you just focus?”. The thousand-eyed monster shifts and shows it’s eyes white‚ restless‚ ready to strike with the laughter of 25 tiny voices. I fight alone through switching numbers as 21’s turn to 12’s. I fight alone‚ slogging through the muck of short passages‚ while others soar above on Nimbus 2000 broom sticks with Harry. I fight alone until I meet a little mouse named Despereaux.
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homeless comes with such a bad attachment‚ so for a long time I never spoke about it to anyone. But‚ I think it’s important to share your personal story‚ in hopes that another can relate. About three years of my life were spent either in a car or a shelter or once in a while at a family/friends home. Given that‚ I think it would be best to speak only about the first year. Granted that it was the most challenging of the whole.
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As I was watching the news this weekend‚ I was also thinking of the short story I had to write using one of my vocabulary lists. I kept thinking of my words and watching the news and all I could think about was how all of the stories seemed to be spurious. It also appeared certain stations were in collusion in order to belie the truth. Probity is something that was taught in our home. I was raised to believe police officers were scrupulous in their actions. I was taught and believe police officers
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hort story Best Short Story for May/June 2010 English A Exam Written by: Zoie Hamilton of Washington Archilbald High School‚ St. Kitts and Nevis By Curtis Johnson in Form 4/5 Business 1 (Files) · Edit Doc Caribbean Secondary Education Certificate® May/June 2010 English A Examination Quesion5: It was the middle of the mathematics class. Mrs Taylor our teacher suddenly collapsed and sprawled unconscious on the floor. It was terrifying. Write a story which includes these words. She
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BELONGING STORY(2) Coughing violently‚ I passed the glass pipe along to the young man beside me‚ who took a long drag before handing it on the next in the circle. I could feel the foul-tasting smoke tear down my throat and withstood the urge to vomit. The entire room was overflowing with a fetid haze; it grated against the back of my throat as though it were sandpaper. I fought to maintain my composure and appearance of serenity‚ but if anyone looked close enough they would easily be able to distinguish
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It was another day in the city I love. Baltimore. Like any other resplendent city in all of the states. Baltimore has been my only home for years. However‚ today in Baltimore something felt different. “Ahhh…‚” I yawned and moaned as I tried to free myself from my bed sheets. I opened the shutters of the windows to look outside the early sunlight began to creep out as all livelihood of the distant inner city began to awake. “Will‚ it is time to wake up‚” shouted Will’s mother above the staircases
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Short Story Scrutiny. Scepticism. Shock. It was all too familiar‚ the look on the faces in the room. An aboriginal female in a doctor’s coat. She glanced around the room as she sat down. The dullness of the grey walls seemed to absorb the lost hopes and dreams of the young men around her. The stale oxygen that lingered in the small room was slowly suffocating under the sterile smell of disinfectant. The only glimmer of light was a small corner of a window where the morning sun shimmered through
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In Control In my sophomore year of high school‚ I remember a particular speech I had to deliver in my English class. It was just like any other‚ honestly. But this one‚ this specific one‚ gave me the greatest trouble. My irrational fear of public speaking consumed me and turned me against myself. I remember the mindset that I had for most of my sophomore year: me vs. them. That was how high school was. It was every man for himself. But never would I have ever thought that I was my own biggest obstacle
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The Nice People‚ by Henry Cuyler Bunner‚ is republished from his volume‚ Short Sixes‚ by permission of its publishers‚ Charles Scribner’s Sons. The Buller-Podington Compact‚ by Frank Richard Stockton‚ is from his volume‚ Afield and Afloat‚ and is republished by permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons. _Colonel Starbottle for the Plaintiff_‚ by Bret Harte‚ is from the collection of his stories entitled Openings in the Old Trail‚ and is republished by permission of the Houghton Mifflin
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into his palms and sighed. He was sprawled out on the cool grass. He patted his dog beside him. It would soon be time for dinner and he must go in and help his grandmother prepare the family meal. These were good times for Jorge. He had just turned ten that May and he felt like a big man. He was a proud child‚ small for his age with coarse thick bushy hair. He had a beautiful bronze complexion that his grandmother was adamant about keeping
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