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CHAPTER NINETEEN
The students of Golden Lake University began trooping into the university's largest hall with frowns on their faces, murmurs and grumbles escaping their lips, and ear-itching scrapes and shuffles emerging from their feet as though they were literally being dragged along.
So far, all the days spent in the University were in one word, ‘perfect’ and the students just didn't seem to have gotten enough of it. That Saturday, too, wasn't an exception and had there been pastels—or crayons, drawing boards, and an utterly silent environ with the wind hissing and blowing green grass while birds chirruped from the top of trees, too, an artist was sure to limn a first-rate and world class drawing thanks to the unfiltered and spotless inspiration that'll diffuse through his skin's pores and deeper—to his core as he held pencil firmly in the flap of his ear.
It was such a fine day with the glorious sun positioned in the very middle among the soft, feat
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“We need to take a look at the poem, Harold,” Trisha said with a sense of urgency in her voice. Her face held a scowl of worry as they burrowed through the clusters of students who were prattling and conversing about the contest—a few betting and speculating on who was going to win, as they hurried away from the auditorium.The heated ‘disk’ in the sky hung right above them, showering its fiery brilliance on the middle of their heads making their dark shadows which was spread on the asphalt the size of lilliputians.“What poem?” Chloe asked with confusion etched in her eyes. She was dressed in all green; the kind of green one could only find amongst artificial flowers and it made her reddish brown pupils stand out.The four of them continued walking to nowhere in particular in silence after Chloe asked them the question with the warm afternoon breeze sweeping their toes as they strode on.“I'm not wanted here, I gue
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“What's taking him so long?” Trisha asked, picking up a smoothened pebble from its cluster—on the ground, and throwing it weakly onto the graveled asphalt that spread out in front of them; a route for Golden Lake's professors to drive past to their offices—in their cars.“I can't tell but our dorm is not too close to here, so of course, it'll take him some time.” Wilkes said. He turned his left wrist to its fore side; the part that concealed his veins, and stared at his black wristwatch that was given to him by his mother on her deathbed; “Many say that time waits for no man, but in reality, we are the ones going. Time waits. It always has and always will.” That had been her last words before pushing the watch into his trembling hands.“He's been gone for a little over nine minutes,” he said still peering down on the wristwatch that was strapped to his wrist and in response, he got a nod from Trisha who pushed her glasses up her nose for
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“Why will he write that to us—to me?” Harold said, looking at the dark smears that crisscrossed the poorly torn sheet of paper that was clutched in Trisha's fingers. It stunk of engine oil; the kind that had seen better days in the engines of vehicles.Their gazes fell ahead of them as though they hadn't heard Harold and onto the asphalt which was beginning to darken as a chunk of white cloud slid beneath the sun for seconds before coming out on the other side, as radiant and hot as before.None of them had a theory to answer what Harold had asked hence, they had shifted their attention to two snowy gulls that flew after the other with occasional hoots into the bluish clouds.“Do you think Chloe knows about this?” Wilkes said suddenly. “She might tell us something.”“I doubt it. Wasn't she asking us what poem we were talking about half an hour —”“Guys!” Trisha said loudly, breaking off Harold and Girard
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“What do we do now?” Wilkes asked, trotting alongside Harold and Trisha on the asphalt, away from the bleacher where they were sat minutes ago.The sun had retrograded into a snug compromise between afternoon and evening and a fairly golden filter—the shade of fresh honey, had laved Golden Lake's land territory and all that were in it.“What do we do now?” Trisha repeated. “We wait for patent proof that Prof. Ericson—or anyone else bearing the name, had been the one that sent the letter to Harold. That's what we do now; wait.”They strolled past a carpark that edged the entrance of three sky-high buildings and out of a Mercedes came a tall man with hair like cotton balls and an old-fashioned suspender that hugged his shoulder to his seedy shorts.He stared at Harold through his unclear eyesight as they walked past his blue vehicle but they didn't notice him; not for a nanosecond.“The contest
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“What did he mean by no wolf has ever won it and they die mysteriously?” Harold said dreadfully, forgetting to be silent. The long hushes like a foamy sponge sliding down a gruff wall that came immediately from Wilkes and Trisha quietened him but not before Mrs. Perry got wind of his words.“Who's there?” Mrs. Perry voiced into the dense darkness of the library. A racket mildly shuddered through the environment as she closed the thousand-paged encyclopedia she was attending to after ‘playing’ with Prof. Ericson's aide.Her hands swung swiftly against the other and a matchstick went ablaze, the orange fireball slowly descending down the matchstick whilst swaying left and right like a kid learning to ride a bicycle. She adeptly swung the matchstick into a glass orb and a kerosene lantern began to glow as a orange flame with a bluish base danced in it, shielded from external forces that could extinguish it like the wind.Trisha w
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It was the first workday of a new week; Monday, and like a worm slithering sluggishly on the mouldy soil towards its home burrowed deep in the earth, the contest, ‘Vestige of the Aptest’, drew nigh.The morning sun soared above the faint umber-stained skyline East of Golden Lake and its pleasant warmth sprinkled over the students—who were going about their morning businesses, and the dewed meadows, pastures and buildings, too.That monday morning wasn't as glorious as the ones the students had grown accustomed to over the weeks but still, it was more magnificent than average morns around the world and that was enough.Golden Lakers, though, (on an average) weren't too perturbed about the weather conditions as they had a lot on their plates to deal with—which was customary to Mondays, and one of the many people who didn't was Harold Girard who presently had Religious Studies in the LycanthropesDivision before Geography i
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Like Harold's last religious studies class a week ago, he was one of the first set of students to leave the lecture room. It was exactly a week ago when Harold had received the strange letter—after his class, that his life had begun to steer in the path of destruction and now, he was entirely en route his death and there was nothing he could do.He was going to end up like the wolf Francis had mentioned in his journal, Margaret.As he hurried past the heated bodies of students; werewolves like him, who seemed to have forgotten all they had been taught minutes ago, he felt the weight of Prof. Travis’ dark pupils on the back of his neck; an extra weight he didn't want to carry, and that propelled him to move faster towards the exit.He got out of Citadel J—where the class had been held, and breath out deeply, picked up his brown leather bag and hurried to his next class which happened to be the last before he had his break in the cafeteria
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The clouds right above Golden Lake University; hostels, buildings, cafeteria, pool, too, and everything that fell into Golden Lake's territory were ruddy and as the clouds stretched towards the skyline, they gradually faded like an old piece of clothing that had become a rag to a shade of pale brown; the kind of brown found on maple leaves during autumn.Harold lay coiled on his bed like a millipede under attack with his wooly blanket that knocked off dawn's chilly weather stretching from his curled toes—that touched the end of his bed, all the way to his neck. His eyelids were closed in a slumber and he snored gently in a calming rhythm.All of a sudden he jolted up, gasping for breath, like a swimmer who had held his breath under water for hours, his eyes failing to blink as he looked all around barely able to make out the grotesque raincoat—that hadn't come to any use so far, hanging from a nail drilled into the wall beside the door, or Wil
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