Amanda B.’s Story
Explanation: Amanda started smoking in fifth grade, and by age 13, she smoked every day. Over time, smoking crept into every corner of her life. She was so addicted that she ducked outside to smoke throughout the day, even during Wisconsin’s bitter cold winters.
Biographies and memoirs are examples of factual stories,
Biographies and memoirs are examples of factual stories
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Explanation:example of functional story is novels and short stories that is the example of fictional stories
Her longtime friend was impossible to read, as usual, and she saw the similarity in features between him and Andre.
i hope it can help
Leah, age 52, started smoking cigarettes when she was a teenager. She continued to smoke on and off into adulthood, sometimes smoking more heavily when she felt stressed.
Leah was 45 years old when she started having stomach pain and losing weight. She was a single parent with one income and no health insurance, and she worried that she couldn’t afford to be sick. But when the pain became unbearable, Leah had to get medical help. That’s when she was diagnosed with colorectal cancer from smoking.
Leah’s son, Asaad, was 19 years old at the time. His young life was just beginning, but he immediately put everything on hold to become Leah’s full-time caregiver. He quickly learned how to grocery shop and cook meals, manage a household budget, schedule doctors’ appointments, and keep his mother’s spirits up. For Asaad, choosing to care for Leah was simple. “This is the person who brought me into the world, so I stand by her,” Asaad said. “Being there – that’s what a son is.”
Leah’s cancer progressed to Stage 4 as it spread to her lungs, and in 2016, she had a tumor removed from her left lung. She also quit smoking for good after several attempts. After seeing the harmful effects cigarettes had on Leah, Asaad is proud of his mother for quitting. Now 25 years old, Asaad is certain he’ll never start smoking.
Lucy Corin, “Miracles”
WE WATCHED OUR FATHER take the jar out to the patio on the day we had been waiting for since he put the spider into it with its egg sac. It was a black widow spider which we knew never to touch in the garden and to know by the red bow on its belly. We’d been living in the country since our stark raving mad mother started calling the apartment from her orbit. Our father lay down near the jar, on his side. He was always showing us stuff around the farm. He was growing a beard, always tired and patient. There was a barn with a horse in it we were taking care of. He said a lot about learning to take care of others as a part of growing up, and we watched him with eyes too big for our heads. We gathered around the jar and put our noses to it in turn, looking for the movement he said to look for in the egg sac, how you could see it was time by shadows crossing. We were getting a little bored when the babies started to come out, just like he said. They were smaller than anything, and the big mother spider, you couldn’t tell if she was paying attention. The babies were spreading out over the inside of the jar, the miracle of life. They were making their ways to the air holes punched in the lid. Our father just watched and commented for our benefit. He put a stick to an air hole and we watched babies crawl up it. Spiders crawl their whole lives. We watched, but some of our attention wandered. We were new to the countryside, new life surrounding us. I remember a lot of things from that place besides this. After the apocalypse, a brother of mine said, “Do you remember if you were nervous with all those poison spiders radiating from the jar? Do you remember that we didn’t have any insect spray because we’d just moved out there but he had a can of hairspray and that’s what he sprayed on them, just as they were getting away? Why did we have hairspray? Was it hers?”
Sappia the Goddess (the Rice Myth)