Grace Williams Narrative

Grace Williams
Mr. Blair
9/16/18
The Flea Market
My name is Fern Elizabeth Brown. I am eleven years old. I go to a small school on the edge of London. Today is the twenty-third of November, 1945. My eleventh birthday. It is a bit foggy outside. After my lessons are over for the day, I start to walk home. I take the long way, past the flea market. They have lots of pretty things there. Maybe I can pick out something for my birthday. Sometimes, when I don’t want to be home right away, I walk the long way. My mother tells me not to go the long way because it is through a bad part of town. I do it anyway. I like going to the market to look at the pretty white china and pearl necklaces. I am not old enough to wear pearls yet. When I arrive at the market, I see a woman standing at a cart that has puppets on it. I walk over to the cart, and the woman standing there looks a bit sick, or scared. I look up at her and ask her what is wrong. She replies by shaking her head no. No? No, what? No, nothing is wrong? Oh, well. Why bother. I turn away from the woman and look back at the puppets. There is one that I am particularly drawn to. It is a man’s head with a hat and a mustache. The puppet reminds me of my uncle George.

Jules Donnelly Narrative

Today my son asked me about his school project, “What is the hardest thing that has happen to you?” I wasn’t sure how to answer that, but my son was going to know sooner then later. I sat him down and told him that my life was not always like it is now, living on a few acres, a close family, and a stable amount of money.

On May 23^rd, 1985, what I thought was just a regular day turned out to be the worst day of my life. The night before, I was in bed and heard mom and dad screaming at each other about not having enough money to live in our house and buy food for us to eat. I thought it was like all the other fights they had. In the morning they would make up, and mom would make dad coffee and toast, but mom did not wake up to make dad his coffee and toast. I though she might be sick. Like every day, dad told me good luck at school and make him proud. I had a great day at school and had buffalo chicken for lunch which was my favorite. When I came home, all my stuff was packed and on the porch. I walked in and my parents sat me down on the couch. Mom started off by saying everything will be okay. Dad then told me that we were going to have to move across the country to live with grandma and grandpa for a little while, but mom was going to stay home.

What I didn’t know was that I would never see my dad again. Now son, I promise you this will never ever happen to you, and I will always be there to support you. No matter what life throws at you, there is always a way to overcome it.

Lilly Doud Narrative

I had always wondered what people thought when they walked by me on the streets. Was it pity, or maybe disgust. Id understand why they felt bad for me and I also could understand why I disgusted them. I was a 27-year-old mother with three kids and no home, but everything I had always went to my kids. It the stigma of living on the streets that lead to the stares and nasty looks, knowing the thought going through their heads was “how could a mother allows this for her children”. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was knowing that I had nothing to bring my family home to, we had no place that really felt like home.

Every morning, I took the kids to the public bathroom on 38^th Street and got them ready for school at 4 am before it got crowded, just to avoid the stares and whispers as washed their clothes in the sinks and they cleaned up next to me. The biggest struggle was always finding food, and it took me 6 months ask, maybe because I was embarrassed or just had too much pride, but I did and after explaining our situation, the administration gave them free breakfast and lunch, and I couldn’t thank them enough. After I walked them to school and dropped them off, I began looking for work. I had never had a real job, because I married right out of school and the children became my job, but I went to every small dinner and grocer I could find looking for work. If I was really desperate, I would tell them my story, hoping for a pity day of work, and surprisingly, it worked a lot.

I used the pity story at the interview that saved us. I told this tall man with grey hair and a cane that my husband left me alone with three young children for another woman, and took everything. There was something about this man that made him so easy to talk to and for the first time since, I had cried talking about my situation. Maybe he did just feel bad, but for some odd reason, I felt more empathy then pity from him.

I know it’s not his real name, but we always called him Mr. T, and after working in his diner for 6 moths, I had enough saved for a one room apartment lease down payment. I immediately went to tell Mr. T, as we had become good friends over the time I’d worked for him. He looked up bright eyed and immediately told me not too. I was so confused and asked why, and all he said was “follow me”. We went to the back of the dinner and he opened a door id always assumed was a closet, but it was stairs. I followed him up to find a two-bedroom apartment right above the diner. It was small and musky, but it was perfect. And from the moment I walked in, I could tell, this was home.

Bryn Fitzkee Narrative

Bryn Fitzkee

9/13/18 

         There was a cowboy looking guy on Rome street. Every day he would stand of the corner of the street, leaning on a mailbox. He would stand there and smoke a cigarette every day at the same exact time, every day. It was like his life was on repeat and everyone wanted to know why he would be so consistent, getting there at 6:32 PM and standing in the same exact spot.
         One day, he finally got asked about it. Mrs. Scott asked him, “Why are you always here, smoking those cigarettes at the same exact time every day?” He just shrugged and looked away. But old Mrs. Scott wouldn’t leave him alone. At first, the cowboy said, “It’s just the time I get off work every day. I always come here and smoke a cigarette after work, before I go home.” But Mrs. Scott knew something was up. 
        They talked for a while and the cowboy asked if he could share some information with her. She said of course. He told her that his wife died. They were high school sweethearts and she was standing right there on the corner of Rome street, on that exact trash can one day. When, suddenly, she felt a huge pain in her heart. Like nothing she’s ever experienced before. She fell to the ground rapidly and died right there on the scene. He said he rushed her to the hospital but it was too late. It was said that she had a heart attack. And he says every day when he stands there, he feels her presence, he feels her right there standing next to him and it gives him comfort. Mrs. Scott gave him a big hug and told him he could always come to her home for comfort and love if he needed it. He really appreciated that. Now he knows the whole town has his back. The mystery has been solved. The cowboy turned out to be a really genuine, kind guy and he still shows up at that trashcan every day, but this time with people standing there already, waiting for him. He’s never felt more loved. 

Tyler Leach Narrative

The New Kid

It was a cold fall day in New York City and my friends, Joe and Steve and I were outside leaning against a rail watching some guys playing basketball across the street.  I was the new kid in town and didn’t know many people, but Joe and Steve knew these guys and have had trouble with them before.  We lived in the Bronx, but those guys were from Queens. 

Joe turned to Steve and I and said, “Look at those fools over there thinking that they can come over here and own our court.  I think we ought to go challenge them for the court.”

Steve agreed with Joe as he also didn’t like those guys, but initially I was timid.  I was the new one here, so I didn’t think I had any business going over and trying to kick these guys out of the court.

But, I didn’t want Steve and Joe to stop hanging out with me so of course I agreed that we should go kick them off. 

The three of us walked over to them and Steve and Joe began to argue with them.  They refused to leave so Steve said, “We will play you for the court.  If you win you guys can come here whenever you want.  But, if we win then you three leave here and never come back.”

They all looked at each other with smirks on their faces as they thought they would be able to win easily and agreed to the challenge.  We set the rules and began the game.

I wasn’t a big basketball guy, and I feared that I would let Steve and Joe down.  Having this court to ourselves was on the line and I didn’t want to disappoint them.

The score was 19-19 and we were playing to 21.  I knew if I was going to impress them I would have to win this game so when they had the ball and tried to pass it down low I jumped in front and stole it.  I then dribbled out and took a shot with a hand in my face and made it so we won the game!

I was so excited and proud of myself because Steve and Joe were so happy, and I knew I had made new friends that day.

Emily Smith Narrative

          Dirt Road

        Never did I think I would find this scene when I decided to venture down a dirt road along the countryside. I remember when I visited my aunt here when I was a child with my parents, that there was a town thirty miles down the dirt road. “The children who live there are unruly,’ my aunt used to say, “Those are not the kids who play by the rules or see success in their life, those are the kids who get in trouble with the law for the fun of it.” When I was a teenager, when I craved that rebellion all adolescents do, I wanted to travel down that dirt road and find out just how unruly the kids were.

         I could see the town in the distance. Less of town and more of a collection of dilapidated buildings that seemed to be begging to be rebuilt, to have some sort of support. There was a road that turned off the main drag that seemed to be calling out to me. Somewhere inside of me I could hear my sixteen-year-old self-begging for me to go down, it was as if I could taste the alcohol on my lips and smell the tobacco. 

         When I pulled up in front of that house, I saw her immediately. She was standing by the dirt road wearing a white dress with not a spec of dirt on her, blonde hair down, looking at what appeared to be her little brother jumping on a trampoline and with what I believed was her little sister beside her. It wasn’t her appearance that threw me off, it was the rolled up paper in her hand with tobacco in it. I was appalled on how an adolescent like her could, who couldn’t even be fourteen was smoking a cigarette so casually like it was nothing. She was killing herself, a “cancer stick” as my parents always told me. Yet something about her made me overwhelmed with jealousy, I wanted to be her when I was younger. I wanted to hang out with people like her, I wanted to be like her, yet she looked at me like she knew everything about me, like she was rubbing it in that I was never cut out for a life like hers.

         As I sat in my truck I thought for the first time just how little I had done with my life. To this day I had still never smoked a cigarette and I felt like I was an utter hypocrite, wanting to be wild and rebellious, but forever in the world of rule followers, whose parents wanted them to grow up and hold a steady job but never adventure down the dirt road.

         Snapping a picture of her, I found myself starting to press on the accelerator again, I couldn’t look at her anymore, I couldn’t be around her anymore. So I gave her one more final look, I felt her eyes gaze over me as if all of my secrets were spilling out, and I continued down the dirt road.

James Hughes Narrative

James Hughes

Robert Frank Narrative

H English 102

What Comes Around…

Drip……drip……drip. There it was again. That maddening sound that didn’t so much annoy me as it reminded me of all the bills that needed to get paid. My name is Eric Ward. The health inspector came in today, and what he told me next wasn’t exactly inspiring. “You better get this dump into better shape or you won’t be able to serve anyone here before the month’s out,” he told me. There was no sympathy in his eyes as he said it, and just like that, three years of my life were gone. I had struggled to buy this place, to manage it virtually on my own, and it was all for nothing. Rent was due soon, and I barely had enough to pay for that, much less fix my leaking roof or deep clean the place. I closed up the bar for the night and went home to my apartment down the block. The street was a little darker than normal, some of the streetlamp bulbs had burnt out and public services hadn’t gotten around to replace them. I heard a soft call, a plead for help, coming from nearby. Was it my imagination? No, there was a small figure sitting on a doorstep not far from me. A bundle of clothes, shivering and calling quietly. I don’t live in the best neighborhood, and I was a little anxious to get home because I was never out this late. But something about how pitiful the bundle was made me want to know more. I approached the bundle and called to it. The bundle looked up at me from its sorrows. I kneeled on one knee introduced myself. The bundle had a name, Olivia, which she told me. I asked her why she was crying. “I’m lost,” she replied, with a little sniffle, “I ran away from home and I don’t know how to get back.” I asked if she had a last name, she said it was Clarke. A common name, I thought. I asked her if she would like to come with me to the local police station, so they could find her parents. She hesitated for a moment, then agreed. On the way I talked to Olivia. She was shy, and didn’t say much, but she wore nice clothes and the way she talked marked her as well educated. Once we arrived at the police station the police agreed to find her parents and took my name, phone number, and address just in case they needed me again. I would have liked to stay until Olivia’s parents arrived, but it was very late, and I had to work the next day. I finally returned to my apartment and fell into a deep sleep, knowing that I would have to return to the bar in only a couple hours.

            I woke up the next day late, late enough that I missed opening my bar at the normal time. I rushed to get ready and headed down to the bar. If I didn’t make money I wouldn’t be able to pay rent for my apartment and certainly not enough to fix the bar. I only made about half my profits that day and wouldn’t be able to pay rent for my apartment, meaning I might have to start sleeping in the bar relatively soon, which would also be permanently closed within a week. And it was Olivia’s fault. If I hadn’t stopped to help her that night, I might have at least made rent for my apartment. But speak of the devil, there she was. In my bar. I stopped for a second, then continued with my business. A taller man stood behind her, his face oddly similar to hers. The man introduced himself as Mr. Clarke. I offered him a drink, he politely turned me down. “I wanted to thank you for helping my daughter last night. You didn’t have to do that, and I don’t know what would have happened to her if you hadn’t gotten her to the police,” Mr. Clarke said. “For all the good it did me,” I said, “This bar will be closed within the week and it’s partially because I spent my time doing that.” Mr. Clarke frowned at that. “Why would you be closing?” he asked. I explained my situation to Mr. Clarke, the rent, the leaks, the health inspector. Mr. Clarke smiled and said, “Lucky for you, I’m a businessman that buys restaurants and refurbishes them in order for them to turn a profit. I’ve had my eye on yours for weeks, and when I found out that you were the one who owned it and helped my daughter I was quite delighted. I would normally buy the place after it closed, but since it appears I am in your debt I think I will purchase and refurbish your bar.” “How does that make me lucky,” I asked, “This bar is still mine. Not yours. I’m not selling out.” Mr. Clarke’s smile grew. “That’s the catch,” he said, “You will be able to run and maintain full ownership of your bar after I am finished refurbishing it, as long as a small portion of your earnings go to me at the end of the month. Let us say, until the refurbishment costs are paid. In the meantime, I will make you my employee, which will grant you a substantial salary to pay off your outstanding rent costs.” I stared at him in disbelief, “You would do that? Why?” Mr. Clarke looked at Olivia as he spoke, “You brought my daughter back to me. She means everything to me. I am simply returning the favor.” Of course, I accepted the offer.