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.

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 them, those who gruesomely ripped me from my haven and shackled me beneath their feet. I resent the world for abandoning me in this hell, leaving me to suffer. I resent who I have become, a puppet, used only for their entertainment. The devil only grows within me, plaguing my mind during the sleepless nights. Feeding images into my mind. Images of their blood splattered across the walls of their beloved blue and red (tent). My teeth sinking into the fatty flesh of their neck. The horror painted on their faces as I gleefully avenge the loss of my sanity. And I detest myself. I loathe the satisfaction that I feel fantasising about their murder. I fear myself, and what I have become under their control. I yearn for the days I spent in my

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, the created a gloomy, dark atmosphere, yet it was relaxing and they still got to go out into the yard. He lay there for nearly an hour, relaxing, thinking about the circumstances that landed him where he was today, the same routine he had for the most part of the last two years. At about a half hour until five he slips out of bed and gets ready for the day, and soon the guards come around as they all do at six sharp. He shuffled through the day and found himself in the cafeteria at noon. And that was where his schedule

He walked down stairs and I waited in the shadows as he looked around fearful calling my name. “Mircalla, sweetie come back before I have to write to your mother.” I snarled and lunged at him from behind smashing the side of his face on the stone floor. I chained him up in the same fashion he did to me but I wasn’t as generous with starvation. I chained him down and locked the door never returning. A few years later I had gotten word of his death and that the Vordenburg family had it out for the Karnstein’s but it didn’t matter to me. I would never be put in a situation like that again. I will now have all the control and never let what’s left of my heart fall to sick ways of Mother. It concerned me greatly to know she had

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.

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

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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 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.

One of the most ethical thing I did was I found a wallet in the park lot of Walmart. It had the person credit cards, driver licenses and everything. i'd return the wallet with everything it had in it even the 200 bucks. The person was so thankful it made me feel real good that i had did such a good deed she offer me money but, I did not except it just the feeling of doing a good deed was rewarding enough for me.

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

I was destroying myself In the process of it all. Maybe the truth behind of my physiological issues and addictions was simply me not telling.

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 be together for the rest of their lives.

They say whiskey helps with grief, it makes you forget. Whoever said that must have lied because I don’t think I will ever be able to forget them. I’m five bottles down and I still can’t drown out their screams, their terror-stricken faces. It haunts my dreams. Pain, pain that’s all I feel now. I just want to forget. Time to forget, I whispered out before chucking the bottle back. You can’t forget this, you won’t be able to. This is will consume you; let it consume you .my subconscious chirps darkly. Fine, I mumble closing my eyes and letting my mind take me for a ride.

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.”