Omega

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

Last Updated : 2020-11-17

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

Last Updated : 2020-11-16

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 Lycanthropes Division before Geography i

Last Updated : 2020-11-15

“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

Last Updated : 2020-11-14

“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 la

“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 t

“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.

“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 hurri