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Weekly Contest #364
We do not study. We mourn. Within the University’s stone corridors, learning has fossilised into a ritual of silence and repetition, a sacred theatre where only the ghosts of knowledge remain. We speak in the brittle syllables of dead languages, debate the nature of man in words that no one understands. Oil lamps flicker, their flames too tired to chase the shivers from the darkest corners, their light dancing upon faces too young to seem so weary. Time does not pass here – it pools, thick and unmoving, in the silence between our words. We a...
I am writing to apologise for what I did on Thursday. I stare at the sentence until the words begin to separate from themselves, the ink of my pen hovering as though it, too, is unsure of what it writes. My fingers remain curled around the implement, but I don’t remember beginning to write. There it is, in my own handwriting; careful, measured, certain. But I am not certain. I do not remember writing this.Across from me, Mrs Halden holds her hands over each other. Something in her stony stare instills fear like no other in me, and I can feel...
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