Personal Narrative: The Miracle Worker

" The biggest adventure you can take is to live the life of your dreams."- Oprah Winfrey. This quote meant a lot to a 13 year old youngster named Jared, who lived in the most impoverished town within Cambodia. To be quite specific, Jared resided in an old, rusty village, during the year of 2001, that he'd been living in since birth. His greatest aspiration in life was to become a geneticist. However, he did have a few roadblocks, such as poverty, and zero education. Whenever unoccupied, he strived to pay his Grandma Seda a visit at her senior citizen home, which was funded through the Cambodian government. Speaking of her, Grandma Seda was 96 year old lady and happened to be the grandmother of Jared. She was located at a senior citizen home 20 miles away from Jared's home. Six months ago she was diagnosed with leukemia and slow organ failure. Since her diagnosing, her health has been deteriorating rapidly.

There’s a story that I always tell people about when I talk about how much I love helping people. As a kid, I have always wanted to be a superhero. Of course, every kid wanted that too, but I feel like I always took it more seriously than others. The story that I tell is when I saved my little sister’s life. It was a day at the pool, and we were so little even I did not know how to swim yet. Our caregiver was not watching and my little sister fell in the pool, I immediately dove in forgetting that I could not swim either, but that did not stop me. I think I was around 4 years old, I grabbed my sister and pushed her above my head so that she could breathe, while I was nearly drowning underneath her. Finally, our caregiver jumped in and saved the both of us,

I sat at the kitchen counter, staring at the green cabinets and bowls of fruit. I wanted to play in tonight’s soccer game, but my mind was still foggy from the drugs I received in the hospital the day before. I didn’t want my teammates to see me like this. My hair was matted from where my head rubbed against the blue hospital pillow, and a wrinkled piece of clear tape secured a nasal feeding tube onto my cheek. I hated what the tube meant: that I was inadequate and that I couldn’t drink by myself. I was someone who insisted on doing everything on my own, and the thin, flexible tube was a physical reminder that I could not. My mom and dad lauded my bravery, but I dismissed them. I didn’t believe bravery was dictated by necessity.

First there was nothing but darkness. It felt like an endless void for one man. But as quickly as the darkness appeared, it disappeared into the light of day. The man dubbed ‘Hero’ quickly looked around the lush hills consisting of trees, rabbits, birds, squirrels and… slimes? He slowly walked over to one, still not trusting his legs, and as he drew closer the slime jumped at him. The slime impacted Hero and sent him stumbling backwards. Hero looked for something to fend off the attacker and found a copper short sword at his hip. He pulled it out of the sheath and stabbed at the slime. To his surprise the slime exploded into a pile of copper coins and a few balls of slime. Walking toward it he was surprised when the 2 objects started to float

Like most people, my love for writing grew from my love for reading. As a kid, I read everything I could; newspapers, flyers, ingredients on tin food wrappers to tattered comics from street vendors. I kept reading, and my appetite for the written word grew leaps and bounds with every passing year, but it never occurred to me that I could write, I did not write anything of significance until I reached college, until I stumbled upon online blogs, and thriving online forums.

189 people died out of 200 people who stayed in the hotel. There were only ten survivors from my school and 90 people have died. The cause of the accident was poor construction, but there was no one who took over the responsibilities. The government promised to give all the students to a choice of choosing a university and they said they will support us until we get a proper job.

Today I'm talking a plane to south America to drop these packages off. Its calling for bad weather but the dumb pilot says, "it's okay I've done this a million times." He's cocky, he's young and looks about my age, I get on the plane and there's already problems, I don’t need to die today. I tell him "We can fly another day" "No were fine", man what's up with this guy he's in such a hurry. We take off and everything's fine so I nap and then BAM I wake up to the sounds of an alarm, the plane is crashing and there's the pilot swinging his head with his eyes closed I run up to him and tell him to control the plane and then he shoots forward hits his head on the controls, great just great I'm in a plane with a pilot that’s passed out and now he just hit the controls so now were really screwed. I run to the back of the plane and grab the life jackets and put one around him and myself. I can see the land coming into view and I'm freaking out, as I brace for impact I see the pilot and he's struggling, his ocean blue eyes bulging out of his head, and he's crying he's young around my age and I know he doesn’t want to die. I run to him and pull him off his seat and have him crouch down by me he's holding on to me and he's saying and yelling "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry" We grab five

I went to a shopping mall, and had a look at some clothing, but I didn’t find anything that’s suitable.

The person I consider my personal hero would be my twin sister, Brittlyn Massey. She’s 16 years old and looks exactly like me, we’re identical twins. We’ve grown up together and have always had an amazing pact. She understands, has a calming presence and is compatible. I have never been so unquestionably influenced by anyone else. We’re great sisters and even better friends.

Dark brown eyes lined with a certain hardness within them as she stared straight ahead, unflinching, unblinking eyes at me. Her slender angular face is soft—a warm honey beige that makes the orange curvature of her lips painted in a not-so smile, red from the wine and ambrosia that she had been eating. She holds herself upright, her rough calloused hands placed firmly on the metal infused with a jade sword, yet at her back is her most favored weapon; her jaded ax.

Throughout my entire life my mom has shaped who I am as an individual and how I act and how I treat other people. Ever since I was a baby in diapers I can remember my mom being the person who always tell me right and wrong. I feel like my mom has high expectations of everything I do and how I act, but I think that is a good thing. She just wants me to be a good person, what is best for me and I really think that defines her character. Somebody who always wants to do the best thing and tries to make the best of every situation.

My childhood home was a gorgeous two story Victorian in the small rural town of LeRoy, Illinois. The 100 year old house had an empty basement cellar and an attic that over time had become home to a family of squirrels each winter. In its early days, the building was split up into two separate apartments. When the back half of the house caught fire in the 1970’s, the building was renovated and made into one home. The yard was vast and cavernous, surrounded by trees that swayed in the wind like a dancer gliding across a stage. A number of these trees were excellent for climbing as a kid. Two sets of french doors led to the family room from the deck where light seeped into the house and through the windows. In the dining room stood

Writing is my aesthetic; Tis a way of speaking without speaking. In our world, much of us have little to almost nothing to say.When given a piece of paper and a pen, we tend to become different people with authoritative voices desperately seeking for a listener.The diffident person seen on a daily basis may turn into a bold voice with great gallantry-a voice of power (TASS #6).Words are also an escape from the worries and the madness of the world. Today, many people are in a rush to do things. Little is there ever time to stop and ponder powerful philosophies. Living in a loud, busy world, sometimes writing is a haven of quiet and peace to me. Senses of solitude and relief are often felt when my words are expressed in secrecy. My journal is

The majority of my childhood consists of me at the restaurant, helping my parents. There, I would either be folding the eating utensils, bring bills to the customer's table, placing place-mats on the table, or working at a cash register. My job has always been the small tedious tasks. Then at age seven, everything changed; I seated my first customer. To me, seating a customer was a milestone marker because I did something out of my comfort zone. I was always scared of having a conversation with the customers because they looked intimidating. The most interaction I have had with customers was handing back their change. I have never done it and I never planned that it would happen. However, one day, the restaurant was in chaos. People were rushing

Writing is like falling in love: at first it can be frightening, but then it blossoms into a life changing experience, colored with vulnerability and freedom. Writing is a very complex art, it is merely the act of placing words on paper, yet those words contain thoughts, and those thoughts feelings. Those feelings can create a beautiful work of art, but only if the writer is willing to let their deepest and darkest thoughts run wild. What influences a writer to create magnificent works of art, are tragedies, issues in society, and the hope of inspiring others.