The stench that consistently surrounded her was one of her own stool and gas.
Labeled as a burden, she had forgotten what it was like to be touched, and the only voice to listen to was her own.
No one dared to console her. So the only comfort she felt was her hand brushing the hair away from her own face.
On Oct. 4, 2012, we – two young reporters – attended our first committee meeting at city hall. We had, as one could only expect, certain expectations going into the meeting.
For one, we assumed that the meeting would be held in council chambers.
We also assumed that we would come away from the meeting with an eye-opening story.
Both of our assumptions were wrong.
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A journalism professor once told me that every person has a story to tell. I was skeptical at first. How could everyone have a story that's worth telling?
A local Mac's store cashier or a seemingly random group of people gathered at a bar – do their stories really shape our city?
Three years down the road, I have witnessed and listened to stories of success, heartbreak and even the paranormal.