Name of Your Story

There is no place like Hell. My teenage summers are scarred with memories of the trips my brothers and me were forced to take to the dump… Hell, as we called it. The sun, rather than resting in its normal home millions of miles away, floats a few miles above the earth where it scorches what is left of the barren desert and burns the skin right off the bones of anyone foolish enough test it. It may sound ridicules, but once you are standing on the charred ground of the Washington County Landfill, you’ll understand. It is the gateway to Hell. The heat vaporizes the horrid contents of shredded garbage bags. As you look across the landscape, heat fumes blur the horizon and carry the airborne particles of rotting diapers, hamburger that never made it to the BBQ, and used feminine products. They hang so thick in the air that your face will turn black with rancid soot just by walking forward. Hold your nose, wear a mask…it won’t help. The smell will carve its way into your lungs like hot lava, burning you from the inside while the sun melts you from the outside. You’ll want to throw up, anything to rid your body of that rancid, repulsively sweet smell of decomposing garbage. But you won’t have the energy. Sapped by the heat, you’ll worry every labored breath may be your last. You will never forget a trip to Hell…that is, if you survive it.