A Simple Phone Call One Night After Dinner

It all began with a simple phone call one night after dinner, “Joe,” my father hollered up the stairs, “it’s for you. It’s Jackie, and she sounds upset.” As I came downstairs to pick up the phone, I was not happy. I was tired and had looked forward to a nice quiet evening at home, not another stupid adventure with Jackie.

It all began with a simple phone call one night after dinner. “John,” my father hollered up the stairs, “It’s for you. It’s Jackie, and she sounds distressed.” As I came down the stairs to pick up the phone, I was not happy. I was tired and had looked forward to a nice quiet evening at home, not another stupid adventure with Jackie.

“What do you think of it, Mr. Jennison?” An about fifty-year-old neighbor, Mr. Lawrence, spoke to me as he looked around the suddenly empty storage room.

I was on phone with my dad, he was drunk and made promises I knew he would never uphold. Beep, beep, beep, the phone call ended. Tears rolled down my face, my breathing became shallow, it grew harder to fill my lungs. I was having an anxiety attack. “What’s going on?” Stewart asked, leaning toward me. I shook my head, avoiding the topic. “David,” my mom responded simply. Stewart’s typically stern persona softened immediately. He sighed, clasping his hands together, all his body weight shifted onto his elbows that were placed on his

“Honestly that look likes a haunted house because it seems as if there is no one living in it.” I say trying to contemplate what the house is and it's awful smell of fear.

It all began with a phone call one night after dinner. “Joe,” my father hollered up the stairs, “it’s for you. It’s Jackie, and she sounds upset.”As long as I came downstairs to pick up the phone, I was not happy. I was tired and had looked forward to a nice quiet evening at home, not another stupid adventure with Jackie. Thirty minutes later, however, Jackie’s silver Mustang convertible swung into our driveway, and Jackie was leaning on the horn before the car came to a full stop. Grabbing my coat from the couch, I walked out my front door with all the enthusiasm of a man going to stand before a firing squad.

Imagine someone you know and love, maybe a family member or close friend, got shot and paralyzed simply for waving at a car? That’s what happened to Debra Dickenson’s nephew Johnny (317). It’s not surprising that she feels angry, especially at the person who committed this crime. Her anger is evident by the direct and personal tone Dickenson has throughout the essay. Dickenson never mentions her nephew’s attacker specifically, instead she says she already knows

It all began with a simple phone call one night after dinner. “Joe,” my dad hollered up the stairs, “it’s for you. It’s Jackie, and she sounds scared.” As I treaded down stairs to pick up the phone, I was nervous. Jackie usually never calls me on the phone unless it’s something serious, and my dad telling me she sounded scared made it worse. Approximately 30 minutes passed at Jackie whips her silver Mustang convertible into our driveway, and Jackie was leaning on the horn before the car came to a complete stop. Grabbing my coat from the couch, I sprinted out my front door faster than i’ve ran in my whole life. I got immediately in her car and we drove away. I’ve never seen Jackie so scared in my life. She was driving at least 20 miles over

“Love you too.” She responded. Then there was a click and phone flashed green again. I put the phone on the nightstand and laid down on the bed and stared at the white ceiling for what it had seemed like forever. I woke up two hours later, startled because I had forgotten where I was at. I heard voices coming from the living and thought to myself “People must already be here.” I get up and I put my favorite ocean blue, fuzzy dress and stumbled out the door and I ran into my mom.

It all began with a simple phone call one night after dinner. “Mike,” my father hollered up the stairs, “it’s for you. It’s Jen, and she’s upset.” As I came downstairs to pick to pick up the dirty, old phone, I was not happy. I was tired and still had work to get done, not another lame adventure with jen, last one put me to sleep.

It's a house." "I don't care. It looks like a

It all began with a simple phone call one night after dinner. “Josh,” my grandfather yelled up the stairs, “it’s for you. It’s Jackie, and she sounds angry.” As I came downstairs to pick up the phone, I was not happy. I was tired and had looked forward to a nice quiet evening at home, not another pointless police chase leading to me and Jackie being outran by some goons.

Carl loved his dad very much and it was painful seeing the chair in living room where his dad had sat holding him, many times as he was growing up reading Bible story. Donald sometimes didn’t always have a lot of time for his son, but he always spent quality time with Carl when he had every opportunity. Ruth was helping family friend prepare another platter of sandwiches for guests. Everyone knew that Ruth wasn’t the type to be waited on and she took pleasure in serving and caring for those who had come to pay their respects to her husband. She never knew there were so many who cared. There were many there, especially friends. She never in her life had imagined that Donald had relationship with so many people. Many she never knew or met before. Over in corner, sat the younger woman, quietly she sipped on her tea. Ruth watched her from the kitchen and thought she looked lonely there. Carl walked into the kitchen, headed over to coffee pot to pour him another cup of coffee. “Carl,” Ruth spoke as she handed Carl the sugar, “Do you see the woman sitting near your dad’s chair?” Carl looked up, while stirring his coffee. “Yes, mom, I do. Why?” Carl asked. “No one is talking to her and she sits there alone. I feel sad for her. Do you know who she is?” Ruth asked. “No, mamma I sure don’t. Never saw her before. Do you want me to talk to her?” Carl asked as he walked toward living room. “No, maybe you better not, I’m just trying to place who she is. I feel like I know her, but can’t place where,” Ruth said as she smiled to her son. “Ok, mamma, you really should relax and let others take care of everything,” Carl said. “Here’s a sandwich, now get outta here,” Ruth laughed as she carried another tray out to the table in living

Susie’s mother opened the door to let Molly, Susie’s babysitter, inside. Ten-month old Susie seemed happy to see Molly. Susie then observed her mother put her jacket on and Susie’s face turned from smiling to sad as she realized that her mother was going out. Molly had sat for Susie many times in the past month, and Susie had never reacted like this before. When Susie’s mother returned home, the sitter told her that Susie had cried until she knew that her mother had left and then they had a nice time playing with toys until she heard her mother’s key in the door. Then Susie began crying once again.

Late night phone calls never end well, and this one was no exception. My mom answered the shrill ring of the landline early one Wednesday morning and was greeted by her sisters solemn voice. Aunt Mary told her that their mother wasn’t able to swallow food anymore; an obvious problem that had all the more meaning to her. Barely a month before, grandma’s sister, my Great Aunt Maureen, after a long period of declining health, quickly passed away after loosing her ability to swallow. It seemed that grandma would follow her sister’s example. Mom hung up the phone, the weight of the world settling around her shoulders, and booked a flight for the small Irish town she grew up in.