My Strange Addiction

My nose began to dribble as I sat in class today.
It sounded like a siren, or a cannon that just boomed.
Although my nose felt dry, my stomach growled with dismay
I look down at the green snot and knew what outcome loomed.
Slowly I nibbled at the cotton tissue end,
But I quickly moved to the salty boogers within.
After one, I could not stop, could not even pretend
That my pesky cold had not become a dangerous addiction.
Classmates look on with disgust as I eat my own green monsters
I laugh because I know my obsession TLC will sponsor.

            As some of you may know, I suffered from an obnoxious sinus infection over the past few weeks. The waterfall of boogers that streamed from my nose seemed never ending, and my constant search for Kleenex interrupted many of my classes. From the trumpet that sounded to the awkward walk to and from my seat, this sickness caused me more discomfort than I have experienced in a while. So my not share it with my AP English classmates? In my poem, I opted to use the most upfront diction that I possibly could to arouse the most uneasiness from my readers. Society often teaches us to apply the euphemism “mucous” instead of “snot” or “boogers,” but I wanted my classmates to experience the maximum discomfort levels (4, 6). I must confess that I do not actually consume my soiled Kleenex as an afternoon snack, so the “salty” description may not hold true (6). However, if anyone wishes to indulge in my “strange addiction,” please report back with imagery as vivid as my own. Until then, stay healthy my friends.

Lyssa's Lyfe Lessonz

Dear Myss Lyss,

            First of all, quit the nickname. Unfortunately, it does not catch on, so do not ask your mom to get it printed on the back of your brand-new sweat shirt. Confused yet? Yes, it is me, and I am you, only one year older.

            Let me prove it to you. You sleep with a stuffed bear named Bear. You know every word to every High School Musical song. You play scrabble against yourself in your free time. You have not only a homemade logo for yourself, but also an original theme song to the tune of “You’re the One That I Want” from Grease (To pick a lyric at random—“I got skilllssss and I know it”).

            Now that I have gained so much wisdom at Chagrin Falls Middle School, I wanted to communicate with my eleven-year-old self and share some insight on how to become the “cool kid” in sixth grade. Step one: ALWAYS sit in the back of the bus. Not only does it secure your social status, but you will also learn some quality cuss words such as “stupid,” “butt,” and “idiot.” Step two: Always wear pig tails. From normal to braided, this effortless hair style remains timelessly stunning. To complete the look, I recommend a nice shade of Girl Scout khaki pants with a horizontally striped Aeropostale polo. Have no fear, for boys will crawl all over you in no time. Step three: rainbow braces. If you need to keep up a mouth full of metal, why not dazzle your classmates with every color they could ever imagine? I currently sport a combination of deep mahogany and aquamarine green, and I can tell by the way that my fellow seventh graders cackle at me that their envy runs deep. Step four: write more lyrics to that catchy theme song of yours. Whenever I think of it, I picture myself as Olivia Newton-John in John Travolta’s hunky arms as he serenades me beside the Trabant at Blossom Time.  Finally, step five: whenever someone insults you, simply flip a pig tail, snap a finger, and sassily sing the classic Jonas Brothers lyric: “I’m hot, you’re cold.” Their face will say it all.

            With these steps, you will effortlessly become the most popular kid in sixth grade.   I mean, with all my 12 year old experience, you could basically call me an expert on life. Have a great rest of your year, baby Alyssa, and never forget your inner superstar.

                                                                                    Best of luck,

                                                                                             Alyssa Christine Marquette

                                                                                             Age 12

It's...Alive!

      Zap. A neuron connects. Zap zap zap. They all continue to fire and form the wirings of my brain. The firings give off the only acknowledgeable sound in my warm little home…or maybe my auditory receptors have simply yet to develop. But I know everything in me constantly develops, and it all originates from somewhere in my back. New bones appear each day with a set order and placement, and my singular arm proves no different. My budding brain flashes to scenes of ancestors as they hunt for food with their sole brachia. They try to overpower the leaping tiger, but fail. Bound only to observe this distant memory woven into my genes, I feel an obligation to aide both my predecessors and descendants. What if they could grab the tiger with not one, but two hands? Or use a spear AND a rock to attack the wooly mammoth? Somewhere deep within my glial and nervous cells, I can sense that my genes want to help too. Pop. A mutation of a single nucleotide occurs.  Only a single mutation, but it remains one of the most critical in my body. As I continue to grow, I notice a big change in my skeletal makeup. A second arm begins to form. I wiggle my infinitesimally small body to try and make room for this coveted limb. The fingers on my brand new second hand appear identical in structure and function to its original counterpart.

            When the rest of my body catches up to the development of the second hand, I slowly leave my nine-month home. Although I have enjoyed my time, I cannot wait to show my family what I made. My mother looks at me with love when I first arrive, but I hear words like “freak” and “monstrosity” when others approach. I begin to cry. How can the outside world act so cruel? Someday they will learn. With a second hand, I can prove them all wrong.

Extreme Drug Abuse

My boots hit the hard wood floor on the cold February morning. My hazel eyes find its shimmering black handle and explore the contours of its perfectly round shape: the Cuisinart coffee pot. Slowly, I approach it. My hand reaches out to touch it. I go to grab the bulbous container…but my hand shrinks back from the radiating heat. As Leontes from The Winter Tale would say, “Too hot! Too hot!” With a to-go cup quivering in one hand, I make a second attempt at the pot. This time, my hand clasps the handle. The muscles pulse in my arm as I lift it towards the cup. I feel nervous, but I cannot hesitate for a second. Sweat pores from my brow in furrowed concentration. Slowly, so slowly, the pot moves from the machine to the cup, like two lovers reuniting at long last. And finally, with much care, I tip my hand to release the steaming, beautiful liquid into the synthetic mug. I can feel the glee bubbling within me. But wait! I have not yet won the battle. I reach for the sugar in the cabinet above. As I begin to pull the sugar away from the wood, I feel a resistance. Honey has stuck the sugar to the cabinet! I take a step back from the counter and begin to stretch. This task could prove difficult. Then, with a running start, I lunge and snatch the sugar from the shelf. Victory is mine! I watch the beautiful waterfall of crystallized glucose cascade into my cup, each gem a star in the pool of caffeine. I meet my final challenge: the milk. Hand outstretched, I reach towards the nearby fridge. But out of nowhere comes a true villain—my little brother, in need of the drink for his morning cereal. He cackles manically as he snatches the skim milk, and my heart breaks in agony. Hours seem to pass before his bowl of Trix fills to the brim, and I waste no time making my move to the jug. In one swift move, I spin around to pour the milk into the to-go cup. I can hear crowds screaming in exuberance in the background. “We are the Champions” plays from the speakers of Heaven. I grab a spoon and swirl the concoction furiously. Finally, I go to bring the smooth taste of coffee to my lips. I smile in triumph.