Frank Narrative

Philbert is known as a comedy guy at his school, a little school named Rocky middle school in the middle of Mississippi. All that's on Philberts mind is that it's the end of the semester and he can go home and play baseball with his brand new glove. On the way home his friends were awkwardly quiet, not the average guy that likes peace sometimes, I can't go an hour without some kind of action(unless I'm going to sleep ) so as soon as I went to go find my mom.

My heart wasn’t with him and it had been this way since the moment he brought me home to his apartment above the garage the day we were wed. I had at this point given up fighting to free myself and sunk deep into my thoughts. Upon remembering the day we met I could recall almost every detail about him; from the twinkle in his eyes to the gleam of his golden watch. There was a gleam of hope which I saw when I looked at him much unlike the strain and exhaustion I see as he lurks in the grey shadows of the garage. Though I detested this awful place, it was not New York I longed to adventure away from, it was him. Him and his oh-so ordinary ways. I wished to live a life of the extravagant and the bold, a life with Tom, a life that was not

It was now after six in the evening, and he hadn’t stopped all day…had barely stopped all week. In addition to dealing with new work commitments, he’d been fielding calls from his wife’s – soon to be ex-wife’s – lawyer. And his own lawyer. The divorce was going to be settled quickly, at least. He wanted that much, and Alisa was good for that much; she didn’t want it to drag on, either. He knew he should eat and relax…he needed to freshen up, first. He pulled his suit coat off and headed into the bathroom…and just looked at himself in the

My throat tightened when I thought of Margaret now, the pain she had been through, how I had helped her heal, but how Andrés had more. Frank’s mouth hung open, his eyebrows raised, his comment justified in his world. I stepped towards Frank and pushed my index finger into his hard chest.

Frank drunkenly dashes out of the bar and into a wooden building. In his exhausted stupor, Frank collapses against a pile of wood as he tries to recuperate both his mental and physical composure. Free of the conspirators in the bar and of Joe’s pursuit, Frank acquiesced a rare moment of introspection when finally alone and away from his assailants. But as he regains composure, his surroundings consume him. The wood building brings Frank back into his prison cabin from the war, and Frank’s mental bulwark fails to shield him from the the humiliation from the bar as the past infuses with the present. The seedy lawyer’s words seep into his mind as a disjointed auditory flashback is heard, condemning Frank to be the coward who informed on his men. But as the flashbacks intensify, Frank is doomed to relive the slaughter of his men.

It was another bleary day. Lunch passed without incident with its occasional sloppy mash and bread, and Mrs. Line had already given out her daily thirty-page dose of homework for the night, inevitably due tomorrow. The lunch food made me gag, but the homework made me nearly fill my crying quota for the day. I tried not to let it get me down.

I wanted to thank him for being there, but my heart was damaged, with no space for gratitude. My lips were slightly cracked, my fingers were worn down from the constantly holding onto his apparel. Abruptly I lifted my face to his, speaking to him the only way I knew how. My lips intermingled with his, he didn't move, even I was unwelcome there. Impossible stillness. For a moment there was a suspended second of nothingness before colliding again. I didn't care if he didn't want me the I wanted him, I needed to feel the sensations I had felt with him before. I only cared about myself, how everything would affect me, but I let myself fall back on his lips. He was uncertain as I guided his fingers to the lining of my face. His stubble scratched at my skin gently, unraveling my itch for him. His faithless lips responded to mine. He staggers foward, pulling me closer, placing me on his lap. My mouth opened in slight shock, but it is greeted with his lips again. I safely lean my back against the steering wheel, cautious not to sound the alarm. He kissed me until the space between his lips drew out the blue in my blood. With a slight tug, I easily came tumbling down onto him, warm sugar huddled at his fingertips. My precious bag had fell to the floor, but I didn't care enough to notice. His body was pressed against me, firmer than I had imagined, which frightened and excited me. One of his hands stroked my upper thigh, my body

.“Getting here from where I was as a child wasn’t just handed to me,” he explained, “It took a lot of hard work, dedication, and sacrificing not only time, but my energy, and everything that I lived for.” Growing up was one of the most difficult times of his life. On one hand, he had to deal with his alcoholic father. And on the the other, he had to manage never being able to see his mother, who worked 14 hour shifts daily. But, this absence of his mother actually became one of the biggest

Frank is a 33 year old African American male. Frank self disclosed that he prided himself on being a family man. He married his wife Fiona, a 28 year old Korean born woman, who he met shortly after his discharge from the army. The two have been married for seven years. Frank described their marriage as good (Johnson, 2004). Frank and Fiona have toddler twin daughters together. Frank had been driving trucks as an independent contractor for approximately nine years. Truck driving was his sole employment since his discharge from the military eleven years earlier. Frank had severed two tours of combat duty in the army during the Vietnam War. He was drafted out of high school and reenlisted for a second tour.

I never thought that I would be saving someone life from drowning. That was until my friends and I did help someone. Which was something that happened very fast.

Frank Kwiatkokski is a print maker. An unexpected part of his artistic process is taking

Obstreperous screaming, balls soaring through the air, the sound of shoes reverberating across the pavement, and enthralling excitement in the atmosphere; one simple word described this environment: recess. I was eight years old, currently in second grade at Clearview Elementary school. Recess, being everyone’s favorite part of the day, allowed each grade to experience a time of freedom, while having a fabulous time with friends. Even though a towering fence defined our freedom at recess, the excitement of venturing on to the outside world instead of being trapped inside sparked a chain reaction that illuminated everyone’s face with gigantic smiles and laughs that echoed against the stony school building. The late April weather felt marvellous..not too hot or cold. The sun, a fiery star, radiated down on my exposed

It was probably eight in the afternoon when finally I nominally realized that I was on American soil. In the car, on our way to my new home, I listened carefully to the breathtaking and explanatory tour of the neighborhood. My family zealously repeated “Hastings” this and “Hastings” that, while I struggled to stay awake. Lying back in my seat, I marveled at the beauty of Hastings. It was the town that was becoming my new home for the next few years. Exhausted by the twelve-hour-long flight, I was hybridly sleeping when my mom casually said: “Hey look, honey. Deer.” To this day, I am not quite sure what made me shout, but immediately I called “Stop the car… I want to get out!” It could either be that I had just landed from the longest

I was not an intentionally bigoted twelve-year-old. I was raised in an affluent suburban community where the vast majority of people are white. The 100% white private nursery school which I attended was chosen by my parents largely due to its proximity to our home. My public elementary school was about 70% white as it was populated with students who resided nearby. Finally, the private middle school which I attended, located almost an hour from my home, provided me with exposure to the most diverse student body of my youth as it was comprised of about 65% Caucasian children. What each of these formative academic experiences shared in common was both that their student bodies were disproportionately Caucasian, as well as that their senior administrators

It is also assumed that the act of telling a story can provide insight into past, present and future events (Espinoza, 1997). By going through this process, individuals can find the importance of certain events and assign roles to people who are a part of their story. This act can allow a client to find new meaning and understanding to their reality (Espinoza, 1997). Not only is a