The markers are dangerous club

By Chie Theresa Fujioka

Do you hate the numerous annoying projects that teachers, especially those of the female alien human imposter species, often impose? Horrible things they. Not only do they cause irregularities in your bio-rhythms, they destroy your chances of ever succeeding in life. How do they do that? By encouraging the use of so-called "magic" markers. These are magic indeed, but more of the black cat and mirror breaking type that I recommend you avoid. I have decided to propose a club for those who have realized the cosmic danger of these ink-loaded devices and desire freedom from their monopoly on society, most specifically, "education." What I am about to tell you is pure truth as far as fiction goes, and trust me, I am not to be trusted about genre.

"No... please God, no," I muttered under my breath as the cheerleading captain asked the teacher if "we could make posters(! Ohmigosh)" I can understand posters for science projects. Nice gentle tame and straightforwards pieces they, with purpose, procedure, hypothesis, well anyway. But those colorful fruity magic marker, glue, and construction paper disasters which are often given an extraordinarily inflated grade value? No, without thanks.

Finally released by the clock on the wall, I escaped, and one could say various forms and fearsomely copious quantities of brimstone and toxic gases were swirling in my aura. A poster project. Oh joy. Oh exultation. Why don't we just pop open some fizzy, eh?

I sat down before the formidably white poster board like the U.S. Navy, armed to the teeth with writing utensils and un-writing implements galore, straight edges, round edges, and the best, sharp edges. My marker arsenal ranged from the innocent sounding Crayola "Classic Washable" spectrum of strangely similar colors, to the ever-potent, ever-permanent, ever-poisonous Sanford manufactured take-a-whiff-of-this-for-a-high indeliable ink-tube.

I was battle ready, prepared, and quivering with fear. Last time I did battle like this, I came out stained in red.

I threw myself into the fray, slashing the lethal weaponry against the mighty forces of white. Flecks of color flew everywhere, and not all my own. I bit a cap and ripped it off, ready to throw the grenade into the fight. But it seems, my weaponry was faulty, and betrayed me.
This marker.
This horrid marker.
Exploded.
Covered me.
From head to foot.
In INK.

I believe this was what ruined my life. Those first permanent stains and scars upon my face, my clothes... The markers turned yellow on me. And then you wouldn't believe how Elmer smirked in my face, before covering me and my poster in a sticky white potion which has the nerve to call itself glue. (The only real glue, in my opinion, is super glu and glue sticks.) I was rejected on a wholesale, may I even say international basis. I was rejected by the mercenaries of the art world. I was rejected by those turn tail cowards. And let my tell you, as green with envy, and yellow with cowardice as they may be, they cannot compare to the red of my anger and fury.

So if would you sign your name in blue or black ink right here above the line...

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