Eating Biscuits and Sweet Thins in Hell

June 27, 2010
By olimpos BRONZE, Lincoln, Massachusetts
olimpos BRONZE, Lincoln, Massachusetts
2 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
"You're so pretty and colorful on the outside, but on the inside you're nothing but fluff. You're like a walking, talking, marshmallow peep." - Latter Days

There is a stench inside the gates, and as shivers of disgust run through your stomach and settle on top of your esophagus and sit, rotting, letting out vapors of dirty air and never leaving your throat, no matter how many breaths that you may take as you walk through the gates of the cafeteria. A sickening stench of rotting food and old milk brush up against your nostrils, and plagues your senses. Imagine being imprisoned between crowds of the damned, sneering with corrupt thoughts and foul intentions, pushing and shoving as the quantities of revolting food depart, leaving only the most decomposed sustenance left to pick at with a fork. Even walking to find a place to sit, treading through the reeking air, watching for things to run into you and make you drop your small body of muck. Imagine choking on the small lumps of forage, clawing and reaching for the putrid stench of the rotting once again. Nauseated by the world being filled by this corruption, you have to still devour the forage and watch as other damned souls drag themselves through the sewer of unbreathable elements. And then imagine this being multiplied to twist and distort your veins, making this mass of human fungus. This is the true stench of the cafeteria.

The earthly fire that contorts itself in the food heaters is always ever-going in circles. Reaching into the heater to get your food, imagine feeling the flames lick at your fingers and feeling the eternal burn. It will reach into the crevasses of your sweat glans and, like a dragon slithering through the air, will erupt through your veins and flesh, igniting your soul. Every time you try and get a sandwich the heat of the metal with scold you with rage. And whenever you go to pay for your food the money erupts into heat and disallows you to pay. Visualize that as you walk out of the area where you collect food your soul is too burned in this hell itself that it bursts, having you become a mass of burning pulp. At every table there is a fire to burn you, and every single bit of your flesh -- which, by now, is already a pulp becoming more human-like once again – will begin to drip from your bones.

There is another torment in this infernal prison in which we call the cafeteria, and it is the company of the howler students. The evil that stinks from their clothes is so noxious that those who walk by them collapse and wilt, beginning to vomit profusely. There is no family to these howling creatures, no friends. As they screech, their mouths becoming a black abyss, their eyes that of the universe with no light and their faces so contorted and thin that the jaw line is shown to such an extent you would think it was a corpse that had lay in a coffin for many years. Their limbs are crooked and usually there is barely any flesh on them, so their blood and bits of flesh are hanging off their muscle. Whenever these creatures reach for the food, their bits drop onto anything unwrapped and contaminate it, making it unable to eat. T
here was once one boy who didn't know how to watch out for the contaminated food, and once he took a bite out of the cockroach pizza, his whole face began to bubble and melt, blood seeping from his hairline and drizzling to the floor; plop, plip, plop, plip. It was almost eloquent, the way his back cracked backwards and his neck broke to the side, the way he fell to the floor, creating a burn mark where he lay and the way his fingernails slowly began to push themselves off his fingertips and cracking to the floor; click, click, click, clack. Ever since that dreadful day, the howlers began to contaminate more, and their minds, full with despise, began plotting. You must watch out for these beasts, for they will lure you to them and send you into their abyss.

The howlers are one of the least of these torments, for you have not heard the torture of the muck. The muck is a stench-filled food that burns the hairs inside of your nostrils. Once bought, it will begin to talk about wicked things, bubbling and popping, squirming around on your plate. If you manage to swallow the muck, it will begin to froth inside of your throat and stomach, making your insides churn. You have no bathroom to go to, you only have the foul floor beneath you to lurch forward and watch as the muck spews itself from your mouth, then you are forced to clean it with your own bare hands and never clean yourself after that incident, you are forever stuck with the muck. Whatever friends you may have had, they will never take one step near you again, and whenever you may need touch something, it dissolves into bits and pieces of ash. Therefore, when you touch your clothes, they dissolve as well, so you are forced to walk around the cafeteria completely bare of any clothes.

And finally, to make things worse in the cafeteria, there is the torment of the killjoys. They force you to listen to them, their mouths curving up and always open, talking. Inside of their mouths there are many sharp teeth that glisten and the tongue that allows the speech of many boring things. The killjoys also love to gossip and manipulate, making it extremely hard to get away from them. Once one starts talking to you, you are never set free from their grasp. You are pinned to them, forced to listen to their voice drawling and making the funny things seem not funny anymore. After killing the funny things, they start complaining about who is afflicted and who is not, and how it matters to them that people not wearing designer things are not worth talking to. The more they talk, the more your brain leeks of whatever intelligence is left inside of it, slowly wiggling out of your ears and slithering down your neck, stopping at your shoulder and drying there. Finally, when all of the liquid is drained from your skull and you collapse to the floor, the killjoy stops talking, and becomes confused about what attraction it had to you, before moving onto its next pray. With whatever pray it moves onto next, the killjoy's motives get worse and become more harmful than the brain draining itself in boredom and disgust with the devilish tongue that speaks of popularity. The killjoy first begins to claw at your arms for attention, drawing blood. Then it starts to gnaw on your shoulder, still somehow able to speak. It starts luring you to the killjoy table, and sitting you down on the center of the table. Other killjoys surround you, licking their lips with hunger and picking at their teeth with their fingernails to get excess food out of their mouths. These killjoys will circle around you, filled with lewd ideas as they start dragging you down mentally. Illusions will start to form in your mind as you feel smaller and smaller because of these pressures they give you. Hundreds of killjoys will start tossing horrible jokes at you, making you curl up into a ball and cover your ears, which are already leaking of your fluids. As you begin to fade away, the strongest killjoy would lift you up, and place you in front of many, many boring books which you are forced to read until you begin to shrink from the intensity of their boring words. Then, once you have shrank to the appropriate size of a large ant, the killjoys stomp on you, with a loud splat.

The author's comments:
I was working on this for a James Joyce free-write essay, describing my school cafeteria as hell in his writing style.

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