On a cold fall day in November 2015, Quintin Hartig, Kaleb Dayhuff, and I had planned on staying the night at Quintin’s house to go to a Chiefs’ game in Kansas City the next day. What we didn’t plan on though, was the events that ended up changing our lives. A huge ice storm had swept through the midwest, and we were on the fence about going to Kansas City because the interstate would be quite slick in places. Nonetheless, we decided to spend the night at his house anyway and find out in the morning. After we arrived at his house, we hung out in the basement for awhile playing videogames, something we did often when spending the night at each others’ houses. After getting bored playing games, it was about 1:00 AM, but none of us were tired. …show more content…
After getting quite the kick out of that, we finally received our food. After pulling out of McDonald’s, we decided to drive around town for a bit. We were cruising around and listening to some jams, when we decided it was about time to head home. Being the wise one of the group, for some reason, I decided that since we were right on the edge of town we could take “Runza Road,” and check out the newly paved Hoag blacktop before heading back toward Belvedere. Still cruising along and enjoying our food, the road looked just fine and not icy at all, or so we thought. As we were approaching the curve just to the East of the Beatrice Biodiesel plant, it began to look somewhat slick, but I was still not worried as we were going quite slow and I was being cautious. Just as we reached the turn, I began to turn the wheel to the right, when things began to spiral out of control. All of a sudden, the back of the truck began to slide out toward my side of the truck. It pulled us up the turn, but oh no, it didn’t stop there. As we were still sliding up the turn, I thought we would go into the ditch and stop, but once we spun a …show more content…
Once they saw the truck on its side, they shifted from being angry to glad that we were all okay, and lucky to be alive. When my mom saw my blood soaked shirt, and torn up hands, she broke down and cried. Soon after, Quintin’s mom showed up, also glad to see us okay. We sat in my parent’s truck for about 15 minutes trying to warm ourselves up after freezing out in the cold. Finally, the tow truck showed up, and much to the relief of my parents and I, he was able to flip the truck and roll it up onto the flatbed. Once the tow truck pulled away, Quintin and Kaleb went with Quintin’s mom to wash up and change, and I went home to wash my hands and pick the glass out of my hands and face for about 15 minutes. After I was done washing up, I ended up going back over to Quintin’s house, where Kaleb joined soon after. After such an eventful night, we decided to finally get some well earned and much needed
From a young age, Tommy Gordon was different than the other boys his age. In a way that set him apart from the others, even those 5 years older than him. When Tommy tried various sports, he was far and away the best one than the others. That fact was proven to be very true on a bleak winter evening in December. 16 year old Tommy laced up his hockey skates, and stepped out onto his frozen pond just like many times previously. He grabbed a puck, and *thwacked* it into the net. Well, let’s just say “into” is an understatement, because the puck went through the net, and kept on going. The puck traveled through his neighbor’s window, through the walls, and all the way through the city of Thunder Bay, Ontario. The puck finally rolled to a stop at
The novel “Fight Club” written by Chuck Palahniuk is a story about how the narrator’s discontent throughout his life contributes to his developing mental illness. The narrator is unsatisfied with his daily life from contributing factors such as his loneliness, consumerism within modern society, and achievable masculine goals. His job deals primarily with death and apathy in society, although it never occurs to the narrator that it may be the root of his problem. His issues with society and struggle for identity lead him to become depressed; as a symptom of depression the narrator develops insomnia, “Everything is so far away, a copy of a copy of a copy.”(21) The narrator sees a doctor for his insomnia and asks for medication however, the doctor dismisses him and tells him to witness people with real problems in the support groups. The narrator goes to support groups for ailments he does not have to deal with greater problems in his life such as issues in his job, showing emotion, and accepting death. Fight club replaces these experiences by making the narrator feel masculine, part of a bigger group, and it makes him feel alive.
At 80 miles per hour, the 1968 candy apple red Corvette streaked effortlessly through the gentle curves near the edge of Texas hill country. It wasn’t a loud sound. Not loud enough to frighten him, but it was loud enough for him to take notice and fill him with anxiety. He immediately clenched the steering wheel a little harder as a wave of near panic shot up his spine. Then, just as quickly as it surfaced, it subsided. A slight, but unusual vibration began to emanate from somewhere within the heart of the car, or so it seemed. He glanced in the rear view mirror, saw there were no vehicles for as far as he could see, and decided that he would pull the car over to the shoulder. At that precise moment, the concrete ribbon twisted sharply to the right in a nasty hairpin curve. It snaked around in a desperate curl that’s caught him by complete surprise, and he stupidly mashed the brake pedal much too hard. The tires screamed noisily as they painted heavy streaks of hot black rubber on the narrow concrete roadway. The tail end of the car began to swing around, and instinctively he twisted the wheel to the left to steer into the skid. This action was now bringing him too close to the left-hand shoulder where large, protruding boulders threatened destruction to his car. Just a few feet beyond the rocks, the road dropped off into a deep; seemingly bottomless chasm. He cursed aloud for allowing the turn to surprise him. Then just before the unavoidable crash into the rocky shoulder, he took his foot off the brake, turned hard to the right and with earnest passion, stomped hard on the gas pedal.
... with your boyfriend in a pick-up truck driving across the country could be a bit overwhelming. This trip solidified Jackie and Devon’s relationship. It gave them the sense, and knowledge that they could get through a lot of problems and be okay with it. Even though they would argue and disagree while on this trip, they got through it together. “It was like trial by fire. We could’ve had a huge argument on that trip. But what could we have done about it at that point? We were stuck in this car for 5 days,” she said as she laughed about it. Looking back at the trip, the only thing that Jackie would do differently is leaving earlier so they would have enough time to go sightseeing, and take a couple detours. After they had lived in British Columbia for a couple months, they decided to come back to the East Coast. “We loved British Columbia, but home was calling us.”
Then the accident happened and my perspective changed. I heard a scream. My sister yelled “HELP!!” I watched as what was happening was moving by me speedily, not waiting for me to catch up. It all happened in a blur as I ran out to see what happened. My brother had jumped out in front of the skid steer while it was rolling down the hill. His leg had become wedged between the van at the bottom of the hill and the skid steer fork. There was blood everywhere. My dad was not home. He was at work so he could not come right away. My mom had to move the big van
The Hero’s Journey is a basic template utilized by writers everywhere. Joseph Campbell, an American scholar, analyzed an abundance of myths and literature and decided that almost all of them followed a template that has around twelve steps. He would call these steps the Hero’s Journey. The steps to the Hero’s Journey are a hero is born into ordinary circumstances, call to adventure/action, refusal of call, a push to go on the journey, aid by mentor, a crossing of the threshold, the hero is tested, defeat of a villain, possible prize, hero goes home. The Hero’s Journey is more or less the same journey every time. It is a circular pattern used in stories or myths.
It was a cold October afternoon in 1996, and I raced down the stairs and out the front door, in an attempt to avoid my mother's questions of where I was going, with whom, and when I'd be back. I saw my friend Kolin pull up in his rusted, broken-down gray van, and the side door opened as Mark jumped out and motioned for me to come. I was just about to get in when my mother called from the front doorway. She wanted to talk to me, but I didn't want to talk to her, so I hopped in pretending I hadn't heard her and told Kolin to drive off.
Disappointment, disbelief and fear filled my mind as I lye on my side, sandwiched between the cold, soft dirt and the hot, slick metal of the car. The weight of the car pressed down on the lower half of my body with monster force. It did not hurt, my body was numb. All I could feel was the car hood's mass stamping my body father and farther into the ground. My lungs felt pinched shut and air would neither enter nor escape them. My mind was buzzing. What had just happened? In the distance, on that cursed road, I saw cars driving by completely unaware of what happened, how I felt. I tried to yell but my voice was unheard. All I could do was wait. Wait for someone to help me or wait to die.
Logan was on his way home from an evening at the local bar. He and some friends had gone out to have a couple beers. As he sped down the road, he blinked vigorously to try to clear his vision. Although it was a perfectly clear summer night, Logan’s vision was blurred from the alcohol. “As long as I keep this car on my side of the road, I’ll be fine,” he thought to himself. He was doing a decent job of obtaining control over the vehicle, or so he thought. Only three miles from his country home, he became unaware of his position on the road as it began to curve. As he continued around the familiar curve in the road, a truck came out of nowhere at hit Logan’s small Toyota Camry head on. The big F-350 pickup truck was no comparison to the little
I had driven home this way a thousand times before, but today would be different. The misty rain made the road slick as I steered the car through the slow, wide curve. It may have been the setting sun in my eyes, but it was probably a combination of the loud song on the radio and the slight yawn that escaped from my mouth. Regardless, a momentary distraction was all it took as the tires hit the damp gravel. The wet rubber and slick stones triggered the car to slide off the road to the right. In a panic, I jerked the wheel to the left, over-correcting the slide. Swerving across oncoming traffic, my car jumped over the drainage ditch and smashed down into a neighbor’s front yard. Continuing its dangerous journey, the car destroyed a lamp
The ruckus from the bottom of the truck is unbearable, because of the noise and excessive shaking. As we slowly climbed the mountain road to reach our lovely cabin, it seemed almost impossible to reach the top, but every time we reached it safely. The rocks and deep potholes shook the truck and the people in it, like a paint mixer. Every window in the truck was rolled down so we could have some leverage to hold on and not loose our grip we needed so greatly. The fresh clean mountain air entered the truck; it smelt as if we were lost: nowhere close to home. It was a feeling of relief to get away from all the problems at home. The road was deeply covered with huge pines and baby aspen trees. Closely examining the surrounding, it looks as if it did the last time we were up here.
I awoke to the sun piercing through the screen of my tent while stretching my arms out wide to nudge my friend Alicia to wake up. “Finally!” I said to Alicia, the countdown is over. As I unzip the screen door and we climb out of our tent, I’m embraced with the aroma of campfire burritos that Alicia’s mom Nancy was preparing for us on her humungous skillet. While we wait for our breakfast to be finished, me and Alicia, as we do every morning, head to the front convenient store for our morning french vanilla cappuccino. On our walk back to the campsite we always take a short stroll along the lake shore to admire the incandescent sun as it shines over the gleaming dark blue water. This has become a tradition that we do every
I awoke to the sun piercing through the screen of my tent while stretching my arms out wide to nudge my friend Alicia to wake up. “Finally!” I said to Alicia, the countdown is over. As I unzip the screen door and we climb out of our tent, I’m embraced with the aroma of campfire burritos that Alicia’s mom Nancy was preparing for us on her gargantuan skillet. While we wait for our breakfast to be finished, me and Alicia, as we do every morning, head to the front convenient store for our morning french vanilla cappuccino. On our walk back to the campsite we always take a short stroll along the lake shore to admire the incandescent sun as it shines over the gleaming dark blue water. This has become a tradition that we do every morning together
In the haze of the morning I remember reflecting on the adventure-filled summer I had experienced: I traveled to the Upper Peninsula to hike Pictured Rocks, tubed down the Rifle River, spent weekends in Caseville at my grandparents, and hunted boar in Tennessee. There was so much more I had done so it was challenging to remember, plus every weekend I found myself going out to embark on new adventures. Being sober for three years, every year kept on getting better and every year seemed to fill up with more positive activities. I was already planning to attend my first Red Wings game with my brother; we decided to see the opening game against the Sharks. The next thing I prepared to cross off of my bucket list was snowboarding as it had been my dream since I was a kid. My mind trotted further into the past when I used drugs and I missed those times because I did not have a care in the world. The thoughts of all of the responsibilities I held upon my shoulders lead me to be tempted to go back to how my life used to be years ago. I shook my head and reminded myself that my past life was more depressing than it had been fun and this was the time to continue to tackle my
Returning to the present, I turned back towards the room and walked to the table, pinning on my Santa Hat name tag as I went. Milling around me was a throng of adults, buddies and students. I meandered to the air-hockey table and saw an unaccompanied buddy. Hitting the puck to him, he casually returned the stroke and a conversation ensued that ranged from his prowess as a bowler, to difficulties with his dad, to the small escapades at his work, a local Sheetz. Talking in often excited tones, the intensity of the air...