Judith Creemer
Google
Late one evening, I was strolling down Cherry and Pickwick, walking off the stress of a turbulent finals season, when I came upon the neon glow of the Team Taco sign. Feeling pangs of both hunger and relief after passing my battery of tests, I decided to reward myself with a box of nachos and a margarita. The vermillion glow from the establishment mingled with the heat of the kitchen, engulfing me in a womb-like embrace of comfort. As I approached, my anticipation slowly turned to cold dread. Within the red glow, the shadows danced an impossible umbral waltz, twisting and curving into shapes my mind could never hope to reproduce. A dull hum emenated from the crimson depths, just barely above the pitch of human hearing. The sound cut through to my very soul, filling me with the urgent need to be somewhere, anywhere but this grim precipice, but my muscles would not obey. Marionettelike, I staggered to the counter and stared into the maw of madness. Within, past the veil of the shadow's dance, a goat-headed figure hovered off the ground, robed in sheets of inky black and captivating scarlet. Beneath the twisting colors was the impression of a power beyond the physical. Staring up into its eyes felt like gazing up a sheer cliff face, a towering edifice impossibly high, somehow contained within the confines of the taco shop. As I stood transfixed, I felt the being bend a fraction of its immeasurable attention upon my lowly form. It asked without words, in a chord which shredded down my nerves like razors made of ice. It asked a question, and I somehow understood. My mouth opened, emenating forth a black stream of pure meaning, a message without medium. Ten minutes later, I got my pork belly nacho bowl and margarita. Pretty good stuff ngl, I'll be coming back