Welcome to Frankie Youje's page.

Saturday, November 1, 2014

Frankie Youje

Frankie Youje

My name is Franck Y. but everyone calls me Frankie. I'm mixed.
 I grew up in four countries and I speak three languages.

My dream is to be published one day and i work very hard for it.
I do speak French and even if I reside in the States now, I know, it's easy to me to express all my emotions in that language but in the other hand, i do write in English and Italian too.

Writing is a part of me; to save my sanity and to express myself and I can't spend a day without it.       I remember, i started writing when I was around 6 years old.

I don't think that i can not be able to write about happiness by example but i just have a mystery and personal type of writing.


Beside my passion for writing
I'm an only child
I'm addicted to Vans sneakers and to Scrabble
I'm a very shy person at first when i'm surrounded to people that i do not know.
I like to hang out by myself sometimes (I don't know why but maybe because i'm an only child)
I love bookstores, art galleries, going out to eat, travelling, discovering new places, to movies, sporting events, parks and concerts.
I love Sports (Tennis and Basketball)
I used to run track in high school
I love acting and used to act when I was in high school and played in theater.

I do not have a Facebook page, a Twitter page, a Tumblr page and an Instagram page.

01:44 PM

I always have to put myself in an extreme situation, to produce the best of me.

01:44 PM

This time it's completely different from the type I am used to.  The story will takes place in a travel bus.
A young woman is murdered. At first, it's weird but we'll see later, that all the passengers on this bus have a link with Megan the deceased victim.

01:44 PM is not a random title here.

I'm not done yet and I still got so many ideas in my mind.
 I want to add so many elements in and take so many elements out... Its pretty much a fog right now...

Imma keep thinking and writing.

I still refuse to believe it.

I still refuse to believe it and even three years later; Amy Winehouse's death.

It was a shock literally.
Its not a secret and everybody knew how much I loved her.

The way I learned the bad news.

- I was at work and at 4 pm 02 to be exact, my friend Stephen who lives in Texas sent me a text message and asked me if I heard what happened to her.
I was not able to read the message at first because, my phone was on vibrate, I was doing my duties and I was talking to customers. Then one hour later, he called me (At this time I didn't open the message yet) and asked me if I was okay.. I responded to him yes, that I was okay, at work presently and that I couldn't stay on the phone due to my duties. I hung up with him then I went to my text messaging to open the message.
I couldn't believe it. He wrote to me: Frankie, did you heard about Amy Winehouse?
I don't know why but I started to feel that something was wrong and I tried to understand why he was insisting to know if I was okae. I went quickly to the restroom, I opened my phone and googled Amy Winehouse. And there the shock. The shock. I didn't even finished to type her name that I read ''Amy Winehouse's death.''
I was shaking and impossible to breathe normally. I ran into the store and past into the customers and went to see a friend of mine and told her... Omg Amy is died. She was like what? I repeated. Amy Winehouse is died.
She said Frankie: It's a bad joke right? I said No... While I was talking to her, she saw me  how I was shaking and about to fall.

2 minutes after that I talked to her, I don't even know what happened. I just know that I sent a text message back my friend Stephen and that I went to hide myself in the restroom and I cried.
My mommy called me because she was worried about myself. She tried to make me feel better but unfortunately at that moment she couldn't.

I found very nice that all my friends in school here and in France sent me messages and that they wanted to know how i was feeling after the bad news.

I still feel sad but I know that everything is okay. I know she's in heaven and that her heart is in peace now.

R.I.P Amy Winehouse. September 14 - 1983 / July 23 2011

I 'll always love you.

- Frankie Youje -


What is love?
What is really the meaning of love?
Anybody can give his own definition but the whole question about love is complex and more complicated than that.

Love for God
Love for his parents
Love for his partner - boyfriend - girlfriend
Love for his family
Love for his friends
Love, Love and Love again... so many kind of Love.

- I always had and I have a good relationship with God since I was a kid.
I went to private schools and in 9th grade, I received the baptism.

- I don't really have any memories about my younger childhood and everything has always been a blackout in my mind. Growing up, I heard so many different versions about it.
Mommy was living in France and dad in Germany.
At that period, I felt myself  kind of lonely and depressed because I was always left at home with nannies and domestic workers.

- Nothing hurts so much that when you are truly in love with someone and that you notice that things aren't the same.
For myself, if you want things to work out or built a real relationship, you have to be patient, you have to communicate; you have to be able to listen to your partner, able to make compromises etc. Simply be yourself and real at the end of the day.
If things still doesn't work out, just let it go, It wasn't just for you.

I can sound old fashioned for someone of my age but I am not the type of guy who likes to have sex just for the meaning of having sex. It's just not who I'm and I'm blessed to have both of my parents there for me and be able to talk to them about anything and everything.


I don't pretend to  be'' a special one'' but I'm true to myself and when I am in love, I am hundred percent faithful, loyal and committed. I am the most supportive person. the most attentive, the most caring and the most loving person towards my partner.

My weakness; sometimes I can be very clumsy and act as a fool.

Friday, October 31, 2014

Behind the Mirror

Titled  "Behind the mirror" was an expression.
Like the behind of people, the other side of people, the real and true side. The side that most people don't know or just don't wanna know. 
The mirror as the reflection of every individual.


Minuit Quarante-huit.
La nuit est si sombre, calme et paisible. Les rues désertes, la ville et la population endormie.
Jaon est la, assis sur ce banc public du parc national, il scrute les étoiles dans le ciel d'un air évasif et a gorge déployée il s'oxygène. Il souffle du vent de plus en plus, les feuilles des arbres se mettent a virevoltees dans tous les sens; au lointain le gazouillement des oiseaux lui parvient jusqu'aux oreilles. Tout semble si euphorique et il fait vraiment magnifique en ce soir de début de Mai.
Vêtu d'un jeans XL, il avait enfile a la va vite un gros pull-over, ce rouge son préféré, sous un t-shirt blanc et avait pris le soin de porter ces chaussures noir en caoutchouc, cadeau de sa grand-mère.  Mélange de légèreté et de confort. Une fugue? A l'idée d'y penser, il eut un sourire du bout des lèvres.
Certes on aurait pu y penser effectivement a chacune de ses virées nocturnes; tout comme Gaspard, le vieil homme borgne, au visage chevalin, qui faisait souvent office de Sdf dans les rues a cette heure. Pensif, il s'etait toujours demander, comment un homme de cet âge, soit au physique ingrat, avait bien pu tourner pour se retrouver ainsi. Il faisait  partir du spectacle, seule  tache au tableau...

I am tired.... Imma keep posting the rest tomorrow.


The story is about an overweight woman named Melanie.
She's a depressed woman, and she lost herself somewhere along between her demons, her fantasies and her true self.

A night after having caught her husband with an another woman, everything changed.
Nothing seemed easy as usual and she will fight pages after pages.


Nue devant sa glace elle regardait ce gros corps, cette montagne de graisse.
Il ne ressemblait à rien.  Même pas a une femme, rien qu'un gros sac. A mi-voix elle se répétait : "Sale grosse truie, putain de sale grosse truie, grosse vache." Les yeux pleins de larmes parce qu'il s'agissait bien d'elle. Evocations tranchantes d'un quotidien noir et dedrames intimes. Elle se sent  blessée et humiliée. Elle venait de perdre Stephane, le seul homme pour qui, elle s'etait toujours devoueé et abandonnée, le seul homme pour qui, durant toutes ces années...

I can't post the rest of the story.

This was one of my another short novel titled Melanie.

Saturday November 1st - 2:25 AM

2:25 AM in the morning.
I know, I should be in my bed at this time, and not here and typing this but I have to do it.
I don't know why, but even if everything seems perfect, I do know that something is missing.

I can't actually put a name on it  but I know it.
Should I call my mom
Should I call my dad
Should I call him


The Melancholy of Sunday

This is one of the first short novel that I wrote; and I  ain't gonna lie, it's the one I am the most proud of to be the author.
 The title instantly came to me and Gosh... I still remember that Sunday morning of April 2nd in Morocco.

I am not gonna write down here all the story because I have to keep a part and also I am afraid (I think it's the word) to see someone else steal it and I have to say, everything here is exclusive to my rights and image.

The original version was wrote in French and here we go, a part of the story.

The Melancholy of Sunday

Les cloches sonnent et l'heure du repas; il est donc déjà midi-trente, le temps passe si vite et puis pourquoi descendre pour manger? La faim n'a plus grande importance pour moi, si seulement je n'étais pas né, aurais-je autant souffert? Je ne pense pas. Mon statut d'enfant « in désiré » ou encore « non souhaite » comme d'autres diraient, ma infligé depuis tout petit, l'allure d'un adolescent triste, malheureux et peu chanceux, car la seule chance que j'ai eu, c'est de me retrouver dans cet orphelinat. Le fait d'avoir été abandonner par mes parents très jeunes, m'a mis dans une relation très familière avec une vague interminable de souffrances. Depuis lors, j'ai vu devant moi, se dérouler le film de ma vie tel une mélodie triste qui pour moi devrait s'achever maintenant sur son dernier accord de musique.
J'essaye de mettre des noms sur les visages qui défilent dans ma tète; tout me parait noir, flou, sombre; j'insiste, je tiens a tout prix a me rappeler au moins d'un heureux évènement qui se serait déroulé au cours de ces dernières années, mais en vain. Je me revois gamin, tout chétif, jouant dans la cours de l'orphelinat et j'entends encore la voix de Madame Nyolo, la responsable et directrice du centre, me criant : «Arrête de jouer ainsi Julian, tu pourrais tomber et te faire mal...», on aurait dit une mère poule protégeant ses petits, toujours aux aguets et attentive au moindre geste incorrect. Ah! Tellement de souvenirs dans ma tête, malheureux rares sont ceux qui se présentent comme étant merveilleux.

Il est temps de rejoindre les autres, mais ce lit m'attire à nouveau, j'ai l'impression de tomber de jour en jour dans la torpeur; il est certes vrai que certains trouveront invraisemblable que l'on puisse perdre le gout de la vie a dix-neuf - ans et que l'on puisse tout trouver amer, lugubre, voir même funeste; mais la vie elle ne m'a jamais fait de cadeaux.

Es ce déjà la fin? Je veux ouvrir les yeux, mais le rayon lumineux qui éclaire la pièce à travers les rideaux me fait les refermer aussitôt. La pendule ne cesse de me rappeler à quel point le temps passe vite; c'est fou! Il est déjà dix-huit - heures alors que j'ai l'impression d'avoir passé une éternité sur ce lit. Le monde s'arrête de plus en plus pour moi. Il faut que je me cramponne au revers du lit, il faut que je me lève, que je quitte cette pièce qui de suite me parait morbide. Mes jambes me font atrocement souffrir ainsi que mon être tout entier. J'entends des cris venant d'en bas, il faut que j'appelle à l’aide; mais qu'es ce qu'ils font? il ne m'entendent pas, tout devient de plus en plus bruyant de leur cote.

Vingt-trois heures, toujours rien, personne ne vient et le centre me semble subitement calme. Etrange qu'ils n'aient tout de même pas remarqué mon absence au repas de midi et au diner. Mais ce n'est pas très surprenant. J'ai toujours été renfermer dans mon coin et ils n'auraient pas pu faire autrement. Ils ont l'habitude. Le tic - tac des aiguilles rend ma respiration plus lente comme de même elles évoluent dans la pendule a laquelle elles sont ...