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A Typical Day – A Short Narrative The shrill cries of my alarm echo across vermilion painted walls, stirring my consciousness into an aware state. It is precisely eight o’clock on a warm summer Monday; the distant cries of mockingbirds can be heard above the soft whirring of cars passing our genteel residential street. My ears scan the house; it is quiet – barely a sound other than the tinkling of tags as our pets navigate the living room. The still morning air brought realization, with no children running around Mother must have already left for work. Never leaving my lax position I stretch and sigh, it is nice to not have to baby-sit my sister’s kids – my nieces and nephew – but I do miss the mornings where my mother would still kiss me goodbye. I wearily drag myself away from the silken violet comforter and slump out into the living room. The green and red print of our family’s southwestern style couch streaks boldly against the deep blues of the opposing sitting chairs, calling me to it. Of course I oblige the billowy haven, roughly plopping down and curling into the cushions, ignoring the faint smell of smoke that clings to the fabric. My focus fades in and out for a while, allowing my mind to relax and unwind from any treacherous dreams of the pervious night, until I hear the telltale creak of door hinges. My eyes flutter lightly open to see my Father dressed in smart brown slacks and a deep earthy t-shirt, his graying hair and beard neatly comber into order. He places his appointment book and hair products in a bag near the door signaling the rapid approaching time of departure. Soon he is parading out the door with ever-fading whispers of ‘I love you kid,’ and ‘be good.’ The second my Father leaves for his rented spac... ... middle of paper ... ... of going to Travis Early College High School is the fact that I have the honors of taking courses with our partner school, the San Antonio College. I am part of the first class to ever pass through Travis’s door, and I have already taken eight courses. When the time is right I absentmindedly transfer buses for the remainder of my hour long journey, one I will take every Monday through Thursday until July eighth. The tan doors of Travis are welcoming as I march off the bus, however I am to be going in the cool, intimidating doors of SAC today – to learn about Mass Communications. From that point on my day goes smoothly, I listen intently to my professor, actively taking notes and participating until dismissed. Then I take the bus home and prepare to start the cycle again the next day, and the next, until the scorching summer heat turns to a soft late summer breeze.
In John Hubner’s 2005 book, Last Chance in Texas, readers are given insight into the fundamental curriculum that is embedded at Giddings State School. The book is divided into two parts, it begins by giving the point of view of the boy’s at Giddings and then shifts to the girl’s perspective. A significant chapter in the girl’s portion is chapter twelve, in which Hubner centers on Candace, a subject of the book. Readers learn her life and crime story and are able to understand the effects Giddings has had on her life and also how she, herself, affected the campus life. Chapter twelve not only further develops Candace as an individual, but also introduces more depth into the Special Services Committee.
cold, harsh, wintry days, when my brothers and sister and I trudged home from school burdened down by the silence and frigidity of our long trek from the main road, down the hill to our shabby-looking house. More rundown than any of our classmates’ houses. In winter my mother’s riotous flowers would be absent, and the shack stood revealed for what it was. A gray, decaying...
My mind started to wonder though each room of the house, the kitchen where mom used to spend every waking hour in. The music room where dad maintained the instrument so carefully like one day people would come and play them, but that day never came, the house was always painfully empty. The house never quite lived to be the house my parents wanted, dust bunnies always danced across the floor, shelves were always slightly crooked even when you fixed them. My parents were from high class families that always had some party to host. Their children were disappointments, for we
Even with the pain of bearing children, raising them, doing household and even farm chores, their efforts have never been truly appreciated. Mrs. Wright was “…real sweet and pretty, but kind of timid—and fluttery…” as Mrs. Hale, her neighbor, describes her (22). This would all soon change after her wedding day. With Mr. Wright’s insipid character and lack of patience of any joyous sound, Mrs. Wright’s spirit dwindled to nothing. It seems she spent hours at a time focusing on her quilts, preserves, and caring for the only life there was in the house, her canary. Even when Mr. Hale offered to get a party telephone, Mr. Wright responded, “…folks talk too much anyway…”(5). This silence he preferred also applied to his spouse. There were no hugs given out much less a smile. He failed to give her even the most minimal sing of appreciation much less the emotional warmth she hungered for.
The start if college is like the end of one’s childhood. Yet I had no intension of letting that go when I woke up yesterday at 7:00 am. Still, like high school, my mom dropped me off and picked me up; copping almost the exact same routine from the four years I spent in high school. Just as I thought this ought to be the easiest way of transportation, my mom proved me wrong once we reached the University of Washington’s parking lot.
11:14 p.m.-I slowly ascend from my small wooden chair, and throw another blank sheet of paper on the already covered desk as I make my way to the door. Almost instantaneously I feel wiped of all energy and for a brief second that small bed, which I often complain of, looks homey and very welcoming. I shrug off the tiredness and sluggishly drag my feet behind me those few brief steps. Eyes blurry from weariness, I focus on a now bare area of my door which had previously been covered by a picture of something that was once funny or memorable, but now I can't seem to remember what it was. Either way, it's gone now and with pathetic intentions of finishing my homework I go to close the door. I take a peek down the hall just to assure myself one final time that there is nothing I would rather be doing and when there is nothing worth investigating, aside from a few laughs a couple rooms down, I continue to shut the door.
It was just after 10 o’clock when his fury burst through the wall that separated my bedroom from the living room. I recognized the voice, but not the anger. I knew full well that it was my father yelling, but I had never heard him so upset. Being the oldest and most responsible of my siblings, I had to go see what was going on. I tiptoed down the hallway and gingerly stepped out of the shadows and into the dim lighting of the living room. My eyes shot to my mom who was sitting in her recliner, red-faced, and wiping away tears with a handful of Kleenex. Then I saw my father, quickly sitting back in his chair as if everything were perfectly normal. “Having trouble sleeping?” he a...
Shannon heard her stepfather coming up the stairs and quickly raced for the closet where she had already prepared her hiding place. Huddled under a pile of clothing, she listened as he came closer. He stopped as he entered the room and she knew he would be surprised to find her bed empty. He must be trying to figure out where to look next. Her heart pounded so hard she thought he must surely be able to hear it and she scarcely breathed as he stopped outside the closet door. Opening it slowly he looked inside but seemed unable to see her as he closed it and walked into another room. He called her name but she lay motionless until she heard him on the stairs. After a few more drinks he would pass out in front of the TV but afraid he might come back, she waited until she heard her mother come home from work. She slowly and quietly opened the closet door and tiptoed back to bed. Sleep did not come.
I am jarred out of a relaxing sleep by a voice yelling my name in a loud whisper, and a light burning through my eyelids. Groggily, I open my eyes to see my father standing in the doorway to my messy room. He tells me that I need to get going, that it is 3:00 a.m., and I'm burning daylight. I find my clothes and get dressed. The whole time I wonder why I get up this early to visit the rugged outdoors. I want to go back to bed, but I know my dad will be back in to make sure I am getting ready, in a little bit. Instead, I put my boots and my wide-brimmed, black cowboy hat on, and walked out to catch the horses. The horses are all excited because it is dark and they are not that cooperative. My dad and I get them saddled and in the trailer, and go back into the house to get our lunch, water, and a cup of coffee. Now, we can head for the high country.
The afternoon was slowly fading into the evening and I had gone the whole day without the figure of my aspiration, my father. I impatiently paced the floor in front of the door like a stalking cat waiting to pounce on its prey. The thoughts of wrestling my father and hear those words of affirmation, “You got me! Mercy! I give up!” filled my head. My father was obviously faking it but there was something about his words that have such power over a young boys life. Mothers are sources of comfort and safety for a young boy but it is the father that defines the identity of a young boy, the father bestows manhood on the boy.
The sounds of laughter echoed around the living room and the smell of sweet potatoes, dressing, chitterlings, and turnip greens filled the air. The living room walls were white and red curtains were hanging in front of the window seals. The fire place had black coal around the edges of brown brick that formed from burning short days and long nights. I could hear my little cousins’ feet hitting the brown and shiny hardwood floor as they ran to the kitchen. Their laughter echoed around the dense hallway, and those sounds reminded me that I had the longest day ahead of me. I rolled out of bed and stared at the reflection of myself and let out a deep sigh. As my feet rubbed against
I remember the last time I was sick and how it interfered with my daily activities. My day started as usual, I ate breakfast and got dressed for work. I arrived at work and went about my usual customer service duties. By mid-morning, I remember feeling dizzy, hot and a bit nauseous. I took two Advil hoping to get rid of whatever bug I had picked up. Unfortunately, the Advil did not help. Not feeling any better, I had to leave work early. The customer service calls I couldn’t complete were given to my coworker. By the time I arrived home, I was coughing, sneezing, and fighting the strong urge to vomit. Even though I was not feeling well, I still had to make dinner for my son and feed our two cats. I wanted to cook chicken with onions and peppers
The short story I have read is about how this young girl, her sister and her uncle would go out with the horses and try to find the cattle that may have headed to Gallup and if not then up to Ch'ooshgai Mountains. By that time, it’s noon and they get hungry so they all get out the spam and potatoes that their grandma has packed and later initial their names on the water tank and head back home. Getting closer to the home they stop by at a seven-to-eleven store to get cold sodas and a candy bar.
Who knew a mouse could make all of my wildest dreams come true? Imagine being a child, and being told that you are about to spend the day at “The Happiest Place on Earth.” To any four year old, a day filled with candy, adventurous rides, and even Mickey Mouse himself sounds like paradise. To this day, I am filled with the same excitement going to Disneyland as I was fifteen years ago. Even driving to the parking deck has some sort of magic only Disney could pull off. My first time at Disney was filled with wonderful rides, my loving family, and memories I would keep close to my heart forever.
As usual I woke up to the sound of my father pounding on my bedroom door, hollering, “Get up! Get on your feet! You’re burning daylight!” I met my brother in the hallway, and we took our time making it down the stairs, still waking up from last night’s sleep. As we made our way to the kitchen, I thought about what to have for breakfast: fried eggs, pancakes, an omelet, or maybe just some cereal. I started to get hungry. As usual, mom and dad were waiting in the kitchen. Mom was ready to cook whatever we could all agree on, and dad was sitting at the table watching the news. The conversation went as usual, “Good morning.” “How are you today?”