Final Short Story

Jack Yakowicz

Pd. 2

5 Years Ago

It took me a while to cope with death. It took my mom longer. I was only 13 when my father was murdered by a woman named Emily Waters. Emily was my father’s co-worker at Blue World Corporation, and was obsessed with my father. She would send provocative texts, e-mails, and letters in an attempt to seduce my father, and split him up with my mother. Not only was Emily’s lust professionally unacceptable, it was also morally wrong. My dad, Howard Green, was 43 years old at the time of his murder. Emily was only 25.

                I was woken up by the sound of my mom’s scream. It wasn’t a scream for help though; it was a scream of despair. I ran out of my bed and down the hall, towards my parents’ bedroom. The scarlet stain had already started crawling underneath the closed door. I flung open the door in time to see my father’s last breath, as my mom kneeled over his bed. The window to their bed room was wide open, and a sharp wind made its way through the flimsy curtains. I saw Emily drop her gun, and jump out of the window, with a fearful look on her face. She was a very attractive woman, with long brown hair and a baby face. I remember the mix of emotions I felt as I watched Emily jump out of the window. Part of me wanted to jump out after her, chase her down, and shoot her with the same weapon she used to take away my mom’s heart; the other part of me wanted to just sit and admire her beauty.

                My father died on July 7^th, 2006. My mother was never the same since. A letter written from Emily was found in my dad’s coat pocket when the investigative team came to my house. The letter was short; all it said was “If I can’t have you, she can’t either.” Naturally, my mother took the burden of my father’s passing upon herself. She told me, “Joey, I am so sorry. This was all my fault.” She always took responsibility for her family’s troubles. I guess it was just the motherly thing to do.  The investigators hung around my house for a couple of days. My mom told them exactly who committed the crime: Emily Waters. She described every physical characteristic she could about Emily, gave the cops Emily’s home address (which she found on one of the letters that my dad had received), and handed her weapon to the police. None of it was any use. Apparently Emily had ditched the city right after she murdered my father and she was wearing black gloves which concealed her fingerprints from showing up on the gun. My dad’s murderer got away scotch-free, which hurt my mom even more. Her face seemed to age five years for every one calendar year.

                It was April 5^th, 2011. There was a brown paper bag filled with my lunch that my mom set out on the counter for me to grab before I left for school. I unlocked my Honda, threw my backpack in the backseat, and jetted off. Days were incredibly long at Rose Creek High, and I was just ready to graduate and get the hell out of this city. Ever since my dad passed, everything got greyer. That was the best way to describe the city; grey. A couple of my best friends, the Jordan twins, had moved out last fall so I had become increasingly anti-social. I sat in the back of Physics class thinking about college, when Mrs. Gilbert struck my attention.

                “Excuse me, class,” she pleaded, “we have a new student to introduce, and I want you all to make her feel very comfortable. Give a big welcome to Kayla Hawkins.”

                Kayla was the most beautiful girl I had ever laid eyes on.  She looked so familiar, as though God had shown me a picture of her in one of my dreams before. She had short, blonde hair with a beauty mark on her right cheek and the brightest blue eyes I had ever seen. If God were to sculpt the perfect woman, she still couldn’t match the beauty of Kayla. 

                “Well, Kayla it looks like the only spot we have is in the back of the room there next to Joey.”

                My heart sunk. I was excited, but nervous. I was ecstatic, but terrified. I was fidgety, but composed. I didn’t know whether I should say “hi,” or just give a subtle wave. She settled that for me, though. As she walked passed my desk, she gave a faint smile and said “I guess this is hello.” I shyly grunted, and tried to give a smile back. My mouth didn’t move.

                The next six weeks, until the end of the semester, were the best days I had experienced since my dad’s passing. Every morning was a treat to know that I would soon be graced by Kayla’s presence. After a week or so, my shyness had finally passed and Kayla and I became very close. Four weeks after meeting her, on May 2^nd, I asked Kayla to go out with me. She showed me those pearly white teeth that I had become so fond of, and nodded her head to say “yes.” Our relationship was great. After two months of having a crush on her, I still got the butterflies every time I saw her. Prom passed, graduation passed, and it was the summer once again. I knew that time was running thin with our relationship, given that we would both be leaving for college in the fall, but it didn’t matter. If anything it just made us cherish our time together even more. One night, near the end of June, Kayla asked me how come I’ve never introduced her to my mom. I wanted to tell Kayla all about my father’s death, and how my mom had turned to a stone-cold, solemn woman, but I couldn’t.

                “I don’t know. Maybe you want to come over to my house for dinner next weekend?”

                “I would love to,” she responded with a bright grin.

                When I got home that night, I went into my mom’s bedroom to tell her that I invited Kayla over for dinner.  She said that she was excited to meet her, but her lack of expression notified me that it was a lie. I knew it was unrealistic to expect my mom to be happy about my new girlfriend, but I just hoped that she would put on an act for Kayla, so that Kayla felt at home.

                “Mom, this girl means a lot to me,” I stammered.

                “I know, Joey. Good night.” She rolled back over on her side, and turned off the lamp on her nightstand.

                It was Saturday, July 7^th. The 5 year anniversary of my father’s death, and Kayla’s first time meeting my mom. I was nervously preparing the table for dinner, and checking the chicken in the oven, when I heard the door bell ring. Through the stain glass windows beside my front door, I saw Kayla’s vibrant face. She was wearing a bright pink v-neck, and faded jeans, with a gold purse over the top of her left shoulder.

                “So, where is she? Where’s your mom?” she asked to me, with a nervous look on her face.

                “Nice to see you, too,” I said jokingly. She didn’t laugh. I brought Kayla upstairs to my mom’s bedroom and said to my mom, “I have someone for you to meet, mom.”

                The second that Kayla stepped into my mom’s bedroom she pulled a long, black object out of her purse and then threw it on the ground. She pulled off her beautiful, long blonde hair, revealing her true brunette locks. She peeled off the beauty mark on the side of her cheek, and took out her blue-enhanced eye contacts. I finally realized why she looked so familiar the first time I saw her. It wasn’t because I had seen her in my dreams; it was because I had seen her in reality. I had seen her for the first time exactly five years prior, when she hurdled out of my parents’ bedroom window. I had started a relationship with my father’s killer, and the woman who ruined my mother’s life. And now, I invited the killer into the house and into my mom’s bedroom.

                “I should have done this a long time ago,” said Emily as she fired the gun at my mom. My mom dropped to the ground, and Emily tossed the gun on the bed. She grabbed her gold purse, and made her way out of the bedroom window, as I ran to my mom’s side with my cell phone ready to call 9-1-1. Emily Waters ruined my life, twice. As I started to dial the three-digit number, I suddenly stopped. I realized that they couldn’t stop fate. I walked over to the bed, and picked up the weapon that Emily had just used. It was heavier than I expected, but light enough for me to handle comfortably. I took the gun to my own head, and dropped to the floor beside my mom. The autopsy of my body showed that I committed suicide on July 7^th, 2011. I don’t care what it said: Emily Waters killed me.

Daily Journal-- 4/7/11

I think there are some very positive things we do in this class and some things that could use improvement.

My favorite thing we did in here was the poetry unit. I think the understanding of poetry is essential for a lot of students so that they can truly understand the music they listen to. I think the term "poetry" has a very negative connotation for guys especially, because it's thought to be soft, romantic shit. What people don't understand is that Nas, Eminem, Kanye West, Jay Z, and every other "hard" artist are all poets. I don't think anyone can truly appreciate song writing until they try to write a song, or poem, on their own. Also poem writing is a very creative way of expression, and in my opinion, it's very therapeutic. I also like the fact that we did "daily lyrics" in this class. What other class do we get to show off our favorite artists? And it really makes us think about the deeper meaning in songs, plus its a good way to start the day (even though I barely liked any of the songs that my classmates showed). I think learning what music people listen to is a great way of discovering more about someone that you don't know.

The one negative about this class that comes to my head right away is the daily journals. Daily Journals used to be a lot easier for me to write, but after doing it every day for a quarter, you just run out of things to say and the writings become a lot more bland and boring. I think the idea of improv writing is very cool, but it just gets too repetitive doing it for ten minutes every day. I would suggest either shortening the time to 3-5 minutes, or making the "daily" journal more of an every other day thing.

Overall I did really enjoy this class. I do a lot of song-writing in my free time regardless, and I think it's cool to have a class that supports that creative form of writing. This is one of the first english class where I've felt that I have the opportunity to workout that creative part of my brain, and where I don't have to rely on some sort of format or structure to my papers. I think you did a good job of teaching the class and supplying us with cool assignments to spark people's interest in writing. I personally already was very interested in writing, so the class was kind of a natural mold for me to dive into, and I didn't have to push my limits too much to come up with creativity in my writing. But I know that a lot of people struggle with writing, and needed a class like this to allow them some wiggle-room in their essays/stories. All-in-all it was a cool class, and I'd really suggest it to any underclassmen.

Daily Journal-- 4/6/11

It was 11:30 and I was getting ready to go to lunch. I walked around the cafeteria, and found the familiar faces of my friends at a table near the south windows. I sat down, pulled out my sandwich and bag of Lays chips, and dug in. Then, I saw him rolling up. I knew what the ensuing question was going to be, and I dreaded it. He asked me, "Hey! Let me sit here."

I quickly tried to eat all of my food before he got a chance to start eating his, because I knew I was bound to lose my apetite within the first two seconds of watching him scarf down his soft-shell tacos. "He" was Tony Metz. When Tony began eating, everyone at the table tried their hardest to not gaze over in his direction. It was like watching a Pig fill his mouth with a sloppy Joe. I wondered if his parents had ever taught him the appropriate way to eat food, because he just attacked every scrap for consumption like a dog. I accidentally looked over at him just in time to see a big glob of red meat sliding down the side of his face. He opened up his mouth, filled with tortilla, cheese, and excess meat, and said "where the ladies at?" I ran out of the lunch room, with that familiar sensation of rising vomit lurking in the bottom of my throat. That's the last time I ate lunch with him.

Daily Journal-- 4/5/11

It is June 6th, 2011 and the first day of "Jackson's Taco Bar." I developed this restaurant because I love tacos, and I have added a creative twist on the traditional americanized-mexican cuisine. In addition to serving tacos, chips, salsa, and beverages, Jackson's Taco Bar will have live entertainment in the form of belly dancers. I searched a long time to find the perfect belly dancer for the position, and hosted numerous auditions. After five days of auditioning possible dancers, I finally came across a tall, dark-skinned boy named Dillon Chauhan. Dillon was the best belly dancer I had ever seen, and he also loved tacos so it was a good fit. Every once and a while when Dillon was hungry, and needed a break I would come bring him a taco. It was a good deal that we had worked out, and he was excited for his first shift.

At 6 o'clock PM the doors open to Jackson's and twenty or more people who were waiting at the door piled in to the restaurant. Our rookie cashiers did a great job of ringing orders, and the chefs in the backroom were very quick about preparing tacos. Steak tacos were an instant hit, and many people ordered chicken and turkey as well. We chargedm $2 per taco, and 3 tacos for $5. No waitors were necessary at this restaurant, because it was a hybrid fast food chain, similar to Chipotle... but better. At 6:30 I went into the back room to check on Dillon. Dillon was meditating in a cross-legged position, apparently trying to calm himself before his big show. My daughter, who also worked at Jackson's, was applying make-up on Dillon's face. I asked him if he was ready, and without speaking he raised his hand to signal "5 more minutes."

When Dillon came out of his dress room, and into the main lobby, it was glorious. He was wearing a diamond-studded shirt that stopped right after his pectoral muscles, and revealed his tummy-hair. He let out a great roar right before the music came on in the building, and then began dancing. He was a natural. All the customers started applauding and slipping one-dollar bills under Dillon's waistline. Dillon started shimmying for the old ladies at the booth adjacent to the checkout line. In total, Jackson's Bar made $2,500 in profit that night. Dillon Chauhan made $4,000.

Final Short Story Outline

-Story is about a boy (Joey Green) who's father was murdered
-The murderer was a woman named "Emily Waters"
-Emily's original plan was to kill Joey's mom, Deborah Green, but the father found out about the plan and took the bullet for himself instead
-Emily was taken to federal prison on accounts of manslaughter and probable cause, but she escaped after 3 years.
-Emily completely redid her identity and pretended to be an 18 year old girl (she was really about 30 now) and was in the same biology class as Joey
-Emily and Joey start a relationship, and Joey introduces Emily ("Kayla Hawkins") and his mom thinks that she recognizes her, but can't pinpoint where she's seen her, and doesn't think much of it

Daily Journal-- 4/4/11

My name: Dillon Chauhan. It was a long day at Potbelly Sandwiches (where I had worked for 2 years now) and I was busy making my 157th turkey sandwich of the day, when Mr. Bigworth approached me.

"Welcome to Potbelly, how can I help you?" I asked.

"Your going to do exactly what I say, and if you try to run or search for help I put a bullet through your brain, ok?"

My nervous farts started to kick in.

Mr. Bigworth, who's name I didn't learn until I saw it on his credit card, asked me to first make him a Tuna Salad sandwich. I tried my best to make a good sandwich, but it was hard when my hands were so shaky. After I made him the sandwich, and he swiped his card (which I assumed was a fake) he instructed me to go to the backroom, take off my uniform, and sneak out the side door. From there, he grabbed my arm and put it behind my back, unlocked the door to his black Buick Lacrosse, and threw me in the backseat. He put a bag over my head, which was drenched in sweat within a minute. He told me that I was now his sandwich slave. I would not be paid, but for every 6 sandwiches that I made for him, I would get a sandwich to myself.

When we got to Mr. Bigworth's house, I was amazed how big it was. I expected some small little shack, because I figured his desire for sandwiches was due to a low income job, or unemployment. He showed me around the house a little bit, and then brought me to the laundry room. He pointed down at a metal kennel and said "that's your bed, Dillon." The first night was the worst. I couldn't sleep in that kennel, and had the worst nightmare in which I was a can of mayonnaise, and Mr. Bigworth was spreading me onto his slice of bread. It was really weird.

On the third day in the Bigworth house, I tried to escape. Mr. Bigworth left the house to go buy some more rye bread, and it was my perfect opportunity to try to leave. I took off my apron, and ran out of the kitchen towards the front door. However, just as I almost reached the door, I heard the Buick car coming back into the driveway. Bigworth must have forgotten his wallet, or something. I frantically tried to run back into the kitchen, but heard the garage door open and got nervous. I had no idea what to do, so I tried to hide under the floor rug that was in Bigworth's living room. He clearly knew I was there, because he picked up one of his chairs and started beating me under the rug.

Final SCI-FI Project

Jack Yakowicz

Pd. 2

A Century Ago

                “Game point, ladies!” It was a hot, July day at the beach on Lake Marion. I lightly tossed the multi-colored Wilson ball in my right palm. I switched the ball into my left hand, threw it up in the air, and swung my right arm towards it. The ball spun around in the wind like a globe. It made it over the seven foot net, and dropped on the sweltering sand, making a divot right next to David’s outstretched arm.

                “He does it again! Jake White, folks!” Kyle came over and tackled me into the sand. That was our third straight win, and we were each now fifteen dollars richer. Kyle, David, Luke, and I headed down to the water, laughing about Luke’s girly serve, and David’s pulled groin.

                “Was Lauren going a little too hard on you last night, bro?” David shook his hand, trying not to grin.

It was the summer after our sophomore year of college, but the four of us were still as close as ever. We had been coming to Lake Marion and playing volleyball ever since freshman year in high school, and five years later we were still sticking to the tradition. I carried my drawstring bag on my back, which had my iPod and cell phone in it, as well as a water bottle filled with Karkov. I didn’t hear my cell phone buzzing as I walked back from the water to my car, but once I got in the Jeep and opened up my bag I saw three missed calls from Professor Green.  What the hell could he want? I hadn’t talked to my physics professor since May, when I left campus for the summer. I kept driving, debating whether or not I should call him back. Professor Green was the first staff member I got to know on campus at Lyndale University, in Iowa. It was about three hours away from my hometown of Apple Valley, where I was currently spending the summer with my mom and dad. I looked at my phone again, and noticed a voice-mail that Green left me.

                “You have… one new message, from Professor Green at 3:07 on July 12^th, 2011.” I was convinced that I had the most annoying automated message system out of all my friends. I guess that’s the cost of cheap parents buying me a Virgin Mobile phone. The message continued…

                “Hey, Jake. This is Professor Green from Lyndale. I have an urgent request for you, and I don’t mean to interrupt your summer day, but if you could call me back as soon as you get this it would be greatly appreciated. Thanks.” The message ended, and inevitably so would my summer.  

                Our ensuing conversation on the phone would be very brief. Green told me about him needing to do a research project to show to the Lyndale Board of Education to keep his job. It was supposed to be a three week project, and he needed a student volunteer to help him with it. For some reason, he wanted me. I wasn’t a terrible student, but the average GPA for kids attending Lyndale was about a 3.85. I had a 3.7. By any other school’s standard, I would be doing phenomenal. By Lyndale’s standard, I was below average. He wanted me to come down on July 16^th, which left me with three and a half more days in Apple Valley. Those three and a half days zoomed by.

                I was back on I-94 traveling south. The windows were rolled down in the Jeep, and I was listening to “Below the Heavens” by Blu and Exile. It was 2 o’clock on a sunny Monday afternoon, and I was about an hour and a half away from campus. When I hugged my mom goodbye, I assumed it was more of a “see you soon.” I didn’t know it’d be the last time I’d ever hug her.

                I pulled into the student parking lot, alongside the intramural fields at Lyndale. I reminisced on winning the Intramural Flag Football championship game last fall, and the post-party at Graham’s apartment. I walked down the sidewalk towards the “Matthew Morris Building of Science,” and saw the crack in the sidewalk that still held a tint of red discoloration. I thought back on the fight freshman year. Joe Hughes approached me on the sidewalk and started pushing me. He was yelling about how Cassie was his first. He swung at my head, but I avoided it. I took his arm, and twisted it around until he was facing the opposite direction. I grabbed the back of his head and threw him towards the pavement. The blood from his mouth was still visible.

                I walked into the door of the Morris Building, and Professor Green was waiting for me. “Jake! It’s great to see you, bud.” We walked down the corridor towards his room, which stood adjacent to the water fountain on the west end of the building. He took his key off of the lanyard in his pocket, introduced it to the lock, and the oak door swung open. There were five rows of seats in the back of the classroom, and various posters with cliché science aphorisms hung up around the room. A large glass box stood next to Green’s desk, and on his counter were a vast array of chemicals and beakers.

                “What’s with the box, Green?” I asked suspiciously.

                “Well… That’s what I need you for.”

                Green’s plan was much more elaborate then he made it seem. He told me he was constructing a cryogenic gas that will disperse into the glass box. I would step into the glass box, breathe in the cryogenic gas as though it was oxygen, and I would pass out. When I woke up, it would be two weeks later. The study was merely designed to prove the existence of time traveling potential. He said there was no way I would be injured, or psychologically harmed from this experiment. I was still on the edge, until he told me the incentive: my senior year at Lyndale would be entirely paid for. I was in. He told me the materials would be ready for use the next day, and I was to return to campus around 9 AM.

                That night I got a hotel room at the Ramada which was just a couple minutes north of campus. I debated calling my mom and telling her that I was going to be the lab rat for Green’s experiment, but I knew she would be too nervous about it and not allow me to participate. She wouldn’t even let me play football when I was younger because she didn’t want me to get hurt. I decided not to tell her. Well, not until after the two weeks and she learned that my fourth year of college was being covered. Back at the Morris Building, Professor Green was still finishing his product. His lab table was split between materials for the cryogenic gas, and materials for the experiment he was teaching at Science Camp next week. The experiment at Science Camp consisted of the freezing of rocks, and proved how microscopic organisms were still able to survive under the frozen conditions. Green was about to make the biggest mistake in his long career at Lyndale University. His unlabeled beaker of liquid nitrogen had the same clear blue tone as the neon used in the cryogenic gas (also unlabeled). Green mistakenly poured the liquid nitrogen from the Science Camp experiment into the beaker of cryogenic gas which would be used on me the next day. Trouble loomed.

                My alarm clock went off at 8 AM the next morning. I went downstairs and got the all-inclusive breakfast from the Ramada kitchen, and then went back up to my room and showered. I was back in my Jeep by 8:45, and was on campus five minutes later. I parked my car, and headed towards the Morris Building where I was met by Green, who stood outside the door. He had a very excited look on his face, which made me chuckle. He was notorious on campus for his nerdy mannerisms, but that’s why everybody loved him. We headed back to his room, as I took the final sips of my Dr. Pepper. I set the near-empty can on his desk, and headed into the glass box. The last thing I remember is Green telling me to breathe just like I always do, but to shut my eyes and imagine I was back on the beach by my house.

                When I woke up, something was different. My eyelids were very heavy, and I had to work to even open one of them. My arms were down by my side, and I couldn’t raise them. As my eyes finally woke up, I realized why I couldn’t move my arms. I was frozen from my chest down to my toes. A warm vapor was being sprayed at the ice block that held me. Shattered glass was all around me, and the steel frames that used to hold my glass box were corroded by rust. A strange foreign man was spraying me with the vapor. A class of young children was seated in the rows of chairs in the back of the class. Naturally, I started yelling. After five minutes, my body was dislodged from the block of ice, and I ran towards the man who was spraying the vapor. I grabbed him by the neck and threw him against the wall, as the class of young students started yelling.

                “Where the hell am I?!” I shouted at the small man. His nametag said Professor Nariv.

                “If you let me go, I will tell you everything,” said Nariv in a strange voice. I later wished he wouldn’t have told me any of it. I wished he would have just kept me frozen in that block of ice until I was dead, or that the vapor he sprayed at me was really pesticide that could have ended my existence on Earth.

                The year was 2111. It had been 100 years since I stepped into that glass box in Professor Green’s room. Green, my family, and all of my friends were dead.  Mohammed Nariv took over as head of the science department at Lyndale 60 years ago. Green was replaced in 2012, the year after the failed experiment with me. His replacement, Professor Horner, was replaced by Nariv after Horner failed to develop the vapor necessary to unfreeze my suspended body. It took Nariv all of his 60 years to successfully discover the recipe that could unfreeze the cryogenic-nitrogen. As Nariv was developing the vapor, a lot had changed in the outside world.

                Inter-galactic space travel was finally available for non-astronauts. In 2020, the first citizen spaceship took off towards the moon. Fifteen years later, the solar system was cluttered with man-made planets that hosted extravagant resorts and museums. In 2062, Theodore Hilton (the son of Paris Hilton, and heir to the Hilton Hotel Franchise) bought out the entire chain of man-made planets and named it the Hitonius Strip. As years passed, the population of the Hiltonius Strip grew, and moved from a vacation getaway to a residential land filled with dream homes. It was a multi-cultural cluster of planets, filled with some of the wealthiest of Americans, Russians, Germans, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, French, Canadian, and Brazilian men and women. Mass intercourse occurred on these planets to stretch the population of the Hiltonius Strip from 5,000 citizens in 2075, to 5 billion citizens in 2100. As the population of the Hiltonius Strip increased, the population on Earth rapidly decreased. Since virtually all of the wealthy individuals abandoned Earth, the remaining inhabitants were mainly poor individuals who couldn’t afford to have children. The birth rate diminished on Earth, but the crime and death rates were rising exponentially.  By 2105 the Hiltonius Strip, out of arrogance, declared war against Earth.

                I had woken from a 100 year sleep, and was now being called upon by Nariv and his classroom of children to take over as General of the Earth Army. They had selected me because I was the last remaining artifact of the 20^th century, and the last remaining artifact of the upper class on Earth. The cryogenic-nitrogen preserved my body in the same shape that it was left in 100 years ago. I was a 120 year old man, with a 20 year old man’s body. Nariv looked at me with a blank stare. I asked him to repeat the question.

                “Will you lead us or not?” he asked.

Daily Journal-- 4/1/11

Behind her the noise escalated. It started out as a low groan but quickly developed into a full out scream. She was very scared, because she had never experienced anything like this. She couldn't tell if the man behind her was aroused or in pain. She was in pain, though. But she didn't scream. She was afraid that if she screamed then someone would hear her. She was afraid of hearing her own voice, even. She hadn't spoken in about 2 years, after her first experience of rape. Now it was her second. Or was it rape? Was it consensual? She started to lean towards the consensual side, as she started enjoying it more. The man behind her, later identified as Dillon Chauhan, was still yelling. It was a good time for all parties involved.

Daily Journal-- 3/30/11

The clock winked mockingly at me. It knew I wanted it to stop moving, but I know it wouldn't adhear to my request. I wanted it to go back an hour... a day... a year. I wanted to own it, and decide when it moved forward, and when it moved backward. I watched the clock for a while. The funny thing about time is that no matter what we do, it will always run out. Sure, time is infinite, but our time isn't. So if time is so precious, how come we waste it so much? How come we waste hours of our lives stressing over meaningless material things. Why can't we just live? If I knew that my time would run out tomorrow, I would be living life to the fullest. However, I assume my time won't run out for another 60 or more years.. so I live life differently? It doesn't make sense, because no matter how we live our lives, death is inevitable. Time is bound to run out, so we our bound to time. We are all slaves of time. I was taught at a young age to budget my time well, and that time is money. Like my good friend J. Cole says "Time is money, so I cannot waste a dime or a second." We all do waste both though. This is a boring topic, sorry.

Daily Journal-- 3/29/11

My Spring Break was not very spring-like. It consisted of watching basketball games, driving through snowy weather, and wearing winter coats; all things that are predominately done in the Winter. Sure enough, when everyone came back from their trips, the weather started to get better. However, to people who came from Mexico back to Minnesota, it probably seemed freezing. In that sense, I'm happy I didn't go anywhere for Spring Break. It sure would have sucked to come back to cold temperatures, as opposed to just experiencing consistent cold temperatures.

The Friday that school let out, I was on my way up to Moorhead, Minnesota with my brother Evan. He was accompanying me on my trip, because the next day would be the admitted freshman day at Concordia College, and I wanted someone to go with. We met up with my grandma and her boyfriend in Fargo that night, and she took us to the mall to get something to eat and buy us some new clothes. We stayed in a hotel that had a mini golf course in it, which was kind of chill. The next morning at Concordia, it was very cold and rainy. I still had a good time up there, and enjoyed seeing the campus that I would be spending my next year at. When I got home I met up with some friends and we went to Buffalo Wild Wings to watch some basketball games. I went to see the movie Limitless the next night, which sucked ass. I had work three of the nights over Spring Break, which would have been unfortunate if there was actually something better to do.

Although only a few of my friends were home over Spring Break, I definitely miss it. There was a lot of time to relax, and not have to worry about things like homework, work, or high school drama. It was a very chill break, but I do which I could have gone to Mexico or Florida and got a little bit of sunlight. The good news is that the snow is melting fairly quickly which means that I will be playing beach volleyball up at Johnny Cake in no time. I can't wait for the summer either, and all of the parties and what not. Cool.

Daily Journal-- 3/28/11

I am a spoon in a dishwasher. Everybody knows that I'm the most attractive spoon in the whole machine. Every other spoon is jealous of me because they are covered in yogurt or peanut butter stains. However, my previous existence was scooping ice cubes out of the Ice Drawer and into a cup. Although it was cold conditions that I was working in, the ice melted quickly off of my sterling silver coating. I was back to normal in no time, which made me question why I was even in the dish washer. All I needed was a couple seconds of drying in a warm towel (my favorite treatment) and I'd be good. Instead, I was stuck here with all of these imperfect spoons. It was almost insulting. It wasn't bad being a spoon. We didn't have to go through nearly as much difficult labor as a knife or fork did. However, people were always licking me, which I found disgusting. The one nice thing about being in the dishwasher was the drying, after the rinsing. The rinse was so hot that it corroded the silver coating off of one of my friends before. However, the cool breezes of air that ensued were always very enjoyable.

Daily Journal-- 3/17/11

I once dreamed about being an ant. As a matter of fact, it was more of a reoccuring dream. I think it initially came as the result of me watching the Disney movie, "A Bug's Life." All of my neighborhood friends starred as the cast of this dream, and we were a united colony of ants. Our parents happened to be the grasshopper enemies. We would play baseball (don't ask me how ants played baseball) and go swimming all day. By dinner time we would go out in search of various pieces of nature or dead flies. That's where we ran into trouble. The grasshopper clan had it in their head that the dead flies were reserved for their own stomachs, so no ants should have the right to "steal" from them. Regardless, we made an effort to steal the dead flies from the grasshoppers. We knew we would have to be quick about it, so we would run in and then sprint out and hide under an umbrella-style plant. We would see the giant grasshoppers through the little cracks in the leaves of the plant, as they walked by searching for us. It was so frightening to me when I was younger, just the thought of being caught by these grasshoppers. And of course, the conclusion of every one of these dreams was me being caught by a grasshopper and taken away. He would throw me up in the air, and I would fall painfully on my back. However, right before I was about to hit the ground, I would wake up from the dream with heavy breathes.

To this day, I don't understand the symbolism behind this reoccuring dream. Maybe it is that the neighborhood has to stick together, or maybe it is that my parents will always catch me when I am up to no good. Regardless, I still have this dream from time to time. It only occurs about once a year, but I have become a lot less fearful of the grasshoppers over the years. I think that in itself has some symbolism, too. I care less about getting caught by my parents now-a-days, because I am becoming an adult and can make decisions for myself. My neighborhood crew has kind of grown apart over the high school years, but they are still my protective body in a lot of ways. Whenever I am down, or in a bad mood, they cheer me up. Whenever my parents are yelling at me, and I need somewhere to go, they're there for me. Whenever I am having a bad day, and wish to reminisce, my mind always travels to the various adventures we had in our younger days. It's nice to have that protective body to defend against the various "grasshoppers" in life. Whether they be parents, bullies, drama, anxiety, sadness, whatever... they are still no match for my ants (sorry, that was corny).

Daily Journal-- 3/16/11

I wish someone had told me how to deal with stuff. I've made a lot of bad decisions as a result of my anxiety, because I was never really told of appropriate coping methods. Even the doctor's prescription for anxiety-related problems is a drug. Little do doctors know that no drug can really combat an illness. Drugs simply make it seem as if the illness is gone for a while, so their patient is satisfied and they keep making money. Everything that a doctor does to help a patient only reaches the surface. I wish someone had told me how to get to the core of my problem. I wish someone had told me how quickly life moves, and how necessary it is to be on top of things. I've let a lot of my loved ones vacate my life, because I didn't show enough appreciation for them. I'm prone to getting too caught up in the smaller things in life, and not seeing the big picture. I stopped going to Church. I stopped relaxing. I stopped trying to mantain relationships that I assumed needed too much maintenance and would inevidably end. I wish that life would slow down. When I was younger everything seemed a lot slower. Nobody was in a rush, because nobody had anywhere else to be. Everything was so trivial then. Those were the days where I would wake up around 6 AM on weekends, just to lengthen my day. Now, I will sleep as late as noon when given the opportunity, because I'd rather lengthen my sleep. I'd rather lengthen my dreams. I don't remember any of my dreams from when I was a child, because I think I did a lot less dreaming then. Dreams are for people who wish to make changes in their life. Dreams are for those who are unsatisfied with their own position in existence. I used to be perfectly content with life. Now I have so many dreams, and unfulfilled plights. It's weird.

Brainstorming SCI-FI project

Ideas for why/how he gets frozen:
-Gets frozen with cyrogenic materials
-His professor at College is using him as a sample, for part of a research study
-Professor Green calls him down to Lyndale Unversity for the Summer, is discrete about the reason
-He is told that the materials will freeze him for 3 weeks, and it is merely supposed to be a test to see how the materials work. It ends up that he is frozen for 100 years.

What he wil see
-People will be moving around in hover crafts, and air travel will be space travel
-Neighborhoods are established on the Moon
-Extraterrestrials live on Earth, and they are now seen as "foreigners," but if they live in the U.S. for 5 years they are guaranteed citizenship.
-The population of the Earth has decreased, to about 3 billion. The population of Space is about 5 billion known people
-Space and Earth on the verge of a mass war.

Daily Journal-- 3/15/11

It was time for the moment of truth. I started ripping the seal on the mustard-colored envelope. I pulled out a thick, embroidered piece of paper that was composed by a tri-fold. I opened up the folds, looked down at the paper, and jumped in the air, screaming. "YES!!" I had done it; No D's. My father promised me if I managed to keep up my grades, and mantain at least a 3.0, with no D's this semester then he would buy me a car. I was ecstatic.

When I got home that day, I showed my dad my accomplishment and he gave me a big bear hug. He told me to get in his car, because we were heading over to the Andy's Used-Car Dealership. I had never seen such a vast assortment of cars. Pick up trucks, minivans, sports cars, convertables, and even a few creeper-vans. I had no idea which one to pick, but I knew that the right one would catch my eye, and it would be a case of love at first sight. We went through row after row of old cars, and I still hadn't found my match yet. Until, out of my peripheral vision, I spotted the most glorious automobile I had ever laid eyes on. It was a giant shoe on wheels.

"Dad, I think I'm in love."

He bought the car for me, which surprisingly only cost 100 dollars. Maybe it was so inexpensive because it was a gas-guzzler. Regardless, I was very happy with the purchase. I would drive around town all day and night in that shoe-car. I named him Nike. I would take Nike to school with me, go see drive in movies with Nike, and my first time having sex was in the backseat of Nike. Undoubtedly, Nike was the best purchase I could have imagined. Not only was he sleek and stylish, he was comfortable and unique. And he was all mine!

Daily Journal-- 3/14/11

"My Journey on a Pirate Ship"

It was my first time on a cruise ship. Given my fear of the ocean, it took a lot of convincing from my parents that a cruise would be extremely safe, and nothing bad could happen. She was so wrong.

The trip started out great. I was worried that I would get motion sickness, but the rocking of the waves actually played into my advantage, as it lulled me to sleep most nights. There was food galore, with various assortments of pizza places, ice cream parlors, and burger joints. On the outside of the ship, there were three salt water pools on top of the boat, a rocking climbing wall in the front, and a basketball court in the back. I was in heaven for the first two days. However, on the third day it was a whole different story.

I woke up abruptly in the morning, and went to the tiny bathroom in the wall to wash my face. It was until about ten minutes of sitting in bed that I realized we weren't moving anymore. I grabbed my iPod off of the counter to check the time. It was 4 o'clock. My brother and sister were still asleep on the bunk bed to the left of me. I wanted to figure out what was going on, so I woke up Evan from the top bunk, and told him to come check out the ship with me. He grunted a little bit, but then slipped on his shoes and headed out of the cabin with me. We strolled past my parents room, and kept going towards the center of the boat. We climbed all the way to the 11th floor, which was where the pool resided. As I looked out to my left, I was in awe. There was a black flag with a skull imprinted on it waving about 100 yards away from our boat. Between our cruise ship, and the ship next to us, there was a long rope that seemed to work like a zipline. I saw one masked man after another floating across the night air, from the small ship to our ship. I had to slap myself a couple of times to realize I wasn't dreaming. I felt a gun on my spine, and turned around to see a masked pool of blackness.

"You're coming with me," he said.

Evan and I were taken over to the side of the cruise ship, that was adjacent to the rope that the pirates used to get aboard our ship. My hands were cuffed with a silver chain, which i had to use to lock around the ropem and zipline over to the other ship. Those 10 seconds that I was suspended in the air over the dark sea, were the scariest 10 seconds of my life. If I wasn't so deathly afraid of sharks and whales, I may have decided to jump, and succumb to my inevitable fate of death. However, I stayed on the rope.

Daily Journal-- 3/10/11

"I caught a big one!"

I looked over to see Dave holding what looked to be a fifty-pound rabbit. He was so ecstatic about his catch that I hated to bring him down by telling him we were supposed to be hunting for deer. Apparently Dave had wandered off when we were hiking of Peak Point, and found a rabbit's burrow behind a patch of oak trees. Dave said that there were approximately one hundred rabbits nestled together in that burrow, but he only picked up his favorite one. This rabbit was the equivalence of about ten rabbits combined. It's ears alone were about two feet each in height. I had never eaten rabbit before, but consuming this animal would be more like eating a product from a cow. We packed up our materials, with each of the ten men who came on the trip bringing an animal home. The eight other men, and I proudly housted a deer carcus on our back. Dave carried his rabbit by the fur on the back.

The funniest part was that Dave hadn't even killed the animal. He claimed that killing a rabbit of this size, would be like killing Big Foot. I couldn't argue with that. He also told us of his plan; Dave didn't plan on consuming this animal. He wanted to make it a domesticated pet. When we got back to the city, Dave showed everyone of his great feat. Some applauded, some dropped their jaws in shock, but everyone was amazed by the size of this gigantic forest creature. When Dave brought the rabbit home, his wife was not impressed. She said that if Dave wanted to keep the rabbit (now named "Notorious B.I.G Fuzzy"), then he would have to sleep outside with BIG. Dave didn't argue with that. Dave and BIG became great friends. BIG was there to console Dave when Dave's wife divorced him, and Dave was there to teach BIG how to speak english. The largest rabbit in the city's history had also became the first rabbit to ever talk. Dave won a Nobel Peace Prize five years later for house-training, and teaching english to BIG. BIG was even going to Kindergarten and learning how to function as a social being.

Daily Journal-- 3/9/11

It was a typical Friday at work for Spongebob. Mr. Krabs was being his usual self, and the ordering line was way too long for Squidward to handle, himself. That left Spongebob with two tasks: preparing food, and helping Squidward at the checkout line. Spongebob was flipping patties on the stove, when Squidward yelled for his attention.

"Spongebob! Help me out up here!"

Spongebob went dashing over to the counter and started taking orders of the impatient customers. He must have been up there for about ten minutes before being allowed to go back to the kitchen to flip more burgers. When he did go back, though, it was awful. His jaw dropped, his legs started shaking, and his eyes cringed. His beloved spatula was gone.

"I know I left you right on the counter, where could you be!"

Spongebob frantically searched under every crevase in the counter top, on the floor, under the stall of the bathroom, in every drawer, and through every cubbie near the cooking station. Nothing. The orders kept piling up, however, and he was forced to take action quick. Spongebob looked around the kitchen for something else that could help him flip the burgers that he needed to cook. No shiny utensils were in sight, so he looked down at his hand. "You'll have to do," he said.

He quickly slid his hand under the first burger, by wedging his five fingers into a parallel sheet that could fit between the burger and the stove. He pushed up on the burger, which sent the meat flying in the air, only to land back down on the other, uncooked side. It was genius. Spongebob continued this motion for the other thirty burgers on top of the stove, and he was making great time! Krabby patty after krabby patty were being served to the customers, who claimed that the burgers they consumed were by far "the best burger I've ever eaten." Apparently the hint of hand sweat was the perfect seasoning to a Krabby Patty.

Daily Journal-- 3/8/11

"Oh, F***."

I had seen this shredder before. It was probably about a month ago when I saw this shredder, and I knew what was about to happen. The quick sharp sensation of being split in millions of little pieces, followed by a dumping into the recycling bin. I don't remember how long we sat in that recycling bin last time, but it seemed like about four whole days. I was starving for ink, and covered in various pieces of garbage that I didn't think belonged in the recycling bin in the first place. After the fourth day of hunger and exhaustion, we were picked up and taken out of the office building. We were dumped into a larger recycling bin, filled with even more pieces of shredded paper and garbage items. Our new home was on the street, but we were only there for a night. I was forced to wake up the next morning, due to the loud buzzing that stung my ears. It sounded like an elephant was blowing its trunk right on the side of the road that we were near by. A man opened the lid of the recycling bin, looked in at me, smiled, then picked up the bin. He threw us into the largest pit of recycled items I had ever seen before. It was about a ten foot fall from where the man dumped us to where we landed in the bottom of the pit. The fall knocked me unconscious, but when I woke up I was on a conveyer belt in a large factory. The factory smelled of burnt tree (and not the good kind). I was reunited with my friend paper slices on this conveyer belt, and within 5 seconds we were re-applied together, and were one, whole piece again. We were bound together by a package with about 100 other pieces of paper, and brought back to the office we were in a week prior. It's been only three days since I was brought back to the office I called home, and once again it looked like they were sending me away. All I could do now is pray that my fate was as good as it was before, and that I would somehow end up home again.

Writing Project Outline

I will write a short story about a small town team (North Dakota State) that made the March Madness tournament and got all the way down to the final four (obviously fictional). I will use the website "Penzu," which my friend has used before so I was interested in checking it out.

Daily Journal-- 3/7/11

Marian Bartsch and Joey Catsalgi met on his first day of work. Marian was wearing her bright red skirt, that Joey would come to crave over the next couple of years. Joey approached Marian with his hand out, to properly introduce himself as the newest member of Crane, Inc. Marian smiled, said "nice to meet you," and kept walking. Within their three seconds of interaction, Joey had already grasped a whirlwind of variables about Marian. She wore a flower headband, with her long, brown hair swooping down to her shoulders. When she smiled she had two dimples on her right cheek, but only one on her left cheek. Her teeth were pearly white, and she wore very faint-colored lipstick. The one thing Joey was still mesmorized by, however, were Marian's eyes. He had never in his life seen such vibrant, green eyes, and he was compelled to look at them again. Joey, confined to his own household for the majority of his childhood, had only seen brown eyes before and so he naturally believed that every human had brown eyes. His father wasn't around for most of his growing-up, and his mother had battled with a cocaine addiction which kept Joey locked in his room, sometimes for days at a time. That being said, it's obvious to understand how he was so attracted to Marian's eyes. It's very possible that Joey had never seen anything so bright in his life, besides the sun. After Marian walked by, Joey waited a couple of seconds before turning to look back at her. He stared for at least four additional seconds, waiting to see if she would turn around to look back at him. Their eyes could meet and he could feel the sense of fascination he had just felt a couple seconds prior. Marian kept walking though. Joey turned his head in shame and walked the other way. At that moment, Marian briefly glanced over her shoulder, and watched her new co-worker walk down the hall, introducing himself to more people. Her faint smile faded, her green eyes contracted, and she turned her head back around.

Final Poem Assignment

My mind's tired from writing too much poetry,
I'm ready for its death, like I poisoned up its ovaries.
Killed the fetus, before it was even near its blossom,
I put it in the ground, like the burrow of a possom.
It tried to rise up, I shoved it back into its coffin,
Regurgitated dust from the poem's mouth when it was coughin'.
I hacked it with a sledgehammer, now it's down for ever,
Then I put myself in the coffin, too, so we can go together.

Daily Journal-- 3/4/11

The fact that I can get all the money I want won't even matter to me on my last day. All of my money goes to gas, clothes, and food. However, on my last day... I don't think I'd care about any of those things. If it were my last day on Earth, I would simply like to be with the people I love (as corny and cliche as that sounds). I would start off the day with my girlfriend. We would probably go out for a brunch-type meal, and then hang out for a couple of hours. Then I would go to the beach and play volleyball with my friends, and just live up the day. At night, I would be with my parents and siblings. That sounds like an ideal day to me, and the best part is that there would be no stress involved whatsoever. I wouldn't have to worry about studying for a test, going to work, saving up money for college, finding a job after college, making a house payment, finding a wife, financially supporting children, anything. It would just be me and the people that I care most about. For meals, I would have Brueggers in the morning, Chipotle for lunch, and.... Chipotle for dinner. That might play a toll on my digestive system the next day... but there will not be a next day, so I don't care. At night when I am lying in bed getting ready to fall asleep, I would pray for the last time. I would delete my Facebook, and Twitter. I would erase all of my messages in my AOL inbox, and then finish by giving one last blogpost, and writing one last song. I would record the song, and then put it up on the internet, so all of my friends and loved ones could get a proper "good bye." However, "good bye" doesn't ever really mean the end. I am sure in no time I would be reacquainted with them in Heaven, and we would share some of the good times that occured when we were still mortals. We would be playing Beach volleyball on the clouds, and watching out fellow loved-ones below us. My last day on Earth would not be a somber one.

Villanelle Assignment

I traveled aimlessly up the hill.
With nothing but sorrows on my back.
My body kept pushing against my will.

Cluttered mind, of the thing that I still
needed, and all the supplies that i lacked,
But still I climbed further up on the hill.

It started off as me just searching a thrill,
Fighting through pain with my empty sack,
Finding my heart that had hidden my will,

survival tactics I figured were filled,
these hindsight feelings that now were in stacks,
All because I attempted this hill.

My feet were exhausted, my brain cells were killed,
My hands in my pockets, like they had been packed,
But still strong enough, because of my will.

My head was spinning like it was a mill,
My mouth was so dry that my lips started to crack,
I finally got to the top of the hill,
Just in time for me to pen out my will.

Daily Journal-- 3/3/11

10 Most Important Points in my Life so far:

10) Birth. If I wasn't ever born, I wouldn't even be writing this list in the first place. I think that birth is a very miraculous accomplishment, and we tend to forget about how lucky we are to even be living. To think that one sperm cell met one egg, and created me...

9) Starting Basketball. When I was in kindergarten, my dad signed me up for basketball and I never would have thought how much of a role it would play in my life, because at first I absolutely hated it. Basketball took up the majority of my elementary and middle school years, and the beginning of high school, and I still miss playing everytime I watch an Eastview game.

8) Going to Blackhawk. After elementary school, my mom gave me the choice to either go to Falcon Ridge (where a lot of my friends were going) or Blackhawk. It was a tough decision, but I ended up choosing Blackhawk, and I don't regret the decision at all, because I have made some life long friendships with the people that go there, and that place really turned me into the person I am today.

7) My first mission trip. I was never a very religious or faithful person until I went on my first mission trip after Freshman year to the Lakota Indian Reservation in South Dakota. It was a great experience, and I had never felt closer to God. I haven't lost touch with my spirituality since then.

6) Speeding ticket. It was a hot summer day, and I was anxious to get home after a Cross Country meet. I was about two blocks from my house, cruising at about 50 miles per hour on a 30 mile per hour road, when an undercover cop pulled out of the Thomas Lake parking lot and fined me 120 bucks. Needless to say, I have been a much different driver ever since.

Etheree Poem Assignment

You
Think You
Know my life,
But you really
only see one side.
You only see the kid
That wears his smile on as
he talks with the fake friends of his.
You don't see the kid who spends nights home,
with his tired eyes on the white ceiling,
his arms folded across his chest, praying
that someone emphathizes with him,
and the struggle his mind creates.
The anxious thoughts that flow out
of his brain, through his hands,
Up his spine, down to
his shaky legs,
he rests near
his bed;
here.

Daily Journal-- 3/2/11

How ridiculous I was as a kid. I had a high, squeaky voice and got nervous about every little thing. I remember a speech that I had to give when I was in sixth grade, and by the time it was finished I was literally drenched in sweat from head to toe. Although I think it is silly now, and I laugh it off when people bring up my past, I still have some of the same traits that I did back then. It was discovered that I have anxiety, which makes me naturally nervous and paranoid very easily. That's probably why I'm always doing goofy things like shaking my arms to try to literally shake off some of my nerves. Some people say I shake and twist my arms so quickly that I look like a flailing octopus. Another problem that I still have is that I blush very easily. But people take that to be a sign that I am embarrassed a lot, when in reality it is just my face reacting to my nervous thoughts. It's a habit I wish I could stop, but I don't think I will ever fully grow out of my anxious behaviors. I will probably be an old man still blushing and shaking his arms around as he walks his daughter down the isle on her wedding day. I don't take pills for my anxiety, though, because my mom thinks it is unnecessary. I kind of agree, because I know that those pills would be very easy to get addicted to, and I have other things in my life that can temporarily ease my mind. For example, writing. Anytime I pick up a pen to write a book, I feel at ease with myself and am happy to take myself to distant worlds. See, in my writing I can be anybody I want, and I can surround myself with some of the greatest people in the world. Writing is equivalent to dreaming... only you, not your subconscious, are in control. Another facet for me to ease my mind is by being with my friends. We always have a great time together and we tell lots of jokes to take my mind off of other thoughts. I hope that someday I will grow out of my problem, but I know that it probably won't happen for a very long time, so instead I come up with coping methods that help me come to terms with myself, at least.

Acrostic Poem Assignment

Jackson Yakowicz

Jackson prefers "Jack."

Ann Arbor is where he was born, he

Could only crawl when he left,

Kicking and screaming, his father yelled

"Son," and he stopped.

Open roads headed to Minnesota in

November of 1993.

Years later he grew, and practiced

Athletics. His favorite sport was basketball,

Knowing his abilities weren't

Overly impressive, he didn't dream of playing

When he was older. He had other

Inspirations in life such as getting rich, and moving to

California, where there was everything from a

Zoo to Hollywood.

Daily Journal-- 3/1/11

No form of legislation will ever change the world. The only way to make the world a better place is to change things from a social and moral standpoint. For example, even when African Americans were allowed the right to vote there was still a lot of hatred directed towards them, to make them continue feeling inferior. So when somebody asks for gay rights or abortion rights through legislation, they will never really be treated equally until a change occurs from a social standpoint. Not until society sees gays/lesbians/transvestites as equal, and not until society sees abortion as morally acceptable, will one truly feel at ease. So, how do we bring world peace?

I once heard that the best way to change the world is through "one little act of kindness at a time." I whole-heartedly believe in that statement. I think that doing good is contagious, and when somebody helps us we have the natural feeling to help somebody else as a form of repaying out debt. So why not start a train, today? Why do we confine ourselves to such a small comfort zone? Nearly everyone I know genuinely likes helping others, we just get caught up in our own material lives. So here is what I would advise to anybody interested in making a difference: leave your house. Leave your family, leave your friends, leave everything you know, and take a risk. Now obviously this won't be a permanent move, but why not travel down to an area of the globe marked by destruction for a couple of weeks? Those couple of weeks of your service could make such a drastic change in the lifes of others. Then in return, those others will go out and help additional people. It truly could be the start of something great.

Concrete Poem Assignment

This is the tree that I used to lay under when I was

Younger, and time didn't seem to move as fast. Now every

body seems to always be in a hurry, and never takes the time to

Enjoy the beauties in life. Me and my neighbors used to sit under this

tree every summer day, after biking down to the Subway near our houses

And eat our sandwiches. It was probably the day following one of our trips

That we took part in during the nights. We would sneak out almost every night

during the summer and just walk around. We never feared getting in trouble 'cause

we were never doing anything that bad. Life was a lot more trivial back in those days

though. Back before high school, or college apps. Back before relationships or the

pressures that we would inevitably face in a couple of years. We just walked with

eachother, aimlessly watching the moon. We would always have stories to tell the

next day though. That's part of the reason we met under the tree so often.

We would talk about the car that was probably being driven by a drunk

guy, who could have swerved over and killed us. We'd talk about

how we thought that our parents were awake when we snuck

back into our houses and how they could have killed us.

We always had

that tree, though

and we always

had eachother.

It's sad that we

don't talk much

anymore, but I

am sure that we

will be together

again this year.

We'll have more

stories to tell and

our relationship will

grow again, as we lay

under the tree eating our

Subway sandwiches, and talking.

Daily Lyrics Assignment WEDNESDAY

Name: Jack Yakowicz
Date: Wednesday, March 3rd
Song Title: "He Say She Say"
Artist: Lupe Fiasco

1. Why did you choose this song? Why is it important to you?

I chose this song because it's one of the first songs I had heard by Lupe, and I think it tells a very good story.

2. What is the story in the lyrics?

The story is of a mom and her child that were abandoned by a dad.  They are reaching out to the dad in kind of a plea to try to get him back into his kid's life. It is first told from the mom's perspective, and then from the child's, with basically the same lyrics being used.

3. What is the structure?

There are a lot of switched in rhyme schemes between the ABAB style and AABB during his verses. The chorus uses repetition, but each stanza ends in a rhyme.

4. What is the emotional tone or mood?
From the mom's perspective, I think the emotional tone is frustrated. And from the kid's perspective, it sounds more sad and confused why he left in the first place.

5. What is the message or lesson?

The message could be taken in one of two ways. It could either be reaching out to fathers who've abandoned their children and showing them how important their role is in a family. Or it could be directed at children and mothers who've dealt with someone leaving them, and showing them that they're not alone and it's not their fault.

6. What is the intention of this piece of music?
The intention of the piece is to bring some attention to the effects of bad parenting and how important it is for kids to have a role model in their life.

Daily Journal-- 2/28/11

The house was made of pure oak wood, from the forest that the house resided in. The legend is that the man who lived there chopped down the wood himself. It took him four days to chop the wood, sand it, and prep it for building. As I stepped onto the staircase of the front porch, my foot met the wobbly peice of oak that had been the feeding place for numerous termites and other indigenous creatures. Outside of the house was a wagon that was filled to the brim with weeds from the man's 10 by 20 yard garden. Icarus Brown was the name of the man who built this house atop the Lake Superior coastline. He has been a legend in the town of Lutsen since about five years, ago. At that time, he was believed to be 102 years old, however nobody in town had seen or heard of him in at least twelve years. The innovator who once was seen with a permanent twinkle in his eye, was not just a squinty old man who seemed to despise the human race. Ever since his wife, Gabby, died in 1995, he lost himself. Many people in town still believed that Icarus was still living in his house, at 107 years of age. There were numerous great stories surrounding the man, but nobody knew for sure which stories to believe and which stories were fictitious. I was here to solve the puzzle. As I opened the door into his house, everything was silent. The living room smelled like pure dust, and there were cobwebs hanging from every corner of the room. Despite the eeryness in the house, I was amazed by the beauty of the carpentry.

Sonnet Assignment

Should I compare you to a winter's day,
You are so pure but you may turn so cold,
You know you turn my life to disarray,
I'm always wrong but you will never fold.
Sometimes I hate, sometimes I love the pain,
You bring to me when I am under spells,
Amidst your forehead lies a bothered vein,
I bring out, noticing it when you yell.
The stress I cause you trickles down to me,
You love to blame me for our many strifes,
I'm not the person that I vowed to be,
The one you could always trust with your life.
Because you pushed me to the breaking point,
What once could never part is now disjoint.

Daily Journal-- 2/25/11

The first person I would invite to my dinner table would be Blu. He has been my favorite rapper for a couple of years now, and is also an inspiration to me. Watching interviews with him, I have seen his kind of humor and easy-goingness, which are two traits I would love in a dinner guest. I would also like to ask him some questions about how he got to where he got, and learn more about his life, essentially.

The second person I would invite to my dinner table would be Mark Zuckerburg. Every group of friends needs to have a nerd to pick on, and he would be an easy target. I would also like to learn some business tips from him, and talk about some potential facebook changes that I think would be suitable. I'd like to ask him what he thought of the movie Social Network, and which parts were true compared to which parts were exaggerated. I don't think he'd accept my invite, but I'd ask him regardless.

The final person that I would invite to my dinner table would be Tony Metz. His eating habits are hilarious, and I generally enjoy his presence. He always brings some sort of comedy into any discussion, and I think my other two guests would appreciate his humor, too. If Tony accepted my invite, I would probably serve Sloppy Joe's just to disturb the other guests, who haven't ever seen that kid eat... it's quite the sight.

This would be quite the party if it ever panned out, and hopefully it will when I'm older and a millionaire. I will have my butlers prepare the food, and my maids clean the table before and after we are done eating.

Assonance Assignment

He passes passively past the past where his passion parted,
Humbled, to the times he stumbled, where the rubble started.
He hated feeling berated, by the gates that caged him,
The crowd's loud and proud nature never phased him.
He grew up here, but he blew up quickly,
His mother was bothered, his brother was looking sickly.
His father, mister, and his sister, saw him coping,
But got mad, never felt bad, he was sad or moping.
Hope floats, without a rope, the day it's baptized,
But perishes, if you don't cherish it- it's capsized.
That's what occurred, he wasn't heard, in his herd,
and was murdered, further bothered... they wouldn't hear a word.

Daily Journal-- 2/24/11

I never understood why my mom and dad took our family here every year. They were fully aware of my distaste in heights, the speed of the slides, and the claustrophobia I experiences waiting in the lengthy lines. Yet, here we were again in the "beautiful" Wisconsin Dells. My Mom had finally convinced me to go down one slide, assuring me that it was the smallest, least frightening slide in the place. I should have known better as we climbed the seemingly endless wooden stairs. Maybe I was too scared to even notice how high we were climbing, but we just kept going and going. I was in third grade at the time, and about 50 inches tall, barely tall enough to even be eligable to ride most slides. As we got to the top, I looked down. "Oh my God." I thought right away about finding an exit, but there was no exit.. except the slide. My mom set down the two-person tube, and told me to get in the front seat. She noticed how anxious I was, and told me "Don't worry, Jack.. You can always shut your eyes if you get too scared." I took one last giant gulp of air, shut my eyes, and we were off. The first drop was the worst, because I wasn't expecting it. I'm sure the people at the top of the slide could hear me screaming like a little girl. They were probably all whispering insults to each other about me, such as "amateur" or "what a cry baby." Halfway through the ride, when I had finally become accustomed to the feeling of dropping, and the water splashing in my face, I opened my eyes. It was crazy how much of a shift occured in such little time. I even began smiling; partly due to the fact that I was having fun, but mainly to the realization that I had conquered my fear. We got to the bottom of the slide, were pushed out by a giant surge of water, and fell off of the tube into the pool where two lifeguards were standing. "How was that, little guy?" asked one of the life guards. My smile must have answered the question, because he smiled back and said "good." I pulled my mom's hand and ran back into the line to go again.

Onamatopeia Assignment

Daily Journal-- 2/23/11

I'm pretty sick of a lot of things in my life right now. I've had the same routine, minimum-wage job for about two years at Target. I remember when I first got a job how much I loved the place. Everyone was very welcoming, and a lot of people I knew ended up coming through my checkout line frequently. That was during September of 2009. Now, even a three hour-long shift seems like torture due to the extreme boredom that I experience. School, of course, has always been one of my most undesirable places to be at, but it has gotten even worse over the past month. In January, I went up to Moorhead for the day to do a scholarship competition at Concordia College. I ended up receiving the scholarship, that totaled $60,000 over four years, and now I feel no need to still be in high school. Before last night, I hadn't opened my backpack  outside of school for a month. Every class is dragged out, and weekends aren't even worth looking forward to because nothing fun ever really happens anymore. The only thing that is keeping me going during this winter, is the thought of warm weather. My two favorite things in life occur during the spring/summer months: Twins games, and beach volleyball. I think this summer will be incredible, because it will be a three-month moving out party, essentially. Most of my friends are staying in the Twin Cities area, so mainly this is a moving-out party for myself. Next year I will be surrounded by an entirely new group of people, which I think will be a very positive change for myself. I haven't enjoyed the majority of my time at Eastview High School, and I don't reckon many people have. Concordia will be a great experience for me, and hopefully I will become a much more independent, and mature human. I know I'm sort of just being whiny, and I will try to cheer myself up, but I'm just really sick of being in Eagan/Apple Valley. It's time for me to move out and explore the world on my own, without the sanctity of my home and my friends. I'm also excited for the world beyond college, when I am searching for my own career, house, and spouse. It's a very exciting future, filled with numerous possibilities.

Alliteration Assignment

Tony trudges triumphantly on the treacherous trail,
While he willingly whistles with,
Feet fighting, in case his fight fails,
So somber his sound is, he slides around swift.

He hikes to the highest point before his hike halts,
Muddied boots mess with his mountainous mark,
His veins leak violent, he locks like a vault,
Certainly suffering, searching something that sparks.

Daily Journal-- 2/22/11

As we passed over the sturdy bridge connecting the harbor, and Dead Shot Bay, I took my headphones out of my ears. I wrapped them around the base of my iPod, and put the iPod into my pocket. We made our way down the narrow, dirt road that lead to my Grandma's cottage. It was a beautiful, mid-July day and we were back in the city of Detroit Lakes. Liza, our old Golden Retriever, was mulling around in the backseat, anxious to return to her favorite place. Sure enough as we approached the grey and maroon house, my Grandma opened the screen door and came walzing outside. Dad parked the Durango, and as soon as he unlocked the doors, I went running out to give my grandma a hug. We went through the ordinary routine of her telling me how much bigger I have gotten, and asking about the drive. As my dad began talking about the traffic on I-94, I snuck to the back yard with Liza. Technically, I was going to the front yard, because in Detroit Lakes they considered the front yard to be the one facing the lake. My grandma's cottage was on the largest lake in the city, "Big Detroit." There was a slight breeze today, but not enough to make the water overly-choppy. I ran out to the wooden dock, and touched the famous ceramic owl decoration. I sat down, but my legs weren't long enough to allow my feet to get wet, so I dipped a little extra distance and felt the cool water run in between my toes. Liza had already took a seat, laying down on the right side of me. Little did I know, this would one day be my paradise.

Sense of Time Poem Assignment

"Friday"

Friday is green,
The color of summer, a glimpse of my dream,
It feels like a bomb that has dropped in my chest,
But sounds near and faint as a bird in its nest.
It smells like a breeze, with wafts of good dining,
It tastes like a pie, taken out at good timing.
Friday's a mystery, the prior week: history.

Daily Journal-- 2/18/11

A man walks out into the cold night air. His hands are shaking from what just happened. His hands were blood covered and he was staring at a scarlet snow dust on the pavement. It all escalated so quickly. It started out as just a regular old shift at Subway, making sandwiches. At around seven o'clock, an hour before closing time, a shady character in an all white tuxedo walked into the shop. It was just him working tonight, because Fred went home sick. He asked "Can I help you with something?" The shady man walked up to the counter, pulled a small pistol out of his pocket and said "Make me a Spicy Italian on Rye or else you're dead, kid." Maybe it was the adrenaline rush that led to his next decision, or maybe it was his loyalty to Subway. He leaped over the counter, elbowed the man in the face, and knocked him out cold. So cold, that he thought he had killed the shady man. His boss would be coming back any minute to come lock the doors for the night, and he panicked. He knew he had to hide the body, so he brought him to the alley outside of the store. Suddenly the man stood up again, and reached for his gun. He stole the gun out of the man's hands and shot him twice in the face, and once in the scrotum. The man fell to the ground, blood-stained.

Parts of Speech Poem Assignment

The World,
Large, but Small,
Humbling and Destructive,
Swallows it's Inhabitants.

Daily Journal-- 2/17/11

Everything in my life if arbitrary. I go to school to try to improve my chances at a better future, I go to work to try to save money for my future, and I workout to try to keep myself in shape for the future. I feel like way too much pressure is being put on the future, that I never will really be able to enjoy the present. When I'm 22 years old and out of college, will I still be looking beyond, to my later years... Or will I come to the reality that the future is now? I think that if one's eyes aren't open to the life around them, and focused on the life ahead of them, then they will let some great opportunities go. But then again life in general is simply a lengthy prelude to salvation. Mortality only has so much to offer, and every man is weak. I still fumble with the belief that every man holds his own destiny. If everything happens for a reason, and God has a plan for every man, then who really has the control? I wonder if the various impulses in our body, physically forcing us to take some sort of action, are really our own impulses. But then again, I have done a lot of things that I don't think God would be proud of me for doing. If he didn't want me to do, why didn't he stop me? Or is it that every negative encounter we deal with in life really does serve a purpose? Whether it teaches us a lesson, or prepares us for an even more difficult experience, it was designed to help us in the long run. I don't fear death. Yet, I do have fears, which is contradictory towards my last statement. If I do not fear death, I  SHOULD NOT fear anything... yet, I can't help it. I fear humanity. Sometimes I lose faith in the concept that there is a little bit of good in every person. Some acts that people partake in are just too evil to believe that they have good intentions. I wish for a world in which every member enjoys comfort, but I know it's extremely unrealistic, given the fact that I have a great life and am still not comfortable in my own skin. I want to change the world, but I don't even know how to change myself. It's tough...

Cinquain Assignment

Cinquains
Seem odd to me,
It's unordinary,
To confine all my syllables,
Like this.

Daily Journal-- 2/16/11

I wake up and try to take a deep breath, but the deeper the breath the more severe the pain. The ground is hard beneath my back, and I feel a dull pain in my arm. I.V. tubes run through the veins right beneath my bicep, and above my forearm. I have no reccollection of how I got here, so naturally I begin perspirating. I feel my lungs thicken, as a result of my need for additional oxygen. My heart is pounding, and my eyes become dialated. The pupils inside of them become so constricted that the lens begins fogging, followed by a spurt of relative clarity. There's not much to see anyways, though. I'm in the most dull room I have ever seen. Four, white-colored walls, with no pictures, drawings, or even windows to admire. I see a bed atop some sort of cart, directly adjacent to where I lay on the floor. To be honest, I don't know which resting place seems more comfortable. Judging by the severe stiffness in my back, I imagine I have been laying on the ground for quite a while. This makes me wonder, how come nobody has come to save me yet? Hasn't anybody come through a door and realized that there is someone laying on the ground, in obvious pain. I look around at the room again, and again. My eyes dart from corner to corner, trying to grasp my reality. The more times I look around at the room, the more I become fearful. My claustrophobia evades any prior conception that this place was temporary. I am now drenched in sweat, as I admire the hideous beauty of the place I reside. Nobody came through the door to save me because there is no door. So, how the hell did I get in here.

Metaphor Assignment

Life is a baseball.
We have to feel it for a while before we can get a good grip.
Sometimes it's thrown at us too fast that we don't know how to react,
All we can do is take a swing at it,
And if we miss it, someone else is always there to catch it.
It can bring us pain if we're not prepared for it,
And even when we are ready for it,
If someone knows how to manipulate it more than we do,
We're left in the dust.
Sometimes we hit it too hard, that we wear off the stitching,
We lose the seams that the ball maker took so long to perfect.
I always hit it out of the park, though.

Daily Journal-- 2/15/11

I have called many people my "best friend" in the past, when the truth is I am my own best friend. The reason I label myself "best friend" is because I fit all of the criteria. Whenever I need someone to calm me down, I calm myself down. Whenever I need someone to trust, I trust myself. If every person in my life were to leave me, I could never leave myself. That's how I know I'm my own best friend. I'm the most reliable person I have in my life, and with the exception of my family and God, everyone else is temporary. I have completely lost touch with the majority of my elementary school, and middle school friends, which makes me think that the same exact thing will happen with my high school friends when I go to college next year. Don't get me wrong, I have a lot of friends, but I think a best friend is something that you have to work for. It is a priviledge to be someone's best friend, and it is a battlefield to mantain that friendship. The problem with people these days is they just don't care that much anymore. With the numerous cliques of social groups in high school, one doesn't choose a best friend. They choose an alliance. They choose a group of kids whom will act as their safety blanket when they're ever placed in high-drama situations. That's why I stick to myself. Whenever there comes a time that I'm in serious trouble, I put more faith in myself than any other person on the planet, because nobody knows me as well as I know myself, and nobody cares about me as much as I care about myself. That's a best friend.

Simile Poem Assignment

I woke up feeling numb like I was waking from surgery,
Lights flashing in my head like there was an emergency.
Urgently, I searched for fervency, but words were not curbin' me,
So instead I turned my back to the city, like Ron Burgundy.
I layed low in my complex, like witness protection,
Like the son of man, equipped with perfection.
But my quick-wit aggression, couldn't stick to the question,
So I put in change to make it drop, like Chicklets in pension.

Simile Activity

1. A calendar is like a mirror because time gives off reflections.
2. A sandwich is like a dinner table because women should make it.
3. An ice cube is like a cookie because both go well with lemonade.
4. A knife is like a whisper because they both scare me when guys show me either.
5. Kissing is like a careful collision because you should have stopped, before you hit in the rear.
6. Playing beach volleyball feels like a peeled grape.
7. Dating the same person for too long feels like leftover spaghetti.
8. Falling in love sounds like death, because I'll only experience it once.
9. A dentist’s drill feels like being at school because it annoys me.
10. Tomato soup tastes like bleeding hearts because I don't want to eat either.

Daily Journal-- 2/14/11

Out of the dark, we came into the spotlight that flickered on stage. My heart was beating, and trumpets were bellowing in my head. I had never done anything like this, and for the time being there were a million places I'd rather be. I was nervous that I would open my mouth, but no words would come out. All they would hear would be a faint squeal. Not to mention my lack of stage presence, inducing apprehension, and Parkinson-esque hand movements. The stage was elevated about seven feet off of the ground where the crowd stood. This seemed a little dangerous to be entirely honest, which got me thinking that maybe people weren't joking when they said "break a leg." It was feasible at least. My clothes reeked from perspiration and anxiety medication. I was reminiscing on the first time I had written a song. I had always been pretty crafty with words, which definitely came from my mom's gene. Now the biggest challenge was finding confidence in my voice, and trusting my talent. Here goes nothing, I thought. As the beat started playing, it felt right. I walked up to the front of the stage to greet my friends in the front row. Apparently I took one too many steps, because I woke up in a hospital bed with a broken leg. Oh, the irony.

Change Poem Assignment

Things
Aren't
What
They
Used
To
Be

When
We
Were
Young
We
Were
Inseperable

Who
Would
Have
Thought
Inseperable
Could
Seperate

What
Was
Once
Vivid
Is
Now
Unrecognizable

Who
Was
Once
"Friend"
Is
Now
"Stranger"