Personal Narrative: My Hero's Journey

It is a beautiful sunny day in Universal Studios, Florida, even though it’s the middle of December. I sit on a bench in the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, enjoying the sunshine and the fact that I am having a great time in Florida instead of freezing amidst one of the cold New England winters. In front of me many other vacationers wander through the streets of a real-life Hogsmeade, laughing and talking.
“Come on, Michelle,” my brother David nags annoyingly, ruining the moment. “You’re such a slow eater. I know you’re stalling. Don’t be a scaredy cat and go on the ride!” He looks like he’s itching to go on another roller coaster, fiddling impatiently with the sleeve of his jacket. I do not at all hurry to finish up my sandwich and cup of

It’s relatively small and probably only lasts for a minute or two, but it still really freaks me out. I look at the other roller coaster nearby, the Dragon Challenge. It’s much taller and loopier than this roller coaster. I hope I never have to go on that ride. I had heard those news reports talking about freak accidents on roller coasters where people had lost important items, body parts, and even their lives. In fact, I’d read an article saying that someone had lost an eye on the Dragon Challenge. What could happen to you? I ask in my mind, looking at the people screaming on the ride. Whether they are screaming from excitement or fear, I don’t know. Relax. I assure myself. There’s like a one in one thousand chance that something bad will happen while you’re on the roller

We pass through an archway with the name of the ride, The Flight of the Hippogriff, written across it. I want to run back to the bench where my mom and grandma are waiting, and I slowly shuffle my feet. You can’t turn back now, I think. The sounds of screams and laughter echo from above us. I look up to see part of the roller coaster arching above our heads. I will probably be up there in a few minutes, but thinking about it makes me want to hide. As we inch towards the front, the sweet, lingering taste of butterbeer in my mouth turns sour. It feels like my stomach is a washing machine that has been overloaded with clothes, spinning around and around. After a few minutes we get to the front of the of the