Whence came the fetid stench I had the misfortune of discovering last period. One of the students had removed her shoes, and the resultant sulfrous vapourings caused consternation far and wide. I attempted to address the issue by pushing the shoes back toward her feet with a yard stick, but I couldn't stay so close for long to that brimfire whiff, so redolent of bedeviled eggs wrapped and forgotten in a glove box in July. I tried to coax her to replace those lost soles but she'd succumbed, alas, to their miasmic exhalations. I had to act fast, but failed.
My ineffectual fussings with the aforementioned measuring device aligned the gaping maws of those monstrous calamities, frankly emblazoned with faux swooshes, and thereby amplifying their effect. This set off a peculiar loosening of geometry in Room 317, as Newton lost his grasp and previously unbeknownst corners appeared in the shadows betwixt and beyond. In these corners leering shades of Hades moved and grasping hands reached forth to the mad piping of a sightless eldritch god...
Mercifully, I lost consciousness before she arrived, foul denizen oft-mentioned in the mad ravings of monsieur Docteur Alonso Alhazred, CEO of City Schools. My classroom library is not short stocked in certain unmentionable titles, including De Vermiis Mysterium by Gerber, the terrifying 12 Steps of Basil Vaseline, and I Ate Pazuzu by M. Malkin. Consequently, I know when losing consciousness is most convenient, and I did so last period, avoiding the horror of my penultimate day with the dread denizens of Innsmouth. I missed by mere miliseconds the visage most dread, she of smellless ear and sightless nose, she of the AP's office...
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