Steps to Writing a Memorable Event Essay X Elliot Quimby Elliot Quimby has been a freelance writer‚ editor and proofreader since 2008. Quimby has written‚ edited and proofread grant proposals‚ press releases‚ cover letters‚ resumes and website content. Quimby earned a Bachelor of Arts in creative writing and literature as well as linguistics at the University of Michigan. Quimby has contributed to a blog on Urbanministry.org. By Elliot Quimby‚ eHow Contributor The memorable event essay is a
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Zichao Huang Mr. Lambert English028 March 17‚ 2015 The Story of an Hour “The Story of an Hour” is about a woman named Mrs. Mallard who is married to a man named Mr. Mallard. Mrs. Mallard does not have a very good heart‚ and she is sick. Something bad has happened‚ and people do not know how to tell her about it. Josephine is her sister‚ and she tells Mrs. Mallard that Mr. Mallard died in a train accident. Richards is Mr. Mallard’s friend‚ and he is there because he knew about the accident. Richards
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of the cardboard box my other hand reached for my tattered old teddy‚ I’d had him ever since I can remember – he was a gift from my aunt Elizabeth. While my hands were holding the bear a tidal wave of memories came rushing back into my mind of the moments that him and I shared‚ alas they are now just memories. I don’t recall why but ive always known my tattered teddy as peter‚ I guess I just thought he looked like a peter. His fur used to be a smooth caramel brown from what I can remember‚ although
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figured since I was stronger than all the girls maybe I could work out with the boys. We started to squat jump on an elevated platform. “Add another one‚ add another one” they said. Trying to keep up with them I started to add more. Until the one fatal moment when I jumped up and fell right on my butt. I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry but that would have just made me look soft. I mean the boys already looked at me like I was soft because I was a girl. I wanted to prove them wrong but for someone on
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insignificant‚ but it CAN make a difference. The people I help will cherish that moment and appreciate the act. To this day‚ I still do not know that woman’s name. Maybe if I did it would take the whole mystery out of the occasion and not have deeply impacted me as it still does now. Maybe I would have forgotten this whole ordeal and lived my life in ignorance. But the truth is‚ I cannot forget that moment in my life. That moment in life where I was enormously affected by those wise words of a woman who
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dark skinned male‚ 5’9 with a spiked crew cut with crimson colored eyes. He was being accompanied by his friends Tocino and Epsilon who were planning to steal some food from a local food joint. Tocino was a short werepig standing around 3’11‚ bubblegum pink skin‚ small tusks and wore black shorts with grass stains and a black headband. Epsilon was a slightly tan male standing at 5’8 with brown dreads and green eyes. He wore a shamrock green
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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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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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In the moonlight‚ opposite me‚ I saw a ghostly figure whistling mournfully‚ approaching‚ approaching and it stretched its arm towards me. The ghost was pale‚ transparent; colored a white so pure and unblemished that it was utterly see-through. In a moment‚ a ghost’s ice-cold hand touched my skin‚ the intense horror of came over me. I tried to draw back my arm‚ but the hand clung to it‚ and most melancholy voice sobbed‚ “Help me‚ help
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Clang! A mountain of falling goblets and dirty silver platters pierces my ear drums and I instantly wake. As the pungent odor of boar wafts through the air and my eye catches a beam of the mid-morning sun‚ I realize that I failed to return from the mead hall. That could prove to be a costly mistake. “This isn’t an inn‚ Cathasach‚” said Judoc‚ my friend‚ the hall’s keeper and‚ fortunately‚ Amoorhi’s finest chef. “Have clemency‚ brother! I am still weary from last evening’s battle against the
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