“Food?” Chris inquired, popping out of his seat like a toaster strudel.
Grandpa lounged on the raft in the middle of the pool like an old battleship.
If seen from above the factory, the workers would have looked like clock parts.
The truth was like a bad taste on his tongue.
The people who still lived in the town were stuck in place like wax statues.
Cassie talked to her son about girls as though she were giving him tax advice.
Alan’s jokes were like flat soda to the children, surprisingly unpleasant.
My mother’s kitchen was like a holy place: you couldn’t wear your shoes, you had to sit there at a certain time, and occasionally we’d pray.
The bottle rolled off the table like a teardrop.
The handshake felt like warm laundry.
The snow is a white blanket.
He is a shining star.
Her long hair was a flowing golden river.
Tom's eyes were ice as he stared at her.
The children were flowers grown in concrete gardens.
Kisses are the flowers of affection.
The falling snowflakes are dancers.
The calm lake was a mirror.
Today I walked into my big brother’s room,
and that’s when I saw it: The Armpit of Doom.
I wasn’t expecting The Armpit at all.
I shrieked and fell backward and grabbed for the wall.
The Armpit was smelly. The Armpit was hairy.
The Armpit was truly disgusting and scary.
I wanted to vomit. I wanted to cry.
I wanted to flee from its all-seeing eye.
My skin started crawling with goosebumps and chills.
My brain began screaming to head for the hills.
I tried to escape but I knew I could not.
In horror, I found I was glued to the spot.
“Will somebody help me!?” I started to shout,
till fumes overcame me and made me pass out.
And that’s why I’m here in this hospital room;
it’s all on account of The Armpit of Doom.
I’m still feeling shaken. I’m queasy and pale,
but lucky I lived and can tell you my tale.
So take my advice… If you ever go near
your big brothers room, bring a whole lot of gear:
A gas mask and goggles, a helmet and shield,
or maybe a space suit that’s perfectly sealed.
And then, only then, when you’re fully prepared,
step in very slowly and hope you’ll be spared.
But, if you’re afraid of the Armpit of Doom,
stay far, far away from your big brother’s room.
— Kenn Nesbitt