A Hallmark topic sentence from an English 12 Provincial original composition: In going forward, there are always certain risks.
hehehe i found it so much easier to write a lie! god i hate marshmallows! even though it goes against the number 1 rule in writing general compositions. here r the rules btw
:: write from what u know
:: write honestly... yeah i ditched the first 2 rules
:: write with descriptive and specific language
:: dont use generalizations, no cliches
:: dont write predictable plots (didnt get 6 on last one cuz of this)
:: never repeat topic at the end
:: never use contractions unless its part of ur style
:: no slang unless part of ur style
heres my answer to the prompt
With every step down the street, I can potentially get hit by a car, get bitten by my neighbour's smelly dog, or even get hit by gross bird poop. I wonder if my destination, the corner store, is really worth it. What if I get lost in the mesh of busy people, all of whom are too tall to take notice of me? What if I get trampled, or worse, sat on, by people whose legs are as long as my entire tiny self? What if the shiny automatic doors to the corner store won't open for me because I am simply too small for it to detect my presence?
I look at the shiny dollar, my reward for washing last night's dishes, in my tiny hot sweaty palm and thick of all the possible combinations of treats I can get. I can get four sour keys, or two lollipops, or maybe ten whole marshmallows. I can almost feel the burning on my tongue, and the relief the sugar gives to my senses as the sour coating melts away, the smooth strawberry spheres that fit perfectly within my mouth cavity, and the warm, foamy stickiness oozing and filling every niche my mouth as to offer. I reluctantly stand on my tiptoes to reach for the doorknob. The door opens. First my right leg, heel, toe, then my left leg, heel, then toe. I hesitantly take my steps forward to the beckoning corner store.
I did not get run over by a car, nor get bitten by my neighbour's dog. The streets were empty, but I remained cautious. I made my way down the sidewalk, careful not to step on any cracks, and to my delight and relief, a man was entering the corner store just as I arrived. I quickly ran in while the glass doors opened for him; they might change their mind and close any minuite. Ah, the sweet aroma of cinnamon and passion fruit and the exploding colours of the rainbow!
I quickly made my purchase -- five pink marshmallows and two sour keys -- so I could catch my ticket out of the store. I popped a spongy marshmallow in my mouth as I again followed the man past the doors. As I took a step forward outside, I heard a gentle plop and instantly I felt something sticky seeping through my hair to my scalp. But I didn't care; my senses were all too focused on the melting delight in my mouth.
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Yet another hallmark topic sentence: All we need is love.
here is my lie, though it does contain some of my annoyance at my mom.. the quotes r pretty much wut she said but translated into english and then stretched very very far. ^_^
I do not need more of my mother's love, nor do I want it. Her love does not make me feel warm and fuzzy inside, but hot with anger and frenzy. Her love does nto encourage and sooth me at hard times, but rather, is a contributing factor to why I perform poorly in school. Her over abundance of love kills me inside and suffocates me when all I want to do is breathe. I do not want her love. I want to be free, to be able to do anything I want without the constraints of her motherly concerns.
Unlike other people, I suffer from too much love. I am not blessed with a caring mother, but cursed with one who cares too much. When exam time arrives at school, I am showered with "Oh honey, you'll do fine," or the overkill, "I believe in you," sayings that only put more pressure on me. How do I write exams without worrying about letting her down, or betraying her confidence in me? I once did fail an exam, but I did not get anger or disappointment. I got hugs and kisses and "It's alright, you'll do better next time." For once I want to receive some anger and siappointment, none of the sing-song sugar coated blessings.
My mother's love not only annoys me at such times, it also enrages me. Her love constantly prevents me from doing what I want to do. I cannot stay up late because I "might die from fatigue." I cannot ride a bus by myself to go where I want to go, away from my mother, because I will "undoubtly get lost." I cannot go for a walk alone to escape home sweet home because "there are rapists everywhere who strike young girls."
I love my mother and she loves me. But her love sickens me.
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And finally: It is hard to be unique in today's world.
oh god... this one i didnt get a 6, but here it is anywayz. i wonder who it was that said television ruins imagination.... this essay has traces of my family history.. GIANT fibs, and some traces from malcom in the middle LOL
When I was little, I lived on a university campus with my parents for my father was doing his masters degree in Chemistry. I was surrounded by top notch researchers, doctors and the like, and their children, whom were all intelligent beyond their age. I saw little boys playing with junior chemistry sets, mixing clear liquids in glass bottles and forming colourful products. I saw little girls with calculators in hand, doing mathematics in their pink Cinderella notebooks. Where was the care-free play, the laughter and screams of excitement of childhood? Where had it gone? I pondered these thoughts as I doodled miniature stick figures in my little pink Winnie the Pooh drawing book. I felt as if I am the only normal child in the entire campus who did justice with her pink notebook.
As I grew older, this strange phenomenon followed me. As I started elementary school, in the same district, the children did not play hide and seek, but rather, who can count the most in prime numbers, who can work with large numbers in their head the fastest, and who can do long division in the least amount of steps. I hated the parents who sucked the life out of their children. I sat by myself painting with watercolours and played by myself during recess.
This strange monotone, lifeless campus stuck with me. No matter how much I tried to push the other children to play tag, they would focus in on their homework. I started to see that it was not the way I thought it was. These children sometimes did not enjoy their "play" but locked longingly at my crayons. They were children afterall, just children who had been forced to lead a life like their parents. These horrible parents who bragged about their children's exam scores, how could they?
As I grew even older, my own intellectually driven parents started their project on me. All of a sudden, my courses consisted of sciences and math, which left no room for art or music. My sketch book was left on my shelf to collect dust and my desk was loaded with introduction to chemistry textbooks. No longer were my books illustrated with colourful pictures, but replaced with complicated diagrams on the organic molecule. No longer did I have a drawer full of rich pastels and charcoal, but replaced with compasses and graphing calculators.
Next week I will be heading back to the University of Waterloo to start my education and training in optometry. I wonder what good fuctional eyes will do when my world has nothing beautiful to look at. I throw my paints and soft brushes away, my creativity away, myself away, and follow my peers in my father's footsteps.
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