Personal Narrative-Layers Of Truth

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.

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.

I, Deputy Gough received a call reference a white Ford truck driving in the Gamester trailer court all over the roadway. Upon my arrival I spoke with David Vore and Jennifer Vore. Jennifer Stated that Randy was the driver of the white Ford truck that said, “All Good Construction.” David and Jennifer both stated that they saw the truck drive through the yard hitting a slow child at play sign and the stop sign.

    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.

It was a Saturday morning and I woke up earlier than usual. It was 8:00 and I normally wake up

Hello, Dr. Taft, I look forward to another exciting semester with you, and my cohorts exploring my inner and outer world. Let’s start with my family constellations it begins with my stepmother, and my father, my older brother Steven along with myself. At the time, I did not know that Ann was my stepmother, and I did not find out until I was older, and she had two sons who lived in Arizona. A few years later her eldest son Tommy would come to live with us, and the life that we were accustomed to would change the outcome of all our lives.

If you were to ask me why I love running the hurdles you would probably expect to hear this long story about this life changing event that happened to me which made me love running, but that’s not the case. In high school I was on the shuttle hurdle team, I wasn’t the best nor the worst, but I was the most motivated. Everyday I went to practice and pushed myself to the point were my coach would make me stop. I wasn’t motivated to be the best nor to win every race. I was motivated by the thought of going to state or even winning state.

It was a cold autumn morning when I heard the news coming from my alarm clock radio. Two people had won the lottery winnings from yesterday's drawing. They get to split a great prize, both people got to take home over 3 million dollars. I have been playing the lottery for about ten years now, I have only won three or four thousand, hoping to hit it big. For eight years I have been cleaning and cooking in a half kitchen with dinette. The small apartment had that smell as if something had been wet and moldy. I have had to listen through paper thin walls of, shouting, fighting, and the occasional grunts from some dirty old man upstairs. The constant running trains echo inside the entire apartment building. The living room was just big enough for

The flame from Nick's lighter danced in the darkness as he lit his cigarette. I faintly heard an aged man speak from the television "2 found dead in New York apartment..." I turned my attention towards the TV out of curiosity. "Autopsy shows the couple died of starvation, this is now the tenth time we have seen this similar situation..." Nick cleared his throat to speak, a puff of smoke escaped his lips and disappeared into the darkness of the room. I shifted my gaze towards him awaiting his thought. He spoke in a tired voice.

Elizabeth is sitting in the living room on the couch in her pajamas. The lights are dim and low and papers are scattered around her. The home is silent except for her fingers tapping away at the keyboard and the occasional shuffling of paper work. A notification sound comes from the computer. Elizabeth leans in and stares at the screen with her eyebrows crumpled as she reads. She leans back and her face becomes blank as she stares off into the distance. She closes the laptop, stands up and goes into the bedroom. As she approaches the bedroom door she reaches up to the top of the doorframe, grabs and object and puts it into the pocket of her pajama pants. Elizabeth enters the bedroom, climbs onto the bed, brings her knees to her chest, wraps

The bright white screen fills the room as I hold the remote up to the TV. I flick continuously through the channels, hoping something will take my fancy. I pause on a breaking news story. The voice of a woman fills the air as she explains. ‘A runaway escapee and murderer last seen heading towards the South end of Australia has disappeared. Anyone in the areas of’, I reach for the off button as the mumbles of voices drown out as the TV turns off. I put the remote down and shut my eyes. The dark patterns and swirls fill the darkness as I fill my mind with the endless possibilities from some of the deepest parts of my mind. I replay the series of my day over and over in my head. Replacing the mistakes in the day and presenting myself with what

I was an only an 11 year old child with only my dad to raise me up, my mother had passed away from a heart attack when I was only five years old. My dad was a boxer that would always come home beaten up. I would have to patch him up every time that he would lose a fight and come home with cuts and bruises on his head.

I do not belong to an American lineage. I originate from the beautiful country of Nigeria, in West Africa. My grandfather once told me a special enlightening statement that I will never overlook. “Life without knowledge of one’s roots is useless. Once you truly begin to learn and experience your roots, your perception of life fluctuates.” Nigeria is the home of over 500 languages. My grandfather can speak and comprehend English, French and my tribal language Yoruba. 10 years ago, my family held a reunion in Nigeria. Every individual family member there communicated by speaking in French and Yoruba, however, I stood there bewildered.

I softly said to Scar “I’m sorry, I’m too late.” We hugged with each others tears flowing onto our backs. But Scar wasn’t done fighting, she whispered to me,