After a short ten-minute walk home from school, when I finally arrived at my house, I flopped onto the couch. It was a Friday afternoon, and I was ready for the football game that night, and for the weekend to begin. My mom was sitting on the couch across from me and asked me how my day at school was. I described to her what had happened that day, and the stuff we did in my classes. As we get done talking about school, she inquired
“I would be honored to invite Demetri Ford and his little sister, Tiana Ford, to the stage!”
As I sat in my fourth grade English class listening to my teacher tell me "you have a book report due in just two short weeks" and I thought to myself how am I ever going to do this? I have never been a good writer and I have no idea where to begin explaining the book "Little House on The Praire" and presenting it in front of the class without being embaressed as all get out.The day went on as I thought about it more and more the bell rang. I ran out to my mom's car and stated "Mom I have a book report due in just two short weeks and I cant do it. She said "why not honey" I said " Im just not s good enough writer" She said " yes you are and yes you can and you will do a fantastic job at it. That is when I realized I am a writer.
Back in middle school around the 6th grade I was a bitter person. Having been hurt from past and present situations I was not keen on forming relationships with other people. I always kept to myself, never causing any trouble and sure to keep far from it by turning the other cheek. Then one day the student occupying the seat beside me mistakenly took my school pack believing it to be his own. I had only become aware of the mistake after he had begun leaving out the classroom’s door. Before he was able to reach the schools exit i managed to catch up to him; informing him of the mistake he made. With that brief encounter a small friendship began. Everyday afterwards the same student would spark a conversation with me before classes began. He
Looking through this thread so far, pretty much last as usual thanks to my writing style, I was surprised to see there are no fellow procrastinators in the class. This is a stark contrast from my recently departed high school class. We would all get rubrics and prompts at least a week in advance and we would all begin our assignments on the same day: the day before the assignment is due. Sometimes it was utter chaos in the library in the morning of or the lunch period right before. Sometimes others would forgo the whole early or late ordeal and have no paper to turn in at all. We were young, we were wild, we were all so very stupid. But then again this is college, this is a different animal, and many have seen the error of their ways and chosen
I was in high school the first time I had to write a narrative. I was a freshman. This was Ms. Bradley’s first time teaching at Union Christian Academy. On her first day, she gave us our syllabus and said, “I do not accept late work, especially on writing assignments.” We, literally, sat there stunned. My freshman class had it very easy during eighth grade year. We were not expecting this. As I looked through the syllabus, I saw that our first assignment was due in a week and it was a narrative. At this time, I did not even know what a narrative was. Ms. Bradley explained that a narrative was an account or story of events. It could be either true or false. Our narrative had to be true. It had to be a true account of something that happened to us over the summer. She wanted to gauge how are writing skills were. Our narrative had to be at least two to two and a half pages long. I chose to write my first ever narrative on my trip to Fort Worth, Texas. Once again, I was plagued with writer’s block. I had the story in my head, but everything I
I think the best part of my narrative is my introduction and conclusion. My introduction sets a mysterious tone by stating “I always wondered how would my life…” By starting the
Dad's in a pretty good mood; he's preparing his patented breakfast. Mounds of fried potatoes, potatoes sliced with a knife into little squares then fried in lard in a cast iron skillet. Two more cast iron fry pans are filled with scrambled eggs; a fourth pan is brimming with bacon. There are several sheets of his invention, cinnamon rolls made from Bisquick dough with sugar added, rolled thin, spread with a thick coating of butter, pounds of homemade strawberry jam, raisins, more sugar and cinnamon. Rolled up, cut about an inch thick, placed on a cookie sheet and baked. They're a real pleasure to eat hot with even more butter melting over them but the cookie sheet with the spilled jam cooked into cement is a bugger to clean. Dad never does the dishes. That's a kid job.
“It was kind of a festive occasion and it was a bowling alley party. So now drinks are involved, jokes are involved, different type of mood. So then it’s like, ‘Let’s try breakfast…’ take it easy and just go little bit by little.”
"We are the merchants of flesh. We are the providers of an unreachable decadence to the common masses. There was a time when people witnessed a young virgin pushed down a fiery pit so their god wouldn't let it erupt. It's quite an obverse metaphor, considering we are gunning for the eruption. I ask you this though...... has people changed? No, we will never change. The only thing that has changed is that instead of a volcano we've got a camera and two souls willing to commit the rituals and sacrifice, and a director." While Reginald was openly soliloquizing Dough was initially going to walk straight to the exit and forever turn his back on the place. But, in spite of all the bellyaching he couldn't conjure up the will to vacate the
When I first tried to make bread, it was a disaster. I mixed and kneaded the dough and I let it rise for a few hours. But when I checked on it, the dough did not rise to the top of the loaf pan. This was strange, but I thought nothing of it at the time