Descriptive essay twin towers

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Dont worry: testing for the relatively few films to a man on tuesday article review essay services to the men and essays. They were loaded down with equipment — ropes, axes, and heavy raincoats. They told us to remain calm, keep walking, and that someone at the bottom of the stairwell would tell us what to do next. We were so grateful to them, and asked where they were headed. They responded that they were going up to the higher floor to get underneath where the fire was.

We told them to be careful, and then we kept on walking. We didn't know at the time that these courageous men would lose their lives that day. When we reached the bottom of the stairs and exited the stairwell, I had no idea where we were. It looked like some old subbasement that was in shambles. It took me a minute to realize that we were in the lobby, which, only an hour before had been filled with people bustling across its marble floors on their way in to work.

What I saw instead was unbelievable. The tiles had broken off the wall, and the floors were covered with dust and debris.

We struggled to find a way out, but someone told us which way to walk. When we exited the building, a man told us: "Run across the street and don't look back! I looked at my feet, which were surrounded by red puddles. Look at all that red paint , I said to myself. Then my brain switched gears and I realized it was blood, not paint. I had no time to think about what that really meant as I ran across the street and into the mass of people who were also running.

Everyone looked stunned and in shock. People were crying and calling out the names of their friends and coworkers. I turned to look at the World Trade Center. There were gaping holes in both buildings. Black smoke was billowing out of the holes.

Kar Chin: Descriptive Writing - KLCC

But before I could figure out what was happening, I heard a tremendous roar, a sound unlike anything I've ever heard before or since. It was like watching one of those TV demolitions — it just seemed to come down right on itself. We started running. We were crying and screaming, frantic to get out of there. The smoke and dust was everywhere, and the cloud was moving towards us. Someone behind me was pushing me, and I was so afraid that I would fall and be trampled by the crowd.

I was crying, shouting, "Please don't push me! That's when my friend, Amy, grabbed my hand and led me down one block and around the next to get us away from the smoke and dust clouds. She knew the area well because her family lived in nearby Chinatown. She led me to a funeral parlor owned by her family member, and they let us use the phone. I called home, but no one was there. I could only leave a message saying I was okay. Later, I found a public phone and managed to make two more calls.

I paged my older daughter, who was working at a nearby hospital, and I called my sister. My sister answered. She was so relieved to hear from me, and kept asking over and over: "Are you okay? The horror of the day just kept continuing.

9/11 Memorial Museum: an emotional underworld beneath Ground Zero

Everyone looked somber and in shock. Stores were giving out water and apples to the people making their way uptown. It took me quite a while, but I finally made it to Megan's school. She had eventually managed to get through to her father, who told her that I was okay and was coming for her, but she was so upset. When we got outside, I told her I had to sit for a few minutes.

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My feet were bleeding, and I was exhausted. Megan wanted to switch shoes with me. She told me to take her sneakers, and said that she would put on my sandals, but I told her no. She asked, "Mommy, how are we going to get home? Along the way, we stopped at pay phones to call home and find out if there were any buses or trains running.

When we reached 86th Street and Lexington Avenue, I found out that some trains were running, but only a few stops at a time. We figured that it was better than nothing, so we went down to the subway station and got on the first train that was going uptown. It took us a few stops; then we got off and got on another train. Finally, at about p. My family and friends had been calling all day; everyone was so worried.

My godson came over to see me — he said he had to see me with his own eyes to believe I was really okay. My older daughter was stuck on Long Island, as they had shut down the bridges. She stayed at my sister's house until they reopened. She finally arrived home at around p. During the next several weeks, we attended many funerals for coworkers, friends, neighbors, and firefighters.

It was something we had to do to try to begin to heal. We had to say goodbye and pay tribute to those who lost their lives on this tragic day. It was so hard to return to work. My company had grief counselors come speak with us, and that's how we began the healing process. We do and should remember those who perished. As for the rest of us, the survivors, we have learned how to deal with it as best as we can. I keep all of my memories of that day in my heart all year long, and on every Sept.

I listen to the reading of the names and say a prayer for those who died.