My Cell Narrative

It all seemed like a blur the process of booking in, having her body and belongings searched, to putting her things in a locker. It felt like it did not happen, and as soon as she grasped a sense of reality, she found herself stood in the visitor's room, surrounded by criminals and their loving family visitors. Even though she had not seen him for forty years, she could pick out her father like a shot. She knew

I woke to shouting and banging on my door. I grabbed my pocket watch from the side of my bed; it read 4 o’clock. Who would be at my door this early in the morning? I thought. My body was dragged from the bed as I trudged along to my front door.

About Cells Cell, smallest unit of an organism that can function independently. All living organisms are made of cells, and it is generally held that nothing less than a cell can truly be said to be alive. Some microscopic organisms, such as bacteria and protozoa, are single cells whereas animals and plants are composed of many millions of cells assembled into tissues and organs. Although viruses and cell-free extracts are able to perform many individual functions of a living cell, they lack the capacity shown by cells of independent survival, growth, and replication and are therefore not considered

I never thought of myself as a person who would try anti-aging products, figuring that aging is just a natural part of life that I would adjust to as it happened. However, in the past few years, I have become increasingly self-conscious about the lines appearing on my face. I feel like they make me look older than I feel.

I don’t know how long I have been faking sleep, but the slow creak of the door startles me still. I can hear the slow, lumbering footsteps, feel their vibrations on the floor. When they stop, I can sense him bending over me, his hot breath fanning over my neck. “Nice to see you again, Ms. Esther Miller.” His gravelly voice causes goosebumps of fear to shiver down

How do you know if you’re a good writer? Hmmm. Well, the first thing to check is how your writing changes over time and how you’ve improved it from past mistakes. I’ve never really liked writing, it’s stressful and annoying knowing that if you can’t focus and get down to Earth for a paper that you could flunk your grade. I believe that I am great with the general of writing such as grammar, spelling, and punctuation; however I still believe that I could work on improving my vocabulary with more descriptive words. I would like to find out how much I have improved and learned since the start of 8th grade.

He closed his eyes, breathed in and out, in and out, then pushed up from his bed to stand in the center of his steel gray cell, his head almost touched the single light bulb that swung from the ceiling. In the dead of night, the moon shown through the small single window at the top of the wall which was shared with the outside, shared with freedom. Andy’s hands began to work quickly unbuttoning his blue-gray jumpsuit one button at a time, revealing a crisp white dress shirt and a black newly pressed tie, he then preceded to take off his tie and dress shirt and dark brown slacks folding up his newly aquired clothing he placed them in a plastic bag along with the prison's financial records - of which he had taken from the warden’s office where he had been forced to skew the records in the warden’s favor- and the chess set he had created during his time at

The man’s hair, resembled strands of a few copper wires, contrasting his paleness, and he was dressed in khaki Dockers, a short-sleeved button-down, and carried a clipboard with a pen. She was in a black power pantsuit, that was popular in the 80’s, material stretched around her ampleness, and a bush of jet black hair, bouffant-style, shadowed her back. Had these strangers been at the door, while I was relaxing in the tub? What did they want? Perhaps they were Jehovah’s Witnesses, but why hang out for hours? My dad’s slaying never completely left my mind, and my in-laws had been unscrupulous, announcing that we had cash in the house. The memory of my dad’s murder was being never solved, remined me; be careful! My heart had been pounding wildly, and my breathing erratic. I wiped my sodden face, even though I had toweled

After they got me in handcuffs we immediately when to the station. On the way, I looked out the window it was a beautiful day, about 27 C. When we got there they instantly put me in a questioning room. They asked one question, only one.”Why did you do it.” I told them everything, about the noise and his dreaded eye.

There we were, lined up horizontally against my mother’s white pathfinder, being questioned by a rough-looking, southern, angry policeman. My friends and I were told that we had committed a federal offense, and that the chances of being taken to a holding cell were very high. A lump sat in my throat and I tried not to cry. I knew that everything that happened that night was my own fault. This was one of the scariest nights of my life so far, the night that an innocent attempt at making plans to see my friends had turned into a series of lies, tears, and anger.

I heard a loud noise that caused me to sit straight up from lying on the ground attempting to sleep on the cold, hard concrete floor. The sounds of car engines were getting louder and louder. They suddenly stopped and men’s footsteps grew close to my cell. I heard Mr. Finch’s voice in the crowd trying to calm everyone down. The smell of whiskey was filling the air, it was so dense I could taste it on my tongue. Surprisingly out of all the men i could hear children arguing with Mr. Finch. There were deep voices of the men telling Mr. Finch to get the children out of here. Then the yells of a young girl shattered the room, I stood up quickly to try and peer through the two by two foot barred window that was a foot over my head.

Hope: Gone. Love: no one to. Wish: death. Me: dying. Family and friends: dead, no, killed. Chance: none. On and I go, thinking these words to myself, as a cradle my head in my hands, staring at the cement that serves as my bed, seat, and pretty much the rest of my life, which, at this rate, won’t be very long. A week if what the guards around my cage are right, and aren’t just feeding me a bunch of lies.

Chicavonov had to say, it wasn’t long before I had some clarity as to how my immediate future would go. It came in the form of Lynda Swan. A fortyish looking, no nonsense, in bad need of a makeover, men’s clothes wearing, un-personable woman. She had entered my room at the hospital, laboratory, prison… I don’t know, wherever the hell I am… along with her partner, Field Agent Eckhart. Swan held in her hand a couple of sets of documents rubber banded in a few of those beige folders which you would commonly see in file cabinets. I could tell right away I wasn’t going to like her visit. And, when Dr. Chicavonov left the room, I was certain of that.

After waiting in the storage, after some time they told me that I need to go to the cell’s energy plant, which was the mitochondria. On my way over there I heard some say that there was a chemical process when they make energy, and I was very nervous to just go there and get used with this chemical process. When I was near the mitochondria, I was even more nervous, because I heard an another glucose molecule screaming really loud, and I wonder that what will happen to me. A few minutes of waiting, it was my turn to go through the same thing as the other glucose molecule did. So before they started cellular respiration they had to broke me down into 2 three carbon molecules that are called pyruvate and it was painful I thought that I was going

The sound of excited footsteps and distant chatter approached my cabin, sending me abruptly to the surface. My time to study was over. I furiously scribbled the final notes of my summer assignment into the margins of Frankenstein, shoving it in my drawer between some loose postcards and a Camp Onyahsa baseball cap. I jumped from my bunk, slid on my Crocs,