My Long Shot Narrative

As I sit on the floor of my bedroom, I prepare myself for a life changing week. My dark black suitcase is right next to me. I have my packing list in one hand and a red pen in the other. I cross out the items that I already have. I make sure that I have everything I need for a week at summer camp. Every summer since 5th grade, I have gone to Skyview Ranch in Millersburg, Ohio. It is a week of laughing until my stomach hurts and powerful words that change my mind forever.

On the first day of class, after he was done checking in, he sat down to observe his classmates returning from their summer vacations. Initially, he walked in full of confidence and his head held high. However, that quickly changed when he heard his classmates speak French, and the feeling of intimidation washed over him like waves hitting the beach, “at my age, a reasonable person should have completed his sentence in the prison of the nervous and insecure . . . my fears have not vanished, rather, they have multiplied with age” (Sedaris, 1999, 1). For being a forty-one-year-old man, he thought these feelings of insecurity and fear in the classroom would have ended long ago. If he thought things could not get worse, he was mistaken. The teacher walked in, rattled off commands to the class, and then asked them to recite the alphabet. In that moment, he knew he was in trouble, “I’ve spent time in Normandy, and I took a monthlong French class in New York. I am not completely in the dark, yet I only understood half of what she said” (Sedaris, 1999, 1) and, despite the exposure he already had, he was still unable to understand everything the teacher was saying.

Lavenders’ ESL class, she decided that it was time for me to attend regular classes. I was so afraid, not because I would not be competent in the classes, but because I did not think I was ready for a full emergent in the language. I was competent and knowledgeable on the subjects assigned, Geography, Math, Science, but English? I was just completely in a mortified stage. Would I understand the teacher, classmates? Would I be able to speak clearly enough, so they would understand me? That weekend, before I was to report to my first all-English class on Monday, I did not sleep nor could I eat anything thinking about that moment. Monday morning I walked into Mr. Garfield English classroom. Mr. Garret was aware of me been assigned to his class; he was standing right at the door. When I came in, the first thing Mr. Garret did, was to ask the class to be quiet for a minute. He then proceeded to introduce me to them. I had never felt such a panic as I did at that moment. I was sweating, quivering; I felt a thousand eyes just staring at me. Mr. Garret quickly noticed my somber demeanor and immediately asked me to have a seat. I am sure he thought I was going to have a panic attack, and I’m not sure if I wouldn’t have if he did not step in quickly and asked me to have a

I like to think there are four levels of procrastination. The first is false security, the “I still have plenty of time, I can finish this later.” The second is laziness, the thoughts like,“I should probably get this started. Nah.” Next comes denial and excuses such as, “I would start this, but I’m doing something else right now.” and, “I’m just taking a little break.” Then finally the crisis stage, the stage during which you stay up all night long in order to finish the homework assignment you had all day to do. Because of this, the hardest part of my daily routine was the time when I knew I needed to start my homework, but I truly wanted to keep watching shows on Netflix. This wouldn't be as difficult if it weren't

The five-minute warning bell goes off. I rush to my first class of my junior year, eager to see my classmates, who I was going to spend the rest of the 9 months with. I find myself stumbling into a classroom plastered with decorations of Denzel Washington with a Dr. Seuss book in his hand, a t and college flags galore. My AP English 11 class suddenly seemed so appealing to me. As a beautiful, curly haired short lady stood in front of me and said “Welcome to AP English 11,” I knew that I had found a treasure so much greater than just a pretty classroom. Little did I know, that short lady was going to inspire me throughout my challenge filled second-to-last year of high school.

The low ceiling cowered above and the black plastic chairs formed a restless crowd around me. From my seat, I could smell the acute scent of cleaning fluid, whiteboard markers, and the nauseating perfume of the girl sitting next to me. Like so many other students, she exuded concentration. Her brows were drawn as her hand moved rapidly over the testing booklet, only pausing to reposition herself or cast an almost imperceptible sidelong glance. The effortlessness of her actions furthered my anxiety as I began tapping my foot uneasily against the speckled linoleum floor. Through the dusty shades that hung precariously in front the only window in the room, I could see the outline of a solitary building shadowed by the dense gray fog that clung to the courtyard outside. At that moment, I would have given anything to be able to run and scream at the top of my lungs. I had an inexplicable urge to break free from the confinement of that room and what it

The bell signalling the end of second period hadn’t sounded, yet. Or maybe it had.maybe she missed it amidst the screams. She wondered if it was all over, perhaps somewhere in a distant corner of the school, students and teachers rejoiced and hugged each other knowing there was nothing left to fear. No matter how quite it was outside fear still rushed through her body, mentally and physically. She knew she couldn’t get up. Fear had paralysed her. She had fled the library and fled her way through the southern hallway when it began. The hall was infused with kinetic horror. An aimless frenzy of kids and adults bound in a reckless pack of mass confusion, like and ant hill being washed away with a hose. No new knew what to do. They just ran. Lisa couldn’t run. The fear had taken ahold of her and would allow her to move any faster than a sloth in a waking

There we we're just chilling in my military grade jet with my friends. We were sitting there playing games while circling an island, then you wouldn't believe me if i told you that we saw 20 military birds. They didn't see us until my friend sneezed they started shoot left and right. So we turned my jet into and military plane an we shoot and shoot.. We killed all of them except wan which we tortured too tell us where their base is until at his final moments he tells us an we get go searching for it. We find it an we go fast there are 50 more and we shoot and shoot until there all dead. Then we cooked them and ate them the entire way home.

All of the students nearly jump out of their skin and run as fast as lightning out of the door. All except two, Mckenna and Annie. Mckenna hesitates and lazily wakes up from sleep. She peers around the classroom, and soon her eyes meet Mrs. Williams’s. There was complete silence. “Mckenna, have you finished your test?” Mrs. William asked calmly.

The foul mixture of smog, anxiety and crisp night air pressed down on Maria as she trudged down the hill, trailing a few feet behind her twin sister at all times. Strange Taiwanese animals howled and whimpered in the distance. She took a deep breath and distracted herself the only way she knew how. Ninety six days and four hours since we saw Father. Four days until we graduate from the academy. One week until we go into orbit. Eight days until we see his face again. Maria scolded herself for enrolling in the first place. It had looked so enticing – posters and banners hung all around the city. Two men barged into their classroom and spoke gruffly of the advances people like them could make, had already made. People spoke in low whispers about the free education and opportunities it provided for those 500 successful applicants.

“Wyandotte High School,” Mrs. Marilyn said. We were next. My anxiety screaming “you have to get up and do stuff or you’ll fail in life.” I got up from my seat and headed to the stage. My heart was racing loudly that I was afraid that everyone would hear it. My hands dripped with sweat. I kept taking deep breaths to calm myself. I felt the spotlight following my every move.

I attempted to hide my nerves. I’ve managed to get out of speaking in front of the class for the past year or so. I doubt some know what my voice sounds like. But I’m fine with that. Reluctantly, I read, confusing myself with the many names I have not been paying attention to since we started reading it. Luckily, the chapter is short, so rather quickly I look up to Mr. Walker again.

The audience gasps as I stare at my fellow actor, the two of us frozen in place. The lights dim to a shallow blue, and a dreary requiem resonates throughout the theatre. In one synchronized motion, we melt away from the scene and retreat backstage, where we dive into a whirlwind of frantic preparation for the next

“You may begin your test now.” Announced the invigilator. It was the PSLE Preliminary English Examination and the sound of the flipping of scrips could be heard throughout the class. Everyone started scribbling furiously on the script, jotting down every answer that came through their head as fast as possible. David also started racking his brains while doing the questions. The questions were much harder than he expected as he had not seen many of them before and he had to squeeze out his brain juices to solve them. Beads of perspiration was flowing down his forehead and the sound of the clock ticking was making him more and more nervous.

It is also assumed that the act of telling a story can provide insight into past, present and future events (Espinoza, 1997). By going through this process, individuals can find the importance of certain events and assign roles to people who are a part of their story. This act can allow a client to find new meaning and understanding to their reality (Espinoza, 1997). Not only is a