Assignment: Using the present tense, write a piece that takes the reader into a specific memory or moment(s) of time, with you. Choose an experience that has left an imprint on you in some way.
In the Moment
By Mykhala Prosser, Writing 12
My stomach lurches with nerves as I wait in the designated waiting area with the other dancers. I jump lightly, up and down on the balls of my feet as the pleats on my kilt sway heavily from side to side behind me. The final concluding beats of the previous dance alert me to line up and prepare myself for my turn in front of the judge. I take each step cautiously; I'd much prefer walking calmly to my spot than falling up the steps. I situate myself to the far left of the stage, two dancers following after me. We stand collectively, heels together, arms decorated by my sides in first position. The low drone of the bagpipes start to drag, followed by the first counts of the Seann Triubhas. I bring my fists up to my hips, elbows pointing out to the sides like arrow heads. My bow complete, I swiftly bring my right leg behind me, pointing my left foot in front of me to fourth, while swinging my arms up to fifth, then through to third position. Having successfully accomplished my intro, I begin to dance; I begin to prove that my hard work is paying off.
Just Enough
Room to Breathe
By Anonymous
I am lying in bed. I have just been awoken by the yelling. I can feel my legs start to tremble.
"Not again; not tonight," I think to myself. I pull the blankets higher, higher, almost over my head, but not quite.
A door slams. My dad's voice is alone now.
I can feel his anger seeping through the crack under my door. I cannot hear my mother crying but I know she is, locked in the bathroom, probably sitting on the toilet wiping away her tears. My legs begin to shake, harder, faster. It is uncontrollable now, this response of my body.
It wants me to yank back the blankets, open the door that separates me from the war that is them, and stop the fighting.
Yet I am frozen. I pull the blankets tighter, higher. I leave just enough room to breathe.
"It will stop," I whisper to myself.
