Living In A Tipi Short Story

“If you have ever slept on an island you will never be quite the same” (Unknown). I have slept on an island and it truly has changed who I am today.  This little island is called Pumpkin Knob and sits in Casco Bay, Maine.  It is a place that has inspired and moved me to see life in a different perspective.  It all started back when I was three months old, on July fourth weekend, and ever since then my family and I have traveled the distance to stay on our little island of Pumpkin Knob.  Till this day I  do not know why this place has changed me so, maybe its that every year the island has changed itself.  The newly grown lilies in the garden, the freshly trimmed grass, the overgrown bushes on the trails or maybe it’s the new faces I see

Getting away as soon as she could was her number one goal. Moving from Milwaukee to Arizona to go to college and then to study abroad in New Zealand was an easy transition. But nothing has ever came as easy to her as the three most valuable things in her life, her happiness with being settled in Colorado, her husband Jeff, and her four year old daughter Freya who she considers to be her greatest accomplishment in life. Currently teaching at Denver School of Science and Technology: College View High School. Teaching 9th grade Composition. She is very content with life. Loving reading, writing, and a glass of wine when things get a little too hectic, those three things became very needed while just dealing with the sudden unpredicted death of her mother this past October, who got stung by a bee on a random Monday, had no known allergies to bee stings, went it too shock, and passed away a couple hours

It had finally arrived. Moving day. I was finally leaving my home in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania after five short years and a sort of gloom lingered in the air. Although many teenagers would be excited to reunite with their family, friends, and childhood home, I, however, was frightened of the future. I woke up that morning and just laid there and listened to the sound of the rain pittering against the roof and windows, pattering against the surrounding forest in which I shared many memories. After what felt like centuries of just listening and reflecting, I got up and looked out the window. I looked at my neighbor's house across the field of grass which separated our houses and at the kids who had become like my siblings. I looked at the ice

As I lay there in the sand, the burning pain surging from where the surprisingly sharp-edged seat - that in a twist of tragic irony was the very same vehicle I attempted to draw satisfaction from - had dug into my legs, I mulled over what put me in that position. I was in Ottawa on holiday, the city before this city in which my life was idyllic, where I was surrounded by who I once considered to be lifelong friends playing in the park with me, enveloped in a deep passion for the place where I was born and my family still lived happily together. Being uprooted and haphazardly transported to a city seemingly an entire world away with only one of my rocks to rely on for reasons not entirely known to me was a horrible experience, and I fell into a deep depression when I made it here to Edmonton. I looked upon the dullness and unfamiliarity of oil country and compared it to the manicured government town that was the Ottawa I had so many fond memories in and found it falling hopelessly short; I then retreated back into those memories as a refugee. I grew older of course, and over time I began to create new memories and nurture a different kind of love for Edmonton and Alberta. Yet when I returned to Ottawa, and reconnected with old friends and family members I began to wonder just how different my life could’ve been if I stayed in Ottawa, if I didn’t have to dissolve old bonds to forge new ones or waste time wallowing in self-doubt over my parent’s separation. Would I

In the 1960’s the author was growing up with her mother and five other siblings, moving from place to place in search of a home where the

Even though I was worried when we arrived here, I could still recognise that this island was beautiful. There were crystal waters and tropical palms. Sand that crunched beneath your feet and coral that decorated the ocean floor. Looks can be very deceiving though, Auntie. It didn’t stay beautiful for long and ever since we landed, I was praying that we would be rescued.

“The bunk house was a long, rectangular building. Inside, the walls were whitewashed and the floor unpainted. In three walls there were small, square windows, and in the fourth, a solid door with a wooden latch. Against the walls were eight bunks, five of them made up with blankets and the other three showing their burlap ticking. Over each bunk there was nailed an apple box with the opening forward so that it made two shelves for the personal belongings of the occupant of the bunk.”

Then we arrived at Kings Island, oh my goodness it was big and i was so

Worker went for a home visit at the home of Terrance crenshaw. When the worker arrived and knocked the front door opened. 5 children came to the door to greet the worker. The children were Jermey's children Kingston and Jeremy and Amy's children jasmine, amyona and son of Amy's. Worker questioned if Terrance was home the children stated that he had gone to the store. The worker asked if the children stay at the home there was only two bedrooms. The children state that they sometimes stay there.

Instead of huge buildings, cars, and etc, all the time. There is huge beautiful different scenery. For example, large snowy mountains. In this article, I found that spoke about it’s beautiful scenery in Vancouver it says that Vancouver is known for the sights. For example, in a part of the article, the person talks about the writer mentions “Cypress Mountain, overlooking the city” Which sounds truly lovely (The Star.2010). Whereas in Toronto it does not have this beauty. It is mostly buildings, man-made breaches, no nature scenery.

Finally, I reached home. We saw that everything was the same as we left off. The flowers were blooming in our garden. They

There is no other place I feel more at ease than at Kiawah Island. I have been going to this summer getaway every since I was a baby, and my love for this little island off the coast of South Carolina will never fade. When we roll up the driveway of 90 Jackstay Court, I feel a surge of elation, as I know I will be spending the next week with my family, cousins, and grandparents. I run my hands across the granite countertops where I can already smell the intoxicating aromas of a home cooked meal. First thing in the morning, my cousin and I grab our sand battered bikes, and start pedalling on the boardwalk to the beach. I’m careful on the narrow wooden platform, with the painful reminder of when I fell off into the brush. We hop off our bikes

Emily and her family had been living in Iowa for 10 years, so they thought it was time for a change they decided to move to Canada. Ben decided to stop homeschooling Jeff and Emily and send them to public schools, where it’d be easier for them to make some friends.

This winter break, my family and I woke up at 4:30 in the morning on December 26th, packed our minivan, and drove to the O’Hare airport. During the three hours of driving in the dark, my siblings and I were too excited to sleep, and we eagerly awaited the week ahead. We flew directly into Phoenix, Arizona and drove for another two hours, to Green Valley. When we reached Great Grandma June’s villa, she ran outside and gave my dad a huge hug. Excited to see us, she cried until she had hugged each one of us. My brother and I hadn’t visited her since 2008, and the rest my siblings hadn’t ever officially met her. After years of phone calls and sending

Those warm summer nights after long days of camp were greatly anticipated events back then. My cousin and I itched with repressed energy throughout the long bus ride from various tri-state area attractions. We couldn’t wait to get home and see what types of shenanigans we could get into. We couldn’t wait to slide down the steep, blue-carpeted staircase on our bottoms, and then on our stomachs. Most of all, we couldn’t wait to go down to the basement. The basement was better than a toy store. Yes, the old-fashioned milk chute in the kitchen wall was enchanting, and the laundry chute was fun because it was big enough to throw down my sisters stuffed companions, so my cousin could catch them below in the laundry room, as our voices echoed up and down the chute. But the basement was better than all of these, better even than sliding down those stairs on rug-burned bottoms.