Personal Narrative-F. M. OO

After departing from the French Quarter, we headed north to Biloxi, Mississippi, east through Mobile, Alabama and out onto Florida’s long, desolate and boring country highway into the panhandle and past Pensacola. On the drive home, I started feeling a lot of nervous anxiety. I was suddenly

It was a cool November day, in the middle of Afghanistan. As a medic, I was sitting outside my make shift aid station with one of my buddies sharing stories about home. We hear a loud explosion right outside of the wire. I looked up and could see the cloud of smoke billowing up from about two hundred meters away. Not knowing how bad the situation was, I grabbed a few of my soldiers, our translator and my aid bag and ran straight to the smoke. When we got there, a group of civilians were huddled around a group of people who were yelling, screaming and crying. The translator found out that a group of three men and three children were walking around a field when one of the children stepped on a mine. One of my soldiers grabbed the mine

    It was six A.M. on a beautiful yet brisk Saturday morning and I was fast asleep. Suddenly I was ripped from my blissful dream world by the incessant blaring of my alarm. Groggy, I shut off the alarm and stumbled into the kitchen for breakfast. I had a light breakfast consisting of warm cinnamon toast and butter so as to not upset my stomach during the looming Cross Country race.

What I remembered most about our trips was the camera. I didn’t stop him as he stuck it in my face when the wind whipped my hair back as we stood on the top deck of the boat, when I sipped my coffee at a little cafe we found in Vermont, and as I let the cold ocean water run over my toes. When he was gone, there wouldn’t be a camera. Savor these moments, I thought, for some odd reason you might miss them.

There is someone I wish was still around from before that is my dad. He passed away in the first week of summer the summer before 6th grade. I lived with my mom until I was 7 then he went and got visitations so he seen me every Wednesday and every other weekend in the summers I was at his house 1 week and my mom's 1 week. Sometimes when he was close to my house or my grandmas he would bring me "care packages" they were mainly toys the one I remember was he was at Walmart and in the middle of the night he brought me Legos the Legos were batman ones. One Christmas he brought my a huge monster truck it was remote control it was about 2 feet tall I had it for a couple years I really liked to do donuts with it in the snow. He had a girl fried and

I headed out first,swimming my way back onto land,I screamed as I felt myself get scooped out of the sea by some men and women,scared that the man in the blue car had returned. But these men and women were dressed in hazmat suits but without their helmets on. They looked over me as if they were scientists,asking me and each other several questions. I couldn't muster out any words, I was terrified, I wanted Craig to help me but I was terrified of what they would do to him. This part of the dream is very spacey and is chopped up. I hardly remember most of it. From what I can remember after they’ve finished me out of the water. They place me in this building, this building filled with children. They all looked genetically modified or something,

“Ok, I guess we won’t.” my mom started to tear up, and seconds later the tears came rolling down her face, like a child rolling down a hill.

The training ground was outside and depending on what we needed it for was able to instantly change its terrain. I walked over to a nearby basket and pulled out an old wooden bow and a quiver full of arrows.

The second I walked into middle school, I knew what I wanted to do, and how I intended to do it. Growing up, I was always taught to value education since nobody in my family had gone to college. Questions about college were frequently met with blank stares and dismissive shrugs. It was regarded as unchartered territory, and I planned to conquer it. My earliest memory of my grandmother was when I was 8 years old. Yearning for something to do, I resolved to learn Farsi, and began nagging my grandmother to teach me it. However, growing up in Iran, she never learnt how to read or write, and so she couldn't write my name, or even teach me the alphabet. My 8-year-old mind couldn't grasp the idea that my grandmother was illiterate. I went to school every day, learned how to write

Her fingers traced the binders that line the wall, skimming the countless hours they had taken to compile; they stopped promptly upon one labeled, “reminders.” She drew it from the wall and took it to her desk. The wood was heavily worn, its user having spent obsessive nights and days perfecting each piece of work that met its face. Her eyes stared at the page, three boys pictures were smiling back at her with contempt. The smell of cigarettes came from these photos and the details listed below them, vivid descriptions of their lives and personalities. The tallest of the three was sandy haired and grinned, showing off yellow-stained teeth that should have belonged to a middle-aged drunk. His arms hung low to his waist and his legs added to

I was designated out of necessity. My older brother was sent to prison the year before she was diagnosed. My twin sister was married at the time with three small children and my younger brother was only 16 years old. Therefore, I tried to become everything that she needed. Helping her through her battle would prove to me that life is too short to not pursue my dreams.

Then, on the plane-ride, at the peak of my vulnerability, when it felt as if fear had taken control of my senses, I decided to just stop. I forced all thought to come to a screeching halt so I could consider only the reality of the moment: flying to Quito with my backpacking equipment in the overhead compartment, hiking boots on my feet, studying the Spanish-English dictionary like my life depended on it. I am confident that the Ecuadorian man sitting next to me thought I was a complete nut. However, in this pause, I began to understand why I had chosen this adventure in the first place. I chose fascination and I chose fear because I wanted to test myself and my capacity for risk. I craved the experience of relying solely and completely on myself. I needed to find out just how strongly I could feel and then discover what would happen

I was raised in an Apostolic Pentecostal church. Not a Sunday, Wednesday, worship practice, decorating meeting, or special event was missed. Each year I was a part of the drama team and reenacted the birth, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ for hundreds of people. I received the gift of speaking in tongues when I was seven, and was baptized a few months after. Every Bible story was carved into memory, verses memorized so adamant I was part of the competitive Bible Quizzing team. Suddenly when I was eleven, my family made the decision to leave the only place I’d ever encountered the presence of God. We then moved away from the city and were left with no church to turn to. It wasn’t until I started attending Oasis church that I reclaimed

The sound of cameras shuttering people yelling and heels clanking against the school floor, my principal yelling “No more questions!”  Approached my classroom door. I speculated what could have happened, did someone make a scientific breakthrough, did someone get hurt? I could see similar thoughts rushing through the heads of my peers to. I live in a small town in New York called Arnal, here local news is very popular among the town's residents. Lots of intriguing things take place here, but I have never see the reporters so intrusive, they were eager to get there question answered. The bell rung and snapped me out of my trans, my class always goes to the library to eat lunch, this lunch I had plans of my own. I tiptoed to the spot in which I heard the noises stop, there stood Principal Heid whispering with his lawyer.

"Hey Mom, come look at this." I say. But when looked behind me she was already their looking over my shoulders.