Essay on Sara's Story: A Short Story

It had finally arrived. Moving day. I was finally leaving my home in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania after five short years and a sort of gloom lingered in the air. Although many teenagers would be excited to reunite with their family, friends, and childhood home, I, however, was frightened of the future. I woke up that morning and just laid there and listened to the sound of the rain pittering against the roof and windows, pattering against the surrounding forest in which I shared many memories. After what felt like centuries of just listening and reflecting, I got up and looked out the window. I looked at my neighbor's house across the field of grass which separated our houses and at the kids who had become like my siblings. I looked at the ice

In this assignment I was partnered up with Sarah carney, and in this paper I will discuss Sarah ‘s life history, cultural background, her dream, and my analysis of her dream.

“Dad, can I go over to Ambers’ house to study tomorrow?” Our daughter Catherine asked the question, from about halfway up the stairs. Only her face could be seen as she peered at my husband hopefully, over the banister. I looked over at my husband, knowing what he would say, before he spoke. “Ask your mom.” My husband said to her, while glancing at me, expectantly. I smiled at him, knowing why he was telling her to ask me. He had worked all week, making the long drive from our home in Ashland to his office in Richmond and was hoping I would drive her to her friend’s house, so he could relax at home. My daughters’ hopeful gaze turned toward me, as well. “Madre?” She didn’t bother repeating the question. I hid the little sting of pain, that I always felt when she called me that, behind a smile. “What time are you supposed to be there, and do I need to bring you over and pick you up as well?” She nodded as she answered me. “Yeah, her mom can’t do it today, but I told her I would help her with her math.” Catherine had always made high marks in her school studies; it was something I was exceedingly proud of. “Yes, I’ll drive you, but make sure your phone is fully charged.” I have always been protective of the kids, and it was a long standing rule that they didn’t leave the house without a way to contact me. “I will.” She called out as she went the rest of the way up the stairs, disappearing from my view.

Trista had always been a normal kid except for her stories. It wasn't that they were disturbing or horrific, they were just unusual. Sometimes they seemed exactly like the kind of thing you'd expect from a kid, but other times, I'd have to look at her and wonder how she came up with such things. It started when she was four, shortly after our dad split, leaving the two of us on our own.

The novel My Story by Elizabeth Smart is a nonfiction book that tells Smart’s experience as she was kidnapped and stolen away from her family for nine months. A man named Brian David Mitchell took Elizabeth out of her own bed one June night in 2002. This story displays how Elizabeth felt in these moments and all of those after the initial kidnapping in the nine months following. Elizabeth is forced into doing things that oppose her religion and her own morals and is moved out of her state and back before she is finally returned to her family. The reader is able to feel her pain and encounter the horrors that Mitchell and his wife inflict upon Elizabeth.

“Where are we going?” She then looked at me and said, “We’re moving to Texas.” Out of all places, Texas? We lived in southern California our whole lives, so moving to Texas was definitely a shock to me. “What about our family and friends?” Her eyes began to water, so I knew talking about it further would only make things worse. Texas. It was stuck in my head and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The more I thought of it, the worse it sounded. The worst part was that it was so sudden, so it didn’t seem real. Because my parents are divorced, I spent the weekends at my dad’s house. He was torn that I was leaving Riverside, which of course meant that weekend visits would turn

Dorothy Allison's voice is one of authenticity, experience, and wisdom. This is apparent in her recounts of her mother's death and rape by her abusive stepfather as a child. She uses her storytelling as a way of sorting out her inner demons and memories of her broken life, “the [story] I wish I could make you hear,” as she says, because “the need to tell [her] story was terrible and persistent, and [she] needed to say it bluntly and cruelly, to use all those words, those old awful tearing words” (39, 42). She strives to get to the root of her own unresolved issues and, by her own admission, “[works] to make you believe [her]”:

The main character in this story is a Jewish girl named Alicia. When the book

He came in without a word. I was stropping my best razor. And when I recognized him, I started to

“Hannah? Hannah! You have a new package in the mail!” Makenzie runs into my house, as she stumbles over my dogs, who are barking at her. “What do you mean my mail? And why were you looking in my mailbox,” I say humorously. Makenzie jumps over the couch, kicking my phone out of my hand, “We are going to Los Angeles!” A few weeks before, Makenzie and I entered a contest to win a free trip to a Justin Bieber concert, in Los Angeles. I open the package, and the first word I read was ‘Congratulations!’ I screamed as I ran to my closet to get my suitcase. Makenzie started to throw random clothes in my bag, and I quickly stopped her. “Why are you taking all the clothes out,” Makenzie said confused. “Don’t you remember who filled out the information with us?” Makenzie’s face dropped as she answered my question. “I told you not to bring Agustin and Jacob to the mall with us, now we have to spend hours on a plane with them, hearing them talk non-stop,” Makenzie confirmed. “I’m sorry, Makenzie, but they are our friends,” I say supportively. I go to call my other friends, telling them the outstanding news.

not impressed at all. She inscribes, “When the father visits, he climbs up the stairs muttering with

I had always been super shy and quiet as a child, this I believe, is what made it hard for my immediate family to comprehend the idea of sweet little Kimberly Ann being pregnant at the age of 16. It was embarrassing to say the least, having my entire family gawk at me. “What? I didn’t even know you were kissing boys yet!” My tia (aunt) shouted out, as my mother broke the news. I wasn’t a bad kid; furthermore, I received fairly decent grades and never gotten into any trouble—besides the occasional tardy I’d receive from spending too much time in the halls chattering with my best friends by my locker. I was the girl with my hair in a ponytail and a thick warm hoodie on nearly, every day. “It’s cold in there,” I’d tell my mother when she’d complain about the way I always

In the essay, “The Storyteller,” Sandra Cisneros discusses how she didn’t let her family's’ traditions interfere with her passion to become a writer. Despite the fact that her father loathed the idea of her moving out without being married, her desire for independance lead her to leave. She finally got her silent home to “listen to the voices inside herself” while becoming inspired by all of her trinkets. Every decision she makes revolves around her writing; it influences every aspect of her life. Cisneros emphasizes the role that family has on your dreams and her ambition to pursue them no matter what.

But I feel like I have to have an answer to why Mrs. Price was so mean to me, but it’s too late! It’s time to go home, and the buses have arrived. When I was walking toward the bus Mrs. Price looked at me and said, “You look like you’re thinking why I was very mean to you today, especially on your birthday, am I right? ’’ “Yes Mrs. Price I said.” “Well Rachel I was mean and unfair to you today because, I wanted to see if you were mature to be a eleven year old, “said Mrs. Price. “Oh, um, I thought…never mind.” I said. But why would Sylvia Saldivar say the red sweater was mine if Mrs. Price wanted to see if I was mature to be a eleven year old, I thought to myself. Right now you probably might be thinking why Sylvia Saldivar told me that the sweater was yours, right,” said Mrs. Price. “Yes Mrs. Price,” I replied. “Well, Sylvia wasn’t in this plan at all, I found this red sweater in court room, and I knew it was Phyllis Lopez’s sweater but Phyllis Lopez didn’t even look when I said, “Whose is this” so then, at the same time Sylvia Saldivar said it was yours, so that’s when I started to test you,” said Mrs. Price. “Wow,” I said to myself. I started tearing up, like when mama cuts the onion, I didn’t ever think Mrs. Price would test me!

Every morning she wakes up wishing she didn't , she forces herself up and out of bed. She walks to her closet and gets dressed, She puts on her dark clothes and her boots. . She curls her hair. Then she puts dark shades of makeup on her pale skin. She stares at the girl in the mirror, her reflection