Deception-Personal Narrative

I have lived in only one location my entire life: Edwardsville, Illinois. A peripheral suburb of St. Louis, it stands as the rare oasis of people in a desert of corn, pinned in its own personal bubble. Due to this blend of time and isolation, I developed a natural familiarity with my hometown. But, throughout my childhood, I longed to break free from the confines of the bubble and venture outward. However, this changed last summer, as I walked through Richards Brickyard, our family heirloom, that my great-grandfather, Benjamin Richards, founded over 120 years ago. I felt these childlike sentiments slip away. The bubble that had surrounded me for so long began to vanish, and the picture that it had been obscuring was slowly revealed.

How long have I been here? How long since I gave up my pride to grovel at the feet of ---? I used to be proud of who I was. I used to be free, but I’ve fallen, slowly stripped bare of all I was and could have been. I resent

… Inside the county jail, the officers looked at me with disgust and distrust. Then proceeded to tell me that “the colored entrance is in the back”. So I exited the jail, my face burning in embarrassment. I don’t know what I had expected. Walking around the jail, I came to the colored entrance where I was greeted kindly by the elderly African-American man who let me inside, and lead me to where Rosa was being held. He let me inside her cell, and I took my place in the chair across from her at the small and dingy table.

It was nearly a 4:30 in the morning and Asher Aamil lay in his bunk, staring at the pockmarked prison ceiling, enjoying the soft patter of the early morning drizzle against the window. He very much loved these dark days,

Concealer is one thing which is very important to me. Today I’m sharing my views on L.A. Girl Pro Conceal. IMG_5437Read more to find out about my thoughts on this concealer.

White Card Jay Gatsby relaxed behind the polished drugstore counter, dressed in a cheap yet classy cream suit and a red-striped straw boater. Tomorrow was a three-day weekend, so naturally many customers had visited, buying various ‘prescriptions’. Today was going outstandingly, as he had earned ten times his average daily income

In response to Devon Smith’s review of Whither Justice: Stories of Women in Prison reviewed that her time spent in jail was not simply part of her fieldwork but actual incarceration “as an under trial prisoner.”

It started raining yesterday on the trip here. The open wagon provided no cover, no comfort. What little things we had brought were soaked through. Mr. Avery, our driver, was a very harsh man. He gave no consolation or pity. Nothing but hate. A wicked old man he was. The wagon ride felt like torture. It was the longest four hours of my life. There was no conversation. Just Abrahams coughing, and my sobs, the baby didn’t cry, she didn’t smile either. Caleb tried to ask why we were so sad. I couldn’t muster the strength to answer. Poor boy. The second I stepped foot off that wagon and onto the dreaded ground of that farm I knew this was it, hell. Oh, I wanted to snap that woman's neck the second she struck Caleb. He’s just a boy. That woman, Ms. Ada Jaggs, was a witch in every sense of the word. And worst of all my husband and son will be separated from me while we are here.

I am in two extra curricular activities, wrestling, and I am an actor in the drama dept. play called

On November 16, 1967 Kristen Heather Strickland was born in Massachusetts. Her mother was a substitute teacher and her father was an electronics engineer. Growing up in Fall River, where Lizzie Borden who is believed to have killed her parents was born, Kristen would often tell people that she and Lizzie were related. She seemed to find great excitement with the possibility (Phelps, 2014). She grew into an attractive teenage girl who seemed to be sophisticated and the envy of others. The first issue was noted when she was older by her schoolmates. Kristen was turning into a pathological liar. One of her friends stated she showed up to school wearing a shirt that another friend had reported missing. She adamantly denied that it was the same shirt (Montaldo, 2015). A pathological liar is defined as someone who tells small lies without a reason on an ongoing basis that usually occurs for years, and even a lifetime (Dike, 2008).

I was forgotten. If it had not been for a collection of grave markers left standing in a field and dusty county records detailing who I was related to and when we all died, no one may ever have come to care about who i am or what it was I did when I lived. That is the eventual hope and assumption of someone, anyone that dies... especially if you lived a forgettable life. A generation or two (or three or four) goes by and all the stories of who you were and what you did fade into the dust of unimportant memories. Sure, if no one cared to write down your stories, you especially run the risk of all oral tradition being lost forever. The descendant of mine that got this idea stirred up into his head, there were many, many roadblocks in the way that should have prevented him forever from even learning that I existed. But

Their eyes bore holes in my flesh, as they condemned me for my sin. I had never seen disgust or content quite like what they had borne that day. Those children had never seen an act so heinous in their lives; never had they seen one person disobey the values

Laura, I completely agree with you that there is really no excuse for plagarizing. We are all under alot of pressure of being in school, working, and juggling so much but for someone to steal someone else's work is unacceptable. Since we are all going through similar experinces for someone in the same position as me would be hard for me to watch. I think that in past experiences when I've seen someone cheat theres a feeling you get where you almost feel cheated, like I put in the work why is it fair that you get to try and get away with not doing it.

Guilt Married for fifty-eight years to Barbra and for the pass sixty years every third Friday of the month he would meet Debbie at a local café for lunch and a walk through the park. They would talk about everything and anything and what they desired most in life was to

A sea of orange jumpsuits filled the room; a group of students huddled together like the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. New inmates, who had still not yet come to terms with their previous actions, were surrounded by the college-bound students of Mr. Smith’s Criminal Justice class. The prison admission guard had a scowl on his face. Mr. Lebowski had been an employee of the Riverbend Penitentiary for 52 years and every time a new inmate was incarcerated, his glare would intensify for the worse. For a few of these orange jumpsuits, this sentence was like going back to school after a summer break. For others, this sentence would most likely do some serious psychological damage and scare them into being well- behaved Catholic school boys. As the Corrections Officer/Tour Guide, Mrs. Drummond explained the ins and outs of the booking process and prison life in general, her prized inmates each described a different part of the prison. These inmates were showing no emotion as they talked, that was understandable since after all this was prison, not Disney World. The students, who were watching and listening to this informal lecture, were filled with the innocence of being unexperienced explorers, who had yet to know the outside world. The so called purity that