“You spoke about him in our last class, sir,” Harold responded calmly as he knew the upper hand was gradually slipping from the lanky professor that stood before him in a dark suit that was too large for him. “You were even paying attention?” he replied, eyeing Harold. When he got no reply or body language to nourish his suspicions, he eyeballed Harold for about two seconds longer dubiously, sighed exhaustedly then turned back to have his seat on the other side of the urbane leather desk.  “Here, here, seat,” he motioned in an unnatural high pitched voice and pointed his palm to an empty seat that looked more like a cushion to Harold who seemed glued to a spot. “You said you wanted to know about Francis, right?” Harold nodded, swallowed a ball of saliva that had formed behind his tongue seconds ago, as he walked doubtfully and had his seat opposite Prof. Ericson. 

Harold Girard surveyed the room again, this time, in a quest for whatever he could use to drill the wall. Books at that point in time were useless. The wall clock which was hung above him only served as a reminder that his time was running up and his lecturer could come in at any moment. The window showed him as morning transformed to early afternoon with the blistering heat that attenuated every second. There was nothing he could see that was of help. Then his eyesight landed on something. The flower vase which was a few metres from him. “Wilkes, are you there?” he whispered, with his sight fully fixed on the broken vase. A plan was formulating in his head. It wasn't much but it was something. He had to break down the wall although his professor will sooner or later, be aware of it. “Yeah, yea—” Wilkes let out a dry, hearty cough. “Have you found a way to get us out of... Here?” He coughed again and

Harold Girard and Wilkes Milton stood, watching their lecturer, Prof. Ericson, not knowing what to do and he, their professor, exchanged their stares with a deathly glare as his line of vision shifted from Harold to Wilkes then back to Harold, then Trisha who was still unconscious. The tick-tock of the wall clock above them was the only sound that was to be heard from the room that was being raided more and more as each second passed by the brilliance of the sunlight that flooded in from the open world.“You will pay for the damages done to that wall—and flower vase, too,” Prof. Ericson commanded as he folded his arms into each other like a priest. Harold couldn't believe what he had just heard. This was a man who was very emotional minutes ago; close to tears. A man who had warned Harold about the contest a week ago through a letter. A man who was in a forbidden affair with his student. A man who had tried to

Harold's fingers dug into the cartons of the two large pepperoni pizzas he had in his hands as he jogged past a sky blue Sienna that was parked in front of an old but very tall building which looked like an ancient watchtower. He moved on and got to a small grassland that had a couple of lofty and very leafy firs sprouting out of the earth here and there, and Harold walked on, towards the fountain. A part of him wanted him to go back to his dormitory—with the pizza. That is, run away from the abnormalities that seemed to be everywhere in the school, and pretend everything is just as it should be; normal, but another part of him wanted to see what was going on, find out the exact cause of it all and if possible, provide solutions, and as Harold walked along side a bunch of nosy jocks all dressed in oversized maroon attires, the part of him which was winning was very evident. Harold's fingers instinctively dug into the pizza boxes he ha

‘Why did he tell me this?’ Harold asked himself as he systematically swept the ceramics of the broken vase into a lump and shoved them into a tray dish then emptied it into the trashcan beside him. He was aware that Prof. Ericson was no longer paying attention to the book which was still in his palms but rather, he was watching all of his moves which made him feel uncomfortable; like a bug under a microscope. “Bring down all those books,” Prof. Ericson ordered, pointing to a very tall stockpile of books that were on a moth infested shelf. “Wipe those books of the dust and restack them neatly. The cleaners will be so pleased with you,” he added sarcastically which made Harold angrier than before.If only he could get hold of Trisha's phone and delete the video then Prof Ericson won't have the upper hand, he thought. Harold leaned the broom against the wall neatly the same way he had picked it and sighed tiredly, wiping hi