Maybe I Shouldn't Write When in School...

The other day when I was waiting between classes I wrote this little bit. (I was worrying about mid-terms at the time, and stressing about Greek and wondering what a subjunctive infinity was in Akkadian, which actually doesn't exist as far as I know, but I thought it did, and it was only adding to me worrisome state.)

It is not the best in the world, for which I apologize, but I felt like sharing it.

The pressure sat on her like a camel, but instead of chewing cud it was chewing her stomach. "Nom, nom, nom," went the pressure. Jacqueline her down against her desk. "Whack, whack, whack," went her head.
"Stop," hissed her teacher, "you'll break something."
"Already broke," mumbled Jacqueline. "Broke by the camel pressure, broke by the mid-term shoving words down my throat. Words taste bad, Miss Teacher, like rotten tuna-fish sitting under your tongue."
"You're not alright," Miss Teacher said. "There's something wrong, there in your head." Miss Teacher went and grabbed Jacqueline's chair, wheeling her out of the room, through the door.
"Mid-Term sundaes dripped in chocolate, still taste bad as gravel." Jacqueline dragged her feet as the wheel-chair rolled, rolled, down the hall. She drew a giant 'x' atop her paper, circled random words in pen.
"I'm done," said Jcqueline, wavcing a limp hand in the tepid air, paper dripping sideways, flopping like a dead fish. Miss Teacher came and took her work away, while Jacqueline fingered circles on her plastic desk.
"Words like gravel," Jacqueline said, flicking dark grey rocks from her outstretched tongue. "Words like sand," she rolled her head and flapped her hands. "Words that travel, 'cross the land." A hiss, a pop, a shred of paper falling from her shirt pocket as her body rocked sideways, her dead hands trailing to the cool tile floor.