Writing Feedback / Running away - essay writing [2]

Hi, can you help me look through this piece? Thanks so much!

Running away

David was fed up. The last bit of injustice was just too much for anyone to take.
How could his mother let his sister leave her room messy and yet shout at him for not putting away his toys?
After circling around his room for the third time, David made up his mind. He had to run away. Only then could his mother realise how mean she was to him. Carefully so as not to upset his toys, he grabbed the handkerchief that his grandmother gave him long ago and tied it around his head. Then, quickly he fashioned a small backpack and put his favourite Baby Blue book in together with his stuffed bear. Threw on his jacket, quietly, he slipped out of his room and tiptoed into the kitchen.

In the kitchen, agilely David climbed up onto the counter and opened the cupboards, looking for something he could take away. Once he found his favourite peanut butter crackers, he got down and found his way to the refrigerator, where he fished for a few apples. Feeling prepared, he picked up his backpack and gingerly walked towards the front door. A whole new world opened up in front of him as the door opened.

David turned back on the sidewalk and proudly walked his steps of freedom. Every now and then, he would turn back to see if Claudia was following him, and his heart would leap with joy to see that behind him were all strangers. He walked for a few minutes, and realised that his stomach was growling, so carefully he sat down on a plight of stairs and got an apple. Crunching the apple, David sat back to enjoy the jovial world around him. A wand of sunlight gently fell across his face, warming him. The adults on the streets were scurrying past him. A sense of satisfaction ran through David's mind; he smiled as he knew that he had made the right choice. This was peace. This was freedom.

David came back to his senses when he realised he had eaten the entire apple. Sighing slightly, David packed his belongings and continued his journey, turning left again.

This continued for a couple of hours, until the sun turned a dull glow in the overcast sky. Finally David managed to find a cosy place to camp for the night. He sat down on the soft grass under a big tree. This place reminded David a lot of his old house, where he would go out and play football with Claudia every afternoon. Heaving a sigh, David pulled out his peanut butter crackers and read his Baby Blue for a while.

Suddenly, a knock on a door nearby startled David awake. His Baby Blue had slipped off his hands onto his lap. It took him a while to get his bearings. The tree was dancing their awkward waltz, blowing heavy wind, making David quiver. It was getting really dark, and he had no idea where he was. His heart was pounding wildly. What if the owner of the house was going to drive him away? What if the house's owner had called the police to arrest him? David dared not speak. He closed his eyes and curled his legs into a ball, trying to be invisible.

A second later, the door creaked open.
A second later, he heard footsteps.
A second later, his eyes were blinded by the torchlight. Blood beat within his temples. Fear gripped him entirely.

A familiar, reassuring voice echoed in his ear, "Son, are you ready to go home?"
David turned back. Too afraid to say anything, he nodded his head slightly, his eyes tearing up. David's dad took him into his protective arms, grabbed his things on the ground and handed David his stuffed bear, which he hugged with the fiercely with the intensity of a frightened four-year-old kid.

"Alright kiddo, let's go inside." David's dad whispered into his ears as they crossed their backyard and stepped in their cosy house.

Writing Feedback / "You do not understand me at all!"; Trapped Essay [4]

Trapped!

"You do not understand me at all!"
I screamed at my father, ran upstairs, finding a peaceful haven in my own room and slammed the door.
My father, as usual, was speechless.

It was typical of me to make a dramatic exit after any argument with my father. Usually, he would stand still for a moment, then get up to my room and apologise. Anything I wanted; be it pocket money, new shoes or anything in the world, would be given to me. Mission accomplished.

But magic did not occur this time.
As I eavesdropped through the thick layer of the wall, my father was dragging his feet to the front gate. The gate cracked open. The car engine roared. And he drove away.

"Why was he so annoying?" I wondered as I reached out for the door lock. All I wanted was a new dress for my junior prom.

Gripping the handle, I jerked it down, and pulled.
But the stupid door refused to open.
I pulled it again, using all the energy I had, and yet the door stubbornly stayed still.
With an immense effort of will, I tried one more time. I kicked it. I banged at it. I jerked it, but in vain. All my effort trying to free myself proved futile.

Great. I was trapped!

Trapping myself just because I had a habit of slamming it sounded like the most ridiculous thing in the world. There, I found myself sitting on the floor panting for breath, my hands red after banging at the door. Anger simmered within me. It was my father's entire fault. He should have fixed the door ages ago after realising how hard it was to open it. With mom away, he was supposed to take care of me; he was supposed to understand my feelings and cater to my needs. Sadly, he could not, after all.

I stood up, my feet finding their way to my wardrobe. Ever since I moved to this new school I had felt intimidated by my schoolmates, who looked totally like those Runway models with trendy clothes and cool accessories. I could just close my eyes and the prospect of me looking like a fool in front of them in the prom would come and haunt me. How could my father now understand such a simple thing like that?

I felt so desperate.
The only acceptable outfit I had was a knee-length black-and-white dress with fanciful butterflies and laces at the end of it. When I first saw it in stores last year, immediately I fell in love with it, and had my father buy it at once, without even looking at the price tag. It was beautiful.

And the only time I wore it was the final year party.
I tried it on. It still fitted me well. It took me quite a while to dig for a beaded necklace I bought some time ago in my drawer. It might look good with my dress.

Putting the necklace on, I stared at myself in the mirror. My father was right. I might not look like a fool after all.

In my prom dress, I walked around my room, my only haven whenever I disagreed with my father. On the shelves sat some pretty blue-eyed dolls, which I had yet to touch once. Trendy magazines and costly toys were left lying all over the place. I had never thought my haven could seem so cold.

As I circled my room for the hundredth time, the memories in the past started to come back. I missed the time me and my father chatting merrily in the dining room. I missed the time we went into the park together to enjoy the sun instead of trapping ourselves in these lifeless rooms doing our own work. Flabbergasting indeed, to look back at your life one year back, and wondering, what had happened to my life.

I sat down again, exhaustion and despair washed through me like waves. It was such a long tedious moment, with only the clock tickling sound to break through the eerie silence. I rested my head against the wall. For the first time in many months, I did not want to stay in my room.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps walking up the stairs. My father was back.
As fast as I could, I knocked at the door, whispering, "Dad, I am trapped!"
Thankfully he heard me. After telling me to get away from the door, he jerked the door handle strongly and gave it a kick. Somehow, the door opened.

The last thing I remembered was hiding my face in my father's embrace. I had not done it for such a long time.

As I scrolled down my memory lane, I felt so childish at that time. Years passing by, I had grown up in the love of my father, unknowingly and taking it for granted. If I had not been trapped, I might have yet to realise that it was I who always trapped myself in a rigid place of my own, trying to hide and yet longing to be found.

And luckily, the door opened.
I will never be trapped again.

Hi, can you give me some advice on this piece? Thanks so much!

Essays / A silent scream, imaginative emotions - Narrative essay [16]

Hi,

I was given this narrative paper called "A silent scream", and it's due in a few days. I'm still pretty clueless about what to write. I was thinking about writing about more about emotions, probably imaginative emotions of some sort of objects or animals to portray the idea of "silent scream", but I don't know how and what to begin... Can you give me some advice?

Book Reports / Different ways of courage - Lit paper: To kill a mockingbird [7]

Hi, I'm currently working on this paper: How are different ways of courage portrayed throughout the novel? Discuss how moral courage is a cure to the "hell" people give others in Maycomb. This is a part of it. Could you please give me some advice? If possible, please point out the vague parts for me, I think most of what I wrote is vague:]. And give me some suggestions on the opening, I know it sounds really awkward, but I don't know what to do:(. Thank you so much!

Throughout the novel, the theme of courage is portrayed in different characters. Step by step, Harper Lee showed us different types of courage, bringing Maycomb life closer to us.

In a society where men are stereotyped to be brave, these men are expected to show physical courage. Mr. Nathan Radley's shooting at 'niggers', Mr. Avery's risking his life to save Miss Maudie's furniture in the fire and Atticus's shooting the mad dog are just a few instances in which the courage that Maycomb thinks highly of. Even a little child like Scout was aware of this preconception. Only until after Atticus's marksmanship was revealed did Scout stop doubting his manliness and ability as he did not "do anything that could possibly arouse the admiration of anyone." In Maycomb, the image of a man with a shot-gun in his hand, ready to fight has been rooted as the ideal symbol of courage for every single man.

While the Southern tradition values physical courage, Harper Lee seems to be suggesting that it is moral courage that deserves to be valued. The relationship of Finch family with Mrs. Dubose is the first instance in the book to show us true meaning of moral courage. Mrs. Dubose was an ill, harsh lady, who annoyed the children by insulting Atticus and his defending a Negro. Scout herself was so scared of Mrs. Dubose that she thought her father was the bravest man in the world as he dared to speak to her. After Jem beheaded Mrs. Dubose's camellia due to an outbreak of anger, he was forced to go and read for her. He and Scout were both scared of her dark creepy house, but both of them went to her house everyday after school to fulfil task. The children were extremely brave, especially little Scout. For Jem, it was a duty, but for Scout, to go to Mrs. Dubose's house was a choice of will, and she decided to accompany Jem anyway. Hence, moral courage is portrayed from the children's responsible act.

Mrs. Dubose herself was a woman of strong will and moral courage. Morphine had been her pain-killer. She could choose to take a less painful death, but she was determined to "leave this world beholden to nothing and nobody". She meant to break her morphine addiction before passing away, and she succeeded over herself. She died beholden to nothing and nobody. Mrs. Dubose showed us what real courage is, not a man with a gun in his hand, but an ill woman overcoming all her weaknesses, she was the bravest person in Atticus's point of view.

Writing Feedback / Feature article, Casino in Singapore - response to a government's decision [5]

Hi, I'm supposed to write a feature article in response to a government's decision, and I have no idea what to do so I just try to write something first :D Can you help me look through? Btw, please tell me if my conclusion is not clear. Thanks in advance!

OPENING A CASINO IN SINGAPORE: beneficial or counter-productive?

Discrepant opinions from the public have raised up many issues regarding our government's announcement to license a casino.

The government has received good responses from many citizens. Mr. Mark Low, a recent retiree said: "I am very happy with the government's decision. A casino in Singapore will be a great entertainment attraction for both tourists and people with lots of free time like us. I believe that it will help Singapore raise its revenue too."

Mr. Eugene Wee (25), an executive with high salary shows approval for the government's decision. "I have always been embarrassed to say no to my foreign clients' request to go to a casino for entertainment. The decision to open a casino in Singapore is wise- foreign businessmen may find Singapore more attractive and thus encouraging the economic growth of our nation."

The Chairman of Singapore Tourism Board, Mr. Vincent Pereira feels that opening a casino in Singapore is the wise move of the government. "Our tourism has been lagging behind other neighbouring countries. As a small country with no spectacular natural scenic views, tourists are attracted to us because of our infrastructure and facility. With the development of the Integrated Resorts and the casino within it, we can attend to different types of tourists, from families in need of a relaxing vacation to high-class businessmen on their way to conventions. Singapore tourism will strive with this decision of the government."

Mr. Pereira reassures us that the government will come up with a counselling plan for Singapore citizens. There will be age restriction and entrance fees of the casino for Singapore citizens only, so that our people will not be deeply addicted to gambling.

However, we have learnt from Melbourne experience in the past that even with the government's counselling programs and TV ads, the number of gambling addicts will not be reduced. After the government's announcement, Miss Siti Abdulla, a social worker with the Singapore Family Centre showed her concern about the negative impacts that the casino may bring to our society. "Hundreds of husbands have taken away the last dime in his family to satisfy their gambling addiction; hundreds of families have been broken apart. With the presence of the casino, the number will be multiplied by thousands."

On the same page with Miss Siti Abdulla, Mrs. Mabel Chia, a housewife with two young children, thinks that opening a casino will create a lot of undesirable consequences for families. "I feel very uneasy with the decision of the government." said Mrs. Chia. "Who knows if my husband may take away our savings for our children's education to gamble? Moreover, I believe that no mother would like her children to grow up thinking that gambling is the ladder to wealth."

Miss Siti Abdulla and Mrs. Mabel Chia are not the only ones opposing the opening of the casino. In fact, many people have been worried for the long-term social development of Singapore. Recently, we saw a tragic story of a gambling addict who drowned himself after killing his family members to take money to go to a casino in Genting (Malaysia). If we have a casino in Singapore, how many stories like that will appear on our newspaper everyday?

Writing Feedback / descriptive writing: creating an exterior scene [3]

The bus rounded the corner and roared to a stop in front of Tang Plaza. The door folded open, and Kristy stepped down on the road. Immediately she was dazzled by the sparkling ornamental lights on the street. It was just two days to Christmas, after all. The pavements were packed with people: men and women, old and young, all sluggishly crawled down Orchard Road with their big boxes of presents. Through the curious eyes of the young girl, this glorious part of the city was no longer a shopping hub; it had become a theatre of lights. Isetan building had changed into a golden outfit, riveting in the starry night. The huge Christmas tree in front of Paragon was decorated with ornamental balls, stars and dolls, all in angelic white, mesmerizing. Camera flashed. People hand in hand walked down the road, sharing joy and laughter. Kristy crawled to a stop, turned back to have a good look at the street, and forced a smile. Probably she was the only one who got swallowed in this crowd, not knowing what she was after. She was the only one here alone.

It's been quite a long time I went on the forum, and gosh it has changed so much! Really missed it! Anyway, this is a small assignment of mine. Can you give me some advice? Thanks a lot!

Writing Feedback / A late arrival leading to serious consequences [7]

Describe a time when you were late for a meeting, leading to serious consequences.

I have waited for my friends for a hangout, waited for my parents to pick me from school, waited for the teachers in our monthly student-teacher talk; I have always been the person to wait. And the truth is, waiting for others to come is a torture for me. But until that fateful day, I had never realised that it is a torture for the late person, too.

Last winter, I and three of my classmates were chosen to represent the school in a Project Work Competition. The competition was vigorous; we had to spend a lot of non-curriculum time on various projects to get in the final, in which we would face our rival, International High. Our school had lost to them twice in the final, so our task became even more challenging. My team had become weary with the school's pride, the teacher's expectation and peer pressure. We must win. Extra practice, research, rehearsals, we did everything we could, so we must win.

We decided to have another meeting the day before the competition to rehearse, so that we would be more confident. Waking up, from my bedroom window, I could see a dazzling white curtain of rain in front of my eyes. Although my experience of waiting told me that heavy rain meant that people would usually be late, I still tried my best to get ready by 7 a.m. . Doing a quick calculation in my head, I knew that thirty minutes would be more than enough for me to ride my bicycle to school. 'I will end up having to wait again', I told myself as I wheeled my bicycle to the street.

I got on my bike and realised that I could pedal very smoothly on the empty street. Consequently, I decided to keep the speed slightly higher than usual, so that I could get to school a bit early to do correct some of the mistakes in our presentation. I reached my hand to feel the backpack, my raincoat flapping in the wind.

As I approached the crossroad, I reached out my left arm and waved in the freezing air, the other hand kept firmly on the brake, preparing to turn left. I pressed the brake lightly, a little harder, and then I had to squeeze my right hand hard, but the bicycle did not seem to slow down. I was terrified.

The next thing I knew was when I found myself in the middle of the street, my hands bruised. I tried to get up on my feet and led the bicycle onto the pavement to examine it. The brake must have been broken, I was so lucky not to break any bones. But how could I go to school without my bike? I looked at the empty street, a rush of despair washed through me like a wave. Looking down at my watch, I only had five minutes to reach my school, ten blocks away from the intersection. No choice left, I had to walk to school with my broken bike, the biting wind howling beside my ears while trees were dancing their awkward waltz. I sighed. For the first time in my life, I would become the person making others wait.

I managed to get to school twenty minutes later, soaked to the skin, my leg about to collapse. Running four levels, I rushed into the Language Room, heat burning my face. I was late. I kept telling myself. I did not know what to do when arriving late, but I knew that I was going to be in grave trouble.

Two of my team mates were slouch in the first row, their head resting on the table, ignoring my arrival. Silence conquered the room.
"Knock knock!" I knocked on the table, using the last bit of energy I could find to sound enthusiastic, but no response.
"Look, guys, I'm sorry for being late." I tried again, desperately, wondering how the late people managed to get through such anger from their friends. "My bike broke down, okay? I really tried my best to get here as fast as I could. So please, can we start now?"

"Start what?" Emily turned to me, her eyebrows knitted with irritation. "Mrs. Lee was gone. Who is going to judge us?"

"Mrs. Lee came so early?" I was really taken aback. Mrs. Lee, our coach had never been punctual for our whole course.
"Oh yes, and Elaine, too." Julie grunted, glaring at me. "They could not wait for our talented team leader, so they left. They were tired of this. And we are, too." Then, she turned back, took her bag and went out of the room with Emily, leaving me alone. I sat down slowly, snagged my teeth on the bottom lip, keeping the sobs from pouring out. My team had fallen apart.

It had been a year since then, but the pain of being defeated three times in a row by our rival still stroke on my life. Every now and then, the sad smile of my coach, the tears of my team mates and the murmurs of my school friends after the competition would flash back in my mind, reminding me of that time, when my late arrival broke the team apart. Many people say that if anybody has to be responsible for our loss, the person would be me, and it really hurts. A late arrival could kill your dream.

Please give me some advice to improve this. Thank you Sarah :)

Writing Feedback / One day you made a bad mistake which upset other people - essay help [3]

One day you made a bad mistake which upset other people. Write about how you tried to put things right.

I never forget that night, when for the first time in my life, I dreaded sleeping in my mother's embrace. No lullaby, no stories, no hugs and kisses. Every now and then, she would draw a long sigh, leaving me wide awake, reflecting upon my blunder.

That evening, as usual, I practised my skipping tricks while my mother went jogging in the park nearby; we went home after one hour enjoying fresh air, chatting merrily all the way. I just did not know that the trouble only began after we reached home.

I felt in my pocket for the keys, but the cool feeling I was expecting did not come at all. The keys must have dropped out of my pocket when I was skipping. A bunch of keys- my house key, my mother's office key, and most importantly her motorbike's key- all were gone.

If only my father had frowned at me, if only my mother had shouted at me! That eerie silence gave cold chills running along my spine. My mother's sigh broke the silence, shadow falling across her face. My father called the locksmith, but the keys would not be ready until the weekend. My mother snagged her teeth on her bottom lip, as if she was trying not to say something out loud, but I could read her mind clearly- she would have to take public transport to work tomorrow onwards early in the morning to reach her workplace on time, and she was more than worried. It would be torturous for anyone with extreme motion sickness like her. She rested her head on her hand, blue veins faintly visible through her pale skin.

That night passed by as my mother tossed about instead of hugging me gently in our warm blanket. Early in the morning, she prepared breakfast for me. Silence still conquered the dining room. She must have really hated me. She left an hour early for work; her heels sank in the mud at the edge of the sidewalk, each step in rhythm with her deep breath, preparing for the ride.

How could she stand more than an hour riding on the bus? The last time she took bus to work she had to take the next day off for she fell sick. It was my entire fault. I should have known that the keys would have fallen out while I was skipping. The inner surge of anger within me was shouting desperately: 'Think of something! Think!', but I was glued to the seat, staring at nowhere. I wanted to do something, and yet my hands were twining into each other, my palm wet.

Bingo! For the first time, I knew what to do.

I ran into the market, stopped at the fruit bar which had just opened, then quickly made my way to the bus stop, hoping that the bus would be late like usual. It started to rain. The rain was blurring my eyeglasses, but the image of my mother was in my mind was clear. I had to get there.

The bus stop was faded behind the curtain of rain. My leg automatically stopped, a rush of despair rolled over me like waves. She left.

I came to sit in the bus stop, waiting for the rain to subdue. Was she coughing on the bus? Could she breathe well, or the smell of the bus was giving her a hard time? If only I had run faster, she might not have to suffer the bus. How stupid I was to lose her keys!

'What are you doing here, Alice? You are supposed to go to school!'
I turned around. That angelic voice was exactly what I was yearning for.
'This is for you', I handed her the bag of oranges, 'during the bus ride.'
She looked at me and a smile crossed her face. She reached out to take the orange bag from me, her hand stroked mine, her eyes were smiling too, loving and tender. In that second, I knew that she was going to be fine. We were going to be fine.

Please please help me read through this stupid essay. It sounds so weird, but I suppose that's the best I could do. It's due tomorrow. Can you give me some suggestions on how to express the story to be more natural? OMG I feel so desperate.

Writing Feedback / Essay on a case of mistaken identity [8]

Title: Write about an occasion when a furious argument took place based on a case of mistaken identity.

The sun was shining brightly on the golden curve of the beach. It was such a beautiful day to stay outdoors. Stretching on the collapsible chair under the cool shade of the parasol, I idled my peaceful time away.

Through the lens of my sunglasses, my brother's blue trunks turned charcoal gray. Eddie was chasing after his ball [1]. He kicked it hard and then ran fast to meet it along its way, using his small foot to stop it and directed it back to the sand castle like a professional soccer player. My father was very proud of him; he said that if Eddie chose to follow a sports career, he would be the first one in the family.

My gaze followed the path of the ball along the beach. This time Eddie could not reach the ball. A boy picked up the ball after it hit his ankle, and started playing with the ball [2]. When my brother came to him, probably to ask for his ball back, the boy stopped playing, kept the ball in one arm protectively, his other arm reached out and gave my brother a thrust. Eddie fell on the sand. Alarmed, I quickly made my way down the beach.

From afar, I could hear them quarrelling. When my brother heard me shout to him, he ran to me, grasped my hand and told me everything, his voice choked with anger. He spoke so fast that his voice faded under the loud cheering on the beach. I could barely hear him clearly, but the story made sense to me- that boy refused to return Eddie's ball.

That boy was probably eight or nine, just a few years older than Eddie. He stared at us as we approached him, hugging the ball protectively.

'The ball is mine', asserted the boy, his face composed.
'Are you sure?' I bent down to talk to him, Eddie by my side, his hand holding mine tightly. 'I bought my brother this ball, and he has been playing with it for the whole morning. Maybe yours is somewhere around, why don't you check again?'

'It is mine.' The boy hissed through his teeth. 'Red and white spider-man ball, it is mine. I was playing with it just now, and suddenly it was nowhere to be found. Maybe your brother...'

'I did not steal it!' Eddie cut in, breathing in short pants, glaring at the boy. I shook his hand and rubbed his back, trying to calm him down.

'Look,' I tried to suppress the inner surge of impatience that was burning me to talk to the boy again, 'Eddie wouldn't steal anything from anyone. There has been some misunderstanding, I believe. Now, why don't you two share the ball first? Meanwhile, I could go around and look for yours? Eddie,' I looked at him, begging 'is it okay for you?' My brother, though reluctantly, nodded, his eyes looking down at the gritty sand.

'Why do I have to share with a blatant liar like your brother? He stole my ball!' His cruel words lingered in the hot, stuffy air. The sun was like a shimmering metal plate against my bare foot. I felt my blood boiling and Eddie's hand trembled in mine.

The boy shouted for his mother, and a woman of substantial build in a skimpy swimming-suit waddled towards us. After she listened to his side of story, I was about to explain everything to her, hoping that she would help make peace between the boys, but when she turned to glare at me, I dare not open my mouth. She planted one arm on her hips firmly and raised her voice.

'Why do you let him lie like that, after he stole my son's ball?'
'I DID NOT steal it. It is mine.' My brother shouted, a vein pulsing in his temples.
'Madam', I pulled myself over and spoke to her with the all the patience I had left, 'my brother said he did not steal the ball, and he did not lie. There must have been misunderstanding...'

'Misunderstanding?', she smirked, 'Oh, maybe your brother did not steal it. He just picked it up and claimed it was his.'
'Madam', my patience was drained, 'my brother did not steal anything, nor did he lie to you'.
'Enough! Your parents should have taught you two some basic courtesy before letting you go out stealing things from people!', the woman turned to her son, 'Let's go, honey. The beach is full of such people.'

They walked away, leaving me and Eddie root to the spot. After a few minutes, Eddie released my hand, the traces of his nail imprinted on my hand. He looked at me, his eyes red-rimmed, asking me to go.

We walked along the golden curve of the beach in silence. Eddie was in front of me, his eyes glued to the sand. Every now and then, a sigh broke the silence between us.

It was then when I saw a red and white spider-man ball floating on the sea. I ran out, took it in and showed Eddie.

'Look Eddie, it must have been that boy's ball. Don't feel sad, baby. You can play it, you know.'
Eddie turned to me, but his mind was drifting somewhere else. 'Just throw it away. I won't need a ball soon.'

And he walked away, leaving me stunned for a few seconds. The tide was rising, sweeping away the sand castle we built. The beautiful castle was now no more than a handful of wet sand, wounded.

My vision blurred. Tears filled my eyes.

Do you think I was on the right track, or was I not doing what the question asked for? The essay was supposed to be 600 words, but I exceeded the range; do you think I should cut down on the dialogue? I've never written dialogue in my essay, and it sounds weird, I guess.

Can you give me some advice on how to improve my essay? For [1] and [2], can you help me find some words that are more descriptive? For example, [2], I was thinking that the boy was using his thigh to play with the ball, you know.

Thanks in advance

Book Reports / To Kill A Mockingbird, a question on TKAM and report [9]

Hello, I'm supposed to come up with a question on TKAM and write an essay on it. It's quite important, but the truth is, I have no interest at all in this novel... I want to write either about Scout or Atticus. Can you give me some advice?

Writing Feedback / Essay on describing traffic jam [10]

I was supposed to describe a traffic jam, but I got bored and ended up writing this. I don't know how to describe a traffic jam properly, and which point of view to use (should I describe it as a car driver on the road, or is it better to look at it from the point of view of a pedestrian?) I don't think it followed the instructions, but anyway, could you give me some feedback on it and on how I can switch it back to the traffic jam title?

Drumming her slender fingers on the cashier counter, Ashley was unconsciously producing a rhythm, each beat rushing after another, pressing and hastening. Staring at middle-aged cashier with the glamorous Barbie in one hand and a piece of pink wrapping paper in another, she could not help but sighing. She could feel the look of people tired of the long queue burning the back of her neck. She should have just bought the Barbie and wrapped it herself. With a Barbie, a three-year-old girl like Phoebe would not mind Ashley's clumsiness.

Ashley felt in her pockets for her keys, then quickly picked up Phoebe's present and settled it on the backseat. In no time, the car was rocketing on the highway. $100, thirty minutes of wrapping and probably her mother's late arrival were the price of Phoebe's third birthday present- Ashley ran through all those details in her head. It had been a long day. She drove mechanically, imagining the Phoebe's beaming smile while fatigue sluiced through her body like water down rocks.

Ashley had just passed an exit on the highway, when the brake lights of the car ahead hers flared. She slowed, slowed some more, then she had to press down hard. Dusk was already gathering, the sun a dull glow in the overcast sky. As she crested the hill, traffic came to a complete stop, a long ribbon of taillights flashing red and white. An accident. A pileup. She glanced at the gas gauge- the needle pointed at below a quarter of a tank, just enough to return to the suburb, while this line of cars could be here for hours. Ashley felt her eyes burnt; she wanted to cry.

She sat still for a few minutes, glazing outside the car window. The nearest exit was about half a mile back, separated from her by a gleaming chain of cars. She shook her head lightly, and looked at the gift on the backseat. The silvery ribbon stood out from the glossy wrapping paper. She readjusted her body, so that she could feel the satin ribbon, cool and smooth between her fingers. She imagined Phoebe's delicate fingers untying the ribbon and meticulously opening the wrapping paper so that it would not be torn. And her bright eyes when she saw little Miss Barbie! Ashley's face slightly relaxed, a smile lit up her tightened face.

When she turned back to face the steering-wheel, she started to feel uneasy. Her mind drifted away from the traffic jam and came to Phoebe. 'Is she sitting by the window, looking down to spot her mother's black car in the thousands of cars passing by their condominium?' 'Has her party begun or is she still waiting for her mother?' Ashley wondered, and ended up blaming herself for being a bad mother.

No matter what, she would not miss Phoebe's party. After taking a deep breath, she snagged her teeth on her bottom lip and let an instinctive impulse took over. Ashley jerked the steering-wheel, slid off the lane and onto the soft gravel shoulder. She put the car in reverse and then backed up, travelling past the stilled traffic, like a frozen river.

She reached the exit safely, then made a turn and rocketed through the softening darkness. Phoebe was waiting.

Writing Feedback / Chinese New Year - Essay [3]

Today is the second day of Chinese New Year. I just want to wish all the mods in this forum a year full of joy and good health. And thank you for the great work you are doing!

This I wrote about Chinese New Year in my country. Please give me some comments. I think my vocabulary is really really bad:( Thanks in advance!

A traditional festival

February, winter trembles on the edge of spring, the season of hope and happiness. People rejoice in the breezy seasonal wind, which knocks on their door unexpectedly over one night sleep, counting days to welcome our most important festival of the year.

I grew up, bearing in mind that Lunar New Year always come in winter, because it took that kind of bitterly cold to bring about the bursting joy for everyone in the city. Together with the chilling breeze, the drizzle does not leave the country till the end of the festival. Yet, the streets are always flooded with people hurriedly on their way doing shopping before all the shops are closed during the week of Lunar New Year. In any corner of the city, we can always find the knitted eyebrows on the face of young wives too focused sewing so that her child would have new clothes to wear in the festival, the sweat glistened on the face of the husbands trying to rearrange the furniture and the beaming smile of little children running around the kitchen waiting for their turn to taste "banh chung" (a special kind of pancake). The festive mood begins to dispel the chill in the air, and warm up the whole country.

Lunar New Year comes every year with delicious food, bright red decorations and most importantly for kids, lucky money (hong bao). My mother often found herself in the middle of domestic concerns of any typical housewives. Questions like "Do we have enough food for the entire week?" or "Do we have enough hong bao (red envelopes) to bring luck to all the children in the block?" were frequently considered. My mother took upon herself the responsibility to ensure that our family would have an enjoyable festival, and it was always my pleasure to help her throughout the preparation process. I remembered holding her hands walking into the streets, which have changed into a new auspicious red outfit to buy some parallel couplets written on red paper to bring luck to the family. I remembered staying up until three in the morning with my mother to make "banh chung". As we sat by the cooking fire, I used to stare at the glowing embers of the fire and observe it crackling in the silent night. My mother would massage my hair gently and asked if I was exhausted. As I fell into her embrace, my vision was blurred with the red sparks of the fire.

Those cheerful memories I packed neatly in a corner of my mind and never left them behind as I went abroad. Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of the joyful festive mood of the locals in Christmas Eve and Thanksgiving, but nothing can compare to the icy city in red I always knew in Chinese New Year. It has been several years since my mother stopped making "banh chung" but ordered them from some fanciful restaurants. Children now no longer get their new clothes from the caring hands of their mother. Sometimes, as I turn the calendar to February, I wonder, how long it will take Chinese New Year in my city to shrink into just another public holiday.

Writing Feedback / This essay is about my hometown, Hanoi. [4]

It is a very personal point of view, and at times it does sound very very awkward, but I still wish to have some feedback on it:D. And please tell me if this way of writing makes my hometown seem chaotic. Actually it does not:D. Thanks a lot!!!

It is one of those rare days in December that the sun manages to peek out from the thick, ominous clouds that have disappeared for the day, revealing the vivid blue sky; the warmth of the bright sunshine seeping through the car window as I rest my chin against the glass. One year has passed by in the blink of an eye.

My last memory about Hanoi was very tranquil. I had known Hanoi for all my life, yet the glimpse of Hanoi at 6 a.m. on my way to the airport last year was something I could never have imagined. No deafening motorbike horns. No bicycles riding in rows. No trucks rocketing on the road. The lazy sun let the street lights do their job, guiding the simple-hearted farmers to their fields. A few women balancing with the shoulder poles skilfully like the artists working in the circus were hawking newly-baked bread at cock-crow. Hanoi then was just like that, pure and peaceful. I remembered opening the car window, welcoming the cool breeze to play with my hair and tickle my cheeks. The dawn breeze wafted the fragrant of rice paddy mingling with the scent of winter through the open window. That glimpse of Hanoi imprinted on my heart and lingered in my dreams; the dreams of a girl longing to come back.

The dream came true; the girl now is back. Things do not look so much like what it was on that day, from the other lane of the highway. The scenery passes by my window, just like a fast-forward movie of real life in Hanoi. This is the Hanoi I know so well. Truck drivers mumble with anger because of the congestion. Motor-bicyclers rush in the streets from every direction, making me feel like thousands of arrows were aiming at me every time. Everyone has a helmet on, not the big and heavy motorbike helmets but the kind of helmets that professional bicyclers usually wear, making the streets colourful just like the small, round M&Ms that the kids always love. Students in white shirts and blue pants ride bicycles in four or five rows; every attempt they make to chat with each other fails completely as their merry voice fades in the roar of the vehicles in the street. I used to be one of them. I used to stop at the street peddlers and indulge myself with some barbecue after school in such a bitterly cold day. I used to stare at the fire of the cook, observing the smoke fly away and gradually fade. I used to stop my bike on the street, rubbing my hands against each other to drive away the numbness and chill.

The movie goes on and on. Many buildings have been taking place of some old blocks of houses built twenty years ago, yet many features of Hanoi remain true and modest. Nghi-Tam Road, the renowned road of flowers, where I always went with my family during Lunar New Year, is still there. The peddler where I and my friends used to grab our favourite snacks is still there. Giang-Vo Lake, where I sat, hand in hand with my friends after our graduation day and weeping like mad, is still there.

Only people leave.

Tranquil and dynamic, Hanoi is has been there for a thousand years. Even from different perspective, Hanoi has always been true to her heart, always a peaceful harbour, opening her arms to welcome her children from far, far away coming back.

I belong to this place, as much as this place belongs to me.