Black Thursday
The Story of Her Life
My head was spinning madly at the immense task ahead of me. I had to write a full ten page essay about my life in order to be accepted at Columbia University, one of the top colleges in New York City, and the college that I had been setting my eyes on since I began high school.
I sighed as I stared at my typewriter in front of me, the paper remaining blank besides my name, Carolyn Estelle Pritchard, on the right edge of the paper. The letters of my name looked so lonely up there without any other words surrounding it. It almost begged me to type up new friends for them.
I tapped my fingers against my desk absentmindedly as I turned to my clock, which lived on my wall right next to my small oval-shaped window. It was only eleven o' clock in the morning and my mouth turned into a sideways frown. I began to wish that God would make the time fly faster. Why does there have to be twenty-four hours in a day?
I looked out my window at the city below and watched all of the hustle and bustle that seemed to take place all day and night in the city that never sleeps. An old and petite woman stood behind a huge table filled with colorful fruits and vegetables; a sign hung over the table that said, "All fruits and vegetables: only twenty cents per pound!” As I watched the old lady I began to wonder what her life story was. If she had to write an autobiography about herself, what would it contain? How many siblings did she have? How many children? What did she want to be when she grew up? What is her name? When was she born?
This woman gave me the inspiration to write about my own life story from the time that I was born, up to my eighteen-year-old self. All of the struggles that I have faced, all the good and the bad, and let me tell you, my life so far has been filled with many roller coasters, but what I have learned in my eighteen years of existence is that what comes down, always tends to find it's way back up.
I turned back to my typewriter with a new sense of ambition and placed my fingers gently on the keys. I slowly inhaled and exhaled to get myself to relax. The clock on my wall continued to tick as if it purposely wanted to distract me from my work.
“Shush!” I commanded sternly. But it made no effort to pipe down and it continued to laugh at me. I gave it an evil glare and swung myself back into place. I let out another long sigh and placed my fingers back on the keys of the typewriter. This is where my story begins…
I sighed as I stared at my typewriter in front of me, the paper remaining blank besides my name, Carolyn Estelle Pritchard, on the right edge of the paper. The letters of my name looked so lonely up there without any other words surrounding it. It almost begged me to type up new friends for them.
I tapped my fingers against my desk absentmindedly as I turned to my clock, which lived on my wall right next to my small oval-shaped window. It was only eleven o' clock in the morning and my mouth turned into a sideways frown. I began to wish that God would make the time fly faster. Why does there have to be twenty-four hours in a day?
I looked out my window at the city below and watched all of the hustle and bustle that seemed to take place all day and night in the city that never sleeps. An old and petite woman stood behind a huge table filled with colorful fruits and vegetables; a sign hung over the table that said, "All fruits and vegetables: only twenty cents per pound!” As I watched the old lady I began to wonder what her life story was. If she had to write an autobiography about herself, what would it contain? How many siblings did she have? How many children? What did she want to be when she grew up? What is her name? When was she born?
This woman gave me the inspiration to write about my own life story from the time that I was born, up to my eighteen-year-old self. All of the struggles that I have faced, all the good and the bad, and let me tell you, my life so far has been filled with many roller coasters, but what I have learned in my eighteen years of existence is that what comes down, always tends to find it's way back up.
I turned back to my typewriter with a new sense of ambition and placed my fingers gently on the keys. I slowly inhaled and exhaled to get myself to relax. The clock on my wall continued to tick as if it purposely wanted to distract me from my work.
“Shush!” I commanded sternly. But it made no effort to pipe down and it continued to laugh at me. I gave it an evil glare and swung myself back into place. I let out another long sigh and placed my fingers back on the keys of the typewriter. This is where my story begins…