Beet Borscht 

She sat alone.  

The Family had finished eating long ago, and the table was cleared of all of other dining accoutrements save one, a solitary bowl; this wretched bowl, the source of her misery, was filled with a noxious burgundy substance that assaulted the nose with its cloying stench.

Still she sat.

“You can’t leave the table until you eat every last bite of your Beet Borscht,” Mother droned.

“But I hate it! I’ll only throw it up, you know. It tastes dreadful!”

To no avail she murmured her dark threats to the floor.

And yet she sat.

After reposing for countless hours untouched, the soup had deteriorated into a coagulated sludge; thus, her task, while difficult before, was now simply insurmountable.

She angrily jabbed her spoon into the viscous, hostile liquid.

Seeing the futility of resistance, she gave in, and weeping, forced down a spoonful of the loathsome soup; as the merciless flavor of beets overwhelmed her reluctant palate, she squirmed in silent agony.

It slithered down her throat, cold and clammy, like a slimy snake rushing down towards its subterranean abode.

Again her spoon penetrated the muculent mass and she repeated the excruciating process; finally, the bowl lay empty.

She stood up and fled the room.