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Activity 2 from Similes activity

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Time may be limited; however, the memories, experiences, and connections we have with it are everlasting.

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My name is Yalena Beszhak-Ausborn, and throughout my writings this semester I noticed a similar theme among them all. Time is endless, but your time is not. As it marches relentlessly, we must find a meaning to its parade. I have yet to find my true purpose, but with writing these I can develop an idea of how I feel about something not quite there. I'm 17, college starts the day I turn 18. I hit milestones I used to dream of as a 9-year-old, and now I'm waiting for time to hit more.

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Option #1 Writing Metaphors Activity B

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Onomonopia Activity

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Question #3, MCQ - Yalena Beszhak-Ausborn

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I was dared to knock on that door. Worn down in the same spot everyone else knocks on when they're feeling audacious. There are no signs that say "beware of dog” or something daunting to keep you off the lawn, yet people still find this door alarming. No one has been reported dead here, killed, or kidnapped. So I was dared to knock. The lights turned on and the door unlocked, gesturing me to come in, but when I ran back, my friends were gone, bikes left on the sidewalk—leaving with me nothing but a lit house and my trepidation.

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I still have nightmares about it. The one time I decided to go with her was the first and last time I would. I needed out of here, but it seemed no matter where we went I couldn't escape. It seemed never-ending once I entered that forest.  She said, “It'll be fine.” That “it was just a myth.” She led me in circles, around the coyotes, ditches, and the rivers we could've easily skipped over. I had to run for it, eventually tripping, and falling into the ditch of my dream. Waking up to dream about it again tomorrow night.

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It's fun being a ghost. I want to feel so free of the burdens put on my shoulders in the past. The burden of everyone else, who felt as if letting out their anger on me was the solution to solving their inner crisis. It's fun to haunt the halls of my school, the children, and the teachers with rules so segregating. To hurt who hurt me, mentally-- physically. I'm not a ghost that scratches. Perhaps a ghost that speaks. The truth of everyone who chose to sit and torture me until I cried sickly and begged for my liberty.

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One of my first poems, that explains a little more about me.