My Own-Personal Narrative

It's a Friday afternoon, I plan to go to Great Wolf Lodge in an hour with my church. I see one of my friends so he says to his mom “ Hey, that's my friend” I said “Crap” So I go inside to sign in to go and see my friends just sitting in a corner on a big sofa. We are listening to music and just talking then a green bus comes.

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.

The sparks fly in the air, there are marshmallows in your hair, and you’re with your favorite people in the world. This is called the best place on earth, for me at least. I enjoy camping so very much, you meet new people, experience different things, make new memories, and have a blast. You also see new sights, smell some things, and always wake up to the birds singing and not the bustling streets of the city. Camping is my go to activity.

It is true in life that everything happens for a reason. It is also true to say that sometimes it is all about being in the right place, at the right time. There was never a more prominent example of this than a traumatic summers evening, only a few years ago.

That was a lot of money, and I didnt want to let Tony down so I got in the car and started to drive. As I drove the road was empty. I had confidence I was not going o get caught. It was a slightly wormer day out witch might have been because the sun was out. I had the windows down and was blaring music just trying to enjoy life when a cop pulls out behind me.

I hear noises coming from my room, I walk upstairs and see that the door is closed, I peer in, “I don’t know where Donnie is my lord”, Sarah talks into a silver flip up transmitter, “find him, I need him alive” Bob says angrily. I shut the door, but it made a loud sound, Sarah looks over and thinks, oh no, my cover is blown. I walk out to the backyard and stand facing the back fence looking out onto the ocean, thinking how did I miss that she is a cleaner? A few minutes later Sarah comes out and stands next to me, “you had me going when you told me about your dream yesterday” I said, “How can I trust you now?” I continue. “Yes it’s true, I am a cleaner” she admits, “I was going to tell you, I swear Donnie”, “when? Right before you kill me” I asked. “The truth is, I don’t want to be a cleaner anymore, I hate it” she starts to tear up, “and then I met you, and thought my life could be different”, “and I’m supposed to believe that?” I asked, “yes” she answers, I look deep into her eyes and see no trace that she is lying “yes it’s true I was supposed to bring you back to Og to be killed, but I fell in love with you the moment I say you”.

One Cold and windy morning, I woke up to my brother yelling “YaY, It’s time.”Me and my two brother Justin, and Gio were finishing packing up.My dad and his girlfriend went to get the car, my grandma and grandpa were still asleep.

I was so unprepared… it sucks because I used to be told that I had the most gorgeous, nifty and strongest house. Not an ordinary house, it had the coloring of an olive tree with shingles that glistened chestnut pine in the sunlight. The height of my house dwindled under petite

It was a new morning in Philadelphia, I woke up, started my day eating and then walked to school. While I was walking I noticed that no one was around me and continued to walk. I made it to my class wondering why no one was here and in the hallway. A few second later someone banged the door behind me, I backed away to the back room. The person came in and started to walk towards me with blood and bite marks on his body. Covered with fear I ran through the back door looking for a teacher. While I was running I saw more people like the person from before outside the window and began to realize that my school was infested with zombies. I started running to the gym looking for equipment and took with me a hockey stick, a rope, and a backpack. While

Every household has its own individual characteristics that make it functional, while portraying the family. For the private residential space, I decided to focus on my aunt’s house. The space has a slight rustic theme throughout and utilizes natural products in every room. I choose to focus on the kitchen/dining room of this home because it is the center of this household where everyone tends to congregate.

I spent my childhood in a modest white house in northern Germany. I loved my home. I loved the gleaming stone floor. I loved the curving staircase, adorned with decorative wrought iron. I loved the narrow hallways. Best of all was the attic. It was accessed by a small sliding door tucked behind a large wardrobe. It was my secret place. It was my own world full of wonder and excitement.

I decided to not even look at the living room and went to my room. It was quaint, and ugly. A wooden four-poster bed with a flowered bedspread that looked like it belonged in a nursing home. A very, very small closet which wouldn’t even hold my shoes, let alone the rest of my clothes.

Down the street and around the crescent, by the dented stop sign, the third house on the left, the one with the loose brick by the chimney. The one with the black doors and the black roof and the dark bricks and the windows with a white trim- it looks like a distorted face staring at the empty space ahead. That’s my house. The one with the misshapen, nearly dead tree, that taps and scratches at the window when the wind blows, like a spirit warning me to escape while I still can. That’s my house. The house that gives people the chills when they walk by, the one people cross the street to avoid, and the one little children run by and tell stories about. The feeling we get can only be compared to the feeling we have when we drive by a graveyard. Sadness. Eeriness. Yes, that’s my house.

For many home could be defined as the physical spaces we inhabit. However, for others home is defined in a deeper level that relates to the relationships we have or want to have with people. Home could be categorized in micro and macro levels. The micro level could reflect on the immediate situation in where we find ourselves such as the terrestrial space where we dwell in, the people we live with, etc. On the other hand, in the macro level home may perhaps refer to a broader idea of self that characterize us, such as the country we come from, the culture we were brought up in, etc. While the meaning of the word home is relative and based on personal opinions, architecture is a tool that could help us create an identity of what we consider home to be since it reflects physical, historical, and social conditions of the physical reality we live in. I live in the 7th floor of an apartment building with my family. Although this type of housing is quite common in this area, our home has some peculiar features that I have discovered recently. Because of its placement and small architectural cues this residence acts like a physical bookmark of a period in New York’s history that I have only recently been able to register and appreciate thanks to my newfound architectural knowledge.

Our little slice of heaven was bought when I was purchased by my dad when I was 6 years old, and he thought it would be the perfect place to build my mom’s dream house. From magazine cut-outs to episodes of home remodeling shows from TLC, my mom had already planned her beautiful abode. My dad drew the blueprints and hired workers to assist him in the construction, along with my six brothers. Together, as a family, we built a home grander than any that my mom had seen on TLC, one that was tailored to our needs, built on the love of the Osbornes. For five years, that foundation of love thrived, until the night it all came crashing down.