Original Writing Of A Day

That moment seemed to last forever and it would always be burned in my memory, and I would never forgive myself for it. In that moment, I had slightly veered off my lane without noticing, then one second later there was a deafening succession of noises that hit me like a tidal wave. A mixture of crunching metal, glass tinkling as it shattered, and Harper screaming my name. The pain didn’t even register in my brain. I opened my eyes and my vision was hazy, but I panicked, screaming for Harper. My vision was fading, but I finally caught a glimpse of Harper’s face, covered in blood, before my whole world had gone black. I missed that girl more than anything. She made my job as a nurse feel more important, she had given me purpose and brought happiness into my life. Harper was also the reason I refused to drive anymore. As I thought about her my eyes swelled, and I knew that if I let one tear fall then it would be an unending stream. I had to be strong, that’s all she’d every encouraged for me. So I got off at my stop and remained staid as I opened the door to the hospital; the glint of a bracelet Harper had given me caught my eye as my arm

All emotions stopped when I saw my best friend’s bright blue, with her favorite quotes on the cover of the journal that was packed up in boxes after she had died, was now laying on my bedroom floor. My heart has never raced this much before in my life. I open to the first page in her journal and it reads ‘Nettie it’s really me, I’m in need of your help, please meet me at our place at nine O’clock tonight’. After reading that note, I started to think back through things that has happened that didn’t seem like anything at the moment, but now seem like they were possible signs or something that came from Jess.

I heard a feminine voice call out to me as I blazed out the front door. "Good morning Amber! Oh, where are you--" I cut her off with a sharp slam. I couldn't look back. With each step towards my car, I inhale painful sobs of air. I feel as if I don't know who I am, as if I was that 18 year old girl hearing the news of his death for the first time. I couldn't think of the name that belongs to me, or any one else but my father. Any face my subconscious offers had the resonance of a total stranger, then was replaced with the haunting image of

I got a call one cold, dreary winter night as I was laying beneath the covers on my bed while watching Greys Anatomy. As the phone rang, I didn’t care to answer but the second I hit accept I heard my mother on the other line in a panic. I didn’t think much of it because my mother was the type of person to over exaggerate the little things such as not putting your drink on a coaster. As I waited in silence to hear what my mother said, I could hear my dad screaming in the background. That’s when my mother told me to come to the hospital that something atrocious had happened to my sister. I dropped the phone to the floor and scrambled to the door leaving it wide open. When I got there, I walked up to the front desk as I stumbled walking in. The lady at the counter led me to my sisters room which felt like a million miles away. As I approached my sisters room, I saw the consternation in my mother 's eyes, and the way my dad was refusing to leave the hospital room but being dragged out by some of the doctors. As I looked through the window to where Bria’s body was, I saw it

“Because of this.” She pushes today’s newspaper towards me.”The found another body. Her name was Molly.”

I was 21 now and I’d been hiding out at julia’s house for years now. I had a job and a child. For a long time i had been doing things on my own. I couldn’t live with my grandparents and face the fact they were the reason why my mother killed herself. At home someone kept knocking on the doors at night but we never knew who it

The morning wind is as cold as ice, slicing passed my skin while I’m standing against it. It always like today of every year: cloudy, cold and sad. Like the sky is crying with me. I blend down to a tall, sleek, marble stone with the name “Amelia Bennett” written on it. That’s my mother’s name. She died when I was 7 year-old, it’s odd that I have the memories of her very clearly in my brain. Most children probably won’t. But I do, and I when I do, I missed her. I don’t even know what happened on that tragic day. I was blacked out and the next thing I remember is that she’s now laying deep underneath my feet. No one knows what happen, or no one wants to talk about it, not even my aunt. She’s the one that take me in after the accident. Why? Because

Imagine living a life where majority of your family thinks you’re dead but the government knows you’re alive and is trying to hunt you down. This is exactly how Daniel, known as Day, lives his life in the book Legend, published in 2011 by __________. Throughout this 352 page science fiction book you’re taken on an adventure between the perspectives of two seemingly different people. The author, Mary Lou, writes of June who’s a fifteen year old girl born into wealth and of Day, also fifteen, who comes from the poor sectors. This dystopian novel is full of unexpected turns keeping the reader engaged and never wanting to put the book down.

Walking through all the desks with people typing fiercely, I was still extremely confused. David led me farther into the back which looked like some type of lab. Scared, I opened the door and saw a huge cloud of smoke. After the smoke all cleared up, I saw my daughter. I was more scared and confused than ever. My daughter was only eight and meant the world to me. Had she been helping David this whole time? How did she get here? How long had she been here? I had so many unanswered questions. I began running up to her until I was stopped by three security guards. My daughter Rylan whispered,” Daddy.” At that moment I knew they kidnapped her and I knew Jackie had to be involved with David. I felt beyond disgusted. I thought David was my best friend for so many

Local news reporter David Jennings was told to check out a house that was reported as haunted by many people. David thought it was all a joke but decided to check it out. When the news van arrived at the location, he noticed there was a cemetery next to the house.Not only that, the address was 666 Cresida St.The house was all worn out, with windows shattered and part of the was burned. Then the cameras started rolling. “Live from Cresida St, for 10 o’clock news., I’m David Jennings and we’re here to check out this supposedly haunted house. We’re going to investigate whether or not if it’s true.”

My mother would start the mornings with a “Levantese que hay mucho que hacer”, in translation, “Wake up there is so much to do today”. Every day, the wakeup call was at 5:30 in the morning and it started with a list of chores. Occasionally, we would sleep until 7:30 in the morning on the weekends to more chores and whatever else was on the list. My mother was regimental and the “A” typical Latina mother, very old school. Not a day went by where my brother and me didn’t do chores and helped around the house. Lord forbit that she would have to repeat herself twice on our individual chores. She constantly reminded me that one day I would become a wife and would have to know how to take care of my family, “A man does not like a lazy wife and you would want to stay married to the same man you have exchanged vowels with”, she would say. Seeing that she was remarried two times already, I did not understand why she would expect it from me. None -the-less, I did what I was told and without any galivanting I accomplished every task assigned to me.

About ten years ago, I lost some of the most important people in my life. My mother and my older brother John were killed by some goddy trots who worked for the Republic and a girl who I'm not really sure what exactly happened but I know without a doubt I've been searching for her, for a very long time. Now here I am standing two feet away from that girl, the girl who I lost a long time ago and I'm so certain its her. June her name is, June Iparis. The familiarity in her name sends flashes of scenes through my mind, very similar to the dreams and nightmares I've had. As the doctors said I would, I have regained most of my memories overtime and everyday for the past 10 years I've had flashes and dreams of my past many including a girl but I

Linehan, Hugh. "Revisiting the Dead ; Kevin Barry's New Book, about John Huston's Film 'the Dead', is the First in a Series on Notable Screen Adaptations of Irish Literary Texts. it Stresses the Fidelity of the Late Director to James Joyce's Short Story." Irish Times: 9. Oct 22 2001. ProQuest. Web. 28 Mar. 2016

I woke up that morning around ten o’clock. I was in a very good mood, my eyes were a bright green and my smile was blooming for the first time in a while. I went into the kitchen and was about to get waffles out of the freezer when my mom came out of her room. “Rachel,” she had said with a sorrowful look on her face, that I hadn't yet noticed, “sit down. I need to talk to you.”My mood had faded instantly, “What did I do,” I had asked. The words she had spoken next were not what I had expected. “ You did not do anything,” she said with a small smile, which had quickly faded. “ It's about your Daddy,” and in an instant I knew that he was gone. I felt as if my chest was going to explode. I put a hand over my stomach and another over my mouth trying to keep from crying, but I had failed. “He shot himself this morning, around one o’clock.” The pain of the words that she had said was unbearable. I would never get to make things right with Daddy, it was because Elaine had finally pushed him too far. He had lost everything because of her, including his life. Immediately I started blaming myself, especially at the memorium. I kept telling myself that maybe if I would have kept going over to his house, he would have seen that he had something to live

So then, if we know what Joyce’s intention of the book was, what is “The Dead” really alluding to? This has sparked discussion in classrooms worldwide for decades. Is it about Ireland’s tendency for over-romanticizing tragedies, such as Gretta believing Michael Furey died for her, or the boy’s over-idealized view of romance in “Araby”? Or is it about Ireland’s slow but sure march toward death? Perhaps it is not even an effort to smear Dublin, but rather to reveal to the reader his/her own inadequacies through the reflection of an everyday reality of life in Dublin.