The Lost Marshmallow

Here is a descriptive paragraph I wrote for school.  For fun, I set in the present tense, like the Hunger Games.

 

 

The Lost Marshmallow

 

 

Breathing in deeply, I feel the cool evening breeze of summer wash over me and can hear the sounds of camp in my ear.  I remember the previous excitement I had earlier in the day, playing ball, hiking, swimming, and hotdogs, it had been a great day.  Opening my eyes, I look for a free stick to roast my plump marshmallow.  My search was soon rewarded and I settled back on a camp chair to roast my marshmallow to perfection.  I did love the soft, golden treat sandwiched between two gram cracker pieces with a chunk of chocolate oozing out.  I could roast the best marshmallows, that’s what my Uncle had told me.  I didn’t mean to brag but I really could.  “Patience” is what I always say, “patience.”  Some people are just too quick to want to get their marshmallow crispy that they plunge it right into the flames.  The result is a black, ugly, marshmallow.  Not me, I like an attractive marshmallow.  Golden brown with just enough crisp around it.  Yes, that’s the way to prepare a marshmallow.  It just takes patience.  I laugh, maybe I should give marshmallow roasting lessons!  Somebody’s got to teach these amateurs roasters how to get it done.  I am thinking about eating chocolate plain after this s’more, when somebody taps me on the shoulder.  I jump and shout.  “What is it?” my friend points to my stick and I follow the finger to my marshmallow.  It is a big, black, swollen mess.  I remove my stick from the fire but it is too late.  The marshmallow explodes and I am left in humiliation, covered in white goo, without a marshmallow.