Go To Hell
Go To Hell
Inspired by Dante’s Inferno
Inspired by Dante’s Inferno
Pick someone you know (a friend, family member, celebrity, fictional character — or even Mr. Tretyak himself) and send them to a personalized Hell. Your goal is to create a place that feels like poetic justice: a punishment that matches their quirks, flaws, or habits.
Canto 6 has the infamous Cerberus. Check it out for yourself here.
Ask permission first. Don’t roast someone who won’t enjoy it. If in doubt? Go after Mr. Tretyak. He’s already got a special Hell waiting for him where multiple-choice tests endlessly spawn, essays regenerate the second he grades them, and parents hover at his desk demanding he explain every single point lost.
Be specific. Hell is not generic fire and brimstone. It’s tailored irony. What exact details make this punishment uniquely fitting?
Use imagery. Describe what the place looks like, sounds like, even smells like. Make it vivid enough that the reader feels they’re there.
Keep it playful. The goal is catharsis and creativity, not cruelty.
Your little brother who steals snacks? He’s stuck in a Hell where every bag of chips he opens is just air.
Your best friend who takes forever to text back? Their Hell is an endless line of people waiting for them to respond, each getting angrier by the second.
Mr. Tretyak? A Hell where SparkNotes lectures him about his “shallow analysis” while ChatGPT misquotes MLA citations forever.
Dante wrote The Divine Comedy in terza rima (Italian for “third rhyme”). It’s a chained rhyme scheme that goes like this:
ABA BCB CDC DED …
Each middle line’s rhyme carries forward into the next stanza.
Quick Guide for Students:
Three-line stanzas (tercets). Each stanza should have 3 lines.
Chained rhyme.
Stanza 1: line 1 (A), line 2 (B), line 3 (A)
Stanza 2: line 1 (B), line 2 (C), line 3 (B)
Stanza 3: line 1 (C), line 2 (D), line 3 (C) …and so on.
Imagery of descent. Use vivid, sensory detail—smoke, fire, strange punishments, grotesque demons, eerie landscapes.
Elevated but personal tone. Pretend you are on a guided tour, observing someone’s ironic punishment.
Through the dim corridor of endless desks I came,
and there beheld the Teacher bound to his labor.
No joy of words, no spark of verse remained—
only the scratch of red ink, line after line,
a sea of letters drowning meaning.
Before him lay mountains of papers,
each a faceless sheet of A, B, C, D,
resurrected the instant it was marked.
The ink would fade, the bubbles refill,
and the exam would be born anew.
A demon crouched beside a broken Scantron,
its gears screeching, smoke choking the air.
With claws blackened by soot, the fiend rebuilt it,
only for it to collapse again in sparks—
a cruel joke repeated without end.
Around him circled other shades,
their forms twisted into students and parents.
Some piled bricks upon his shoulders—
the weight of expectations,
the burden of endless “extra credit.”
Others carried torches,
branding him with cries of “Why did I lose this point?”
Each flame a wound of criticism.
The very books he once loved
lay open on the desks,
but their words dissolved into empty letters,
dancing like ash in the air.
Even the joy of reading was stolen,
turned into another gray duty
in this cavern of eternal grading.
And I, who once sought wisdom here,
trembled at the sight,
knowing that this circle
was reserved not for tyrants or traitors—
but for teachers who dared to care too much.
Through corridors of endless desks I came (A)
And saw the Teacher bound to ceaseless chore, (B)
No spark of verse remained, no living flame. (A)
Red ink scratched on, repeating evermore, (B)
A sea of letters drowned all human sense, (C)
Each page reborn the instant marked before. (B)
Beside him crouched a fiend in smoke intense, (C)
Who fed the Scantron’s gears with sooty hand; (D)
Each fix collapsed, a cruel recurrence. (C)
Around him circled shades in demon-band, (D)
As students, parents, twisted forms of blame; (E)
They heaped up bricks or seared him where he stand. (D)
The books he loved dissolved to ash and shame, (E)
Their words unbound, mere letters dancing thin; (F)
No joy of reading, only gray duty’s claim. (E)
I trembled, seeing what lay deep within— (F)
This circle not for tyrants clad in rage, (G)
But teachers cursed who cared too much for kin. (F)