missing patches of skin that covered the left side of my body from the top of my shoulder to the bottom of my knee. All morning we had relentlessly begged my Aunt Alicia to let
Divine intervention, a miracle, or just mere luck, it was; I was just grateful to be alive. Death had seemed so near, but life pulled out the victory. I felt the grainy California sand against my skin. No movement seemed necessary; it was perfect enough just to breathe in the humid air that moments earlier I had so dearly craved, and nearly lost. Still, in shock, I spread out on the sand like a beached whale. My mother laid next to me in tears, muttering, “I thought I lost you.” She was not the only one who thought I would die; I was the
“We’re reactivating you agent 111” is the first thing that Cyrus, the legendary spy for the C.I.A (Central Intelligence Agency) heard on the morning of March 7th 2018.
The 11th day of September, 2001 was not just any ordinary day. It was an annihilating day for both me and my country. That day symbolized the burial of my grandfather, who died the week prior. My grandfather, played a fundamental role in my life. He encouraged me both spiritually and educationally. This is also the day that the Islamic terrorist group Al-Qaeda decided to attack the United States. They achieved the attack, though the hijacking of four planes; this caused the complete destruction of the Twin Towers (North and South) of the World Trade Center located in New York City. The terrorist group was also responsible for the partial collapse of the Pentagon. They did, however fail in their attempt on attacking the United States
Some people might come up to me every now and then and ask me if I am alright now, and some who don’t know me ask what happened. They have heard about me on the news, but have not heard all the details. I am used to the constant questioning, though, as much of it has died off now. I have been counting, exactly four months since the day my life turned around. I am much better now. I actually am all better. My life is exactly the same as before the incident. I am still living with my family, I go to the same school, I still have all my pets, and most importantly I and my horse, Cowboy, are perfectly healthy again. I do not look the same, for I and my horse were stranded for about four months.
One can learn responsibility through experience, whether the experience is great, or if it is tragic. In The Ninth Ward by Jewell Parker Rhodes, twelve year old Lanesha demonstrates her growth by bringing her and others to safety during a deadly storm. Once nurtured and cared for by her non-biological grandmother, Lanesha learns to take care of herself and others. This significance shows her transitioning from a girl to a young woman.
As I walked down the gravel road, breathing became more difficult as the harsh sun beat on my back. I did not know if I could withstand it much longer. All I could think about was the sun - until I made eye contact with a little boy. His oversized t-shirt was drenched in sweat and dirt. He was breathing heavily, fighting tears to no avail. It was then, the large mass on the side of his forehead became more obvious. I could no longer selfishly feel the heat - only empathy for I knew the root of his pain: denial of proper medical assistance.
There I was standing on the hill. Hands gripped to my skateboard in fear. My friend staring at the road to warn me of cars. I set my skateboard down on the newly paved road and started down the hill flying past the trees and houses. Until I saw it, the line of cars heading my way. My legs and board shaking. I fall and summersalt down the hill. I stop myself and crawl into the wet grass. I grab my board, hands shaking and scratched. I lay on my back, head throbbing in pain, knees gushing blood, and clothes ripped. I close my eyes because of embarrassment and anger. The feeling in my chest I couldn’t comprehend. It was a feeling of hurt, I had failed at my favorite thing in the world and I never wanted to feel that again. That day I decided to turn my failure into success by practicing and accepting my family’s teaching me to never give up.
Imagine you were only 10 or so years old, you and your best friend were outside in the middle of a storm. Your best friend got swept away in a wave under your watch, you would never forgive you self, but should you? The narrator of a short story “The Seventh Man” was doing this exact thing. He was watching his friend K whilst out in the middle of a storm, and the narrator had said that he was leaving to his friend. His friend couldn't hear him. Towards the end of the book, K had been swallowed up by the waves, and the narrator was felt it was him fault. Should he? No, he shouldn't.
who he relay was, she gave him a job because he knew her brother. While
It was a cold October afternoon in 1996, and I raced down the stairs and out the front door, in an attempt to avoid my mother's questions of where I was going, with whom, and when I'd be back. I saw my friend Kolin pull up in his rusted, broken-down gray van, and the side door opened as Mark jumped out and motioned for me to come. I was just about to get in when my mother called from the front doorway. She wanted to talk to me, but I didn't want to talk to her, so I hopped in pretending I hadn't heard her and told Kolin to drive off.
I was born in a little town in Ethiopia. When I was about five, I started school. I was tiny, so all people used to like me especially our neighborhood. We had a neighborhood next to our house that we only socialized with the only girl; her name was Sara, and she was 13 years old. She was smarter than the other kids so my mom would send me to school with her. One day, we were walking inside the school together, and I saw a big hole and there was a mud in it. I did not tell her that I see it immediately; however, I was thinking about it for a week. I can even recall how big it was. After a week, I was so excited to ask my friend Sara about the hole. When I met her, I asked what the hole was for, and I told her my presumption of if it is
A blast of adrenaline charges throughout my body as I experience the initial drop. My body's weight shifts mechanically, cutting the snow in a practiced rhythm. The trail curves abruptly and I advance toward a shaded region of the mountain. Suddenly, my legs chatter violently, scraping against the concealed ice patches that pepper the trail. After overcompensating from a nearly disastrous slip, balance fails and my knees buckle helplessly. In a storm of powder snow and ski equipment, body parts collide with nature. My left hand plows forcefully into ice, cracking painfully at the wrist. For an eternity of 30 seconds, my body somersaults downward, moguls of ice toy with my head and further agonize my broken wrist. Ultimately veering into underbrush and pine trees, my cheeks burn, my broken wrist surging with pain. Standing up confused, I attempt climbing the mountain but lose another 20 feet to the force of gravity.
When I stepped into the large neatly organized white polished plane, I never though something would go wrong. I woke up and found myself on an extremely hot bright sunny desert island filled with shiny soft bright green palm trees containing rough bright yellow hard felt juicy apples. The simple strong plane I was in earlier shattered into little pieces of broken glass and metal when crashing onto the wet slimy coffee colored sand and burning with red orange colored flames. After my realization to this heart throbbing incident I began to run pressing my eight inch footsteps into the wet squishy slimy light brown sand looking in every direction with my wide open eyes filled with confusion in search of other survivors. After finding four other survivors we began moving our small petite weak legs fifty inches from the painful incident. Reaching our destination which was a tiny space filled with dark shade blocking the extreme heat coming from the bright blue sky, I felt my eyelids slowly moving down my light colored hazel eyes and found myself in a dream. I was awakened the next day from a grumbling noise coming from my empty stomach.
OUCH! My leg crippled with pain. I tried to shuffle my way to the window, but it was excruciating. As my senses kicked back in, I felt pains shooting up and down my body. Peering down at my hands I screamed. My hands were covered in cold, congealed blood.
On one fateful evening, in the summer of 2001, an incident occurred that would scar me for life. At the beginning of the day, the routine was as normal as any other day. I would get up, climb out of bed, head into the kitchen, enjoy a bowl of cereal, put on my sneakers, and head across the street to the playground. As I entered the playground that day, I was totally oblivious to what was about to transpire. Until this summer evening, pain was only a four letter word in my mind.