Hi. I made something that I'm really proud of, but in many people's eyes it may just be an average work of literature.

Originally, I made this piece for a school assignment, which was to re-create Ernest Hemingway's writing style. (Just Google search him) He's an amazing author and is one of the best in American literature.

Anyways, I'm going to share my short-story - it's nothing too extensive. If you enjoy it or have any critiques, please, don't hesitate to tell me. I just thought I should share this with people.

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Booger Boy

Sometimes, life was hard. Other times it was easy, but most of the time it was hard. Nobody knew what it was like. Nobody knew how hard 4th grade was. I would go to school knowing what to expect, the bullies would be waiting there for me, yelling at me, calling me names, and I try not to flinch, I try not to give away how scared I am. My parents think I am just imagining things, they think I have nothing to fear, that I am a strong boy. They think I have a heart of steel, a heart of steel with a tissue box always at my side.

“Hey, Booger Boy! Did your mom pack you enough tissues?!”

I don’t know how to reply. If I try to reply, they shoot me right back, and the shot hurts even more, and I stutter, and when I stutter it hurts. It hurts a lot.

“Stan’s just a little snot. He can’t do anything. Snot Boy! Snot Boy!”

“That’s s-not m-my n-n-name.” They heard me say it. I know what’s coming now.

“He said snot! He is a Snot Boy!”

It’s not my fault. I can’t help that I have rhinitis. I can’t help that my nose won’t stop running, running in a cascade of uncontrollable mucus and grime. It’s my curse. The curse I can do nothing about. The universe is cruel like that, I guess. My parents don’t really understand, they think that I have friends, they think that I am happy with who I am. They can’t see what’s really happening to me, but I wish they did. All they do is go to their law firms and offices, and when they get home from their law firms and offices they go out to bars and motels and when they come home from their bars and motels they just go to bed and I am left by myself. I am left alone. All alone.

That’s why I carry my tissues. They relieve the pressure, the anxiety, the sadness. Every time I blow, my nose becomes clear, by body purged of the curse. For those few precious seconds, I can smell the sweet aromas. I can breathe the wonderful air. Then the curse comes back, and the grimy mucus flows into my nostrils. I blow again, and again, and again. I need to be purified of my sadness; I need those precious seconds of happiness; I need my tissues.

I don’t like being without my tissues. When I’m without my tissues, I miss them so much that I get anxious and find any kind of rag I can find. My teacher doesn’t really like it when I don’t have my tissues. She caught me using her “feminine sticks” once; I tried to shove them up my nose so they would stop running. It didn’t really work. I got into trouble for that, but I didn’t really care. It was the bullies I cared about. They knew me better than anyone, but in all the wrong ways. They knew what hurt the most.

I made an imaginary friend once. His name was Nick. I made him so that I wouldn’t be lonely, so that I could find some comfort in this harsh universe. It didn’t really work. I knew I was just talking to myself, and Nick knew it, too. I just made myself look like a fool. A fool with a runny nose. I don’t want any more imaginary friends.

I wish I had friends, it would be nice to know what that was like. Life is like that, I guess, either you have friends or you don’t. Friends, or nothing. Nada.

Hopefully 5th grade will be better. Maybe, by some miracle, my nose will stop running. Just like that. Maybe I will wake up one morning and I will be able to smell again and the bullies will stop and I will have friends and my parents will love me and I will be happy. Maybe someday, but not today. Not today.