The river burst its banks. A great serpent grown glossy and fat from the rains which fed it. It rose up in vast waves and currents, eddies tearing down trees and carrying them with it with a force we did not know it had. The arches of bridges shrank into semi-circles. The water drank the banks and pathways, devoured bicycles and cars. And it seeped into the basements of the faculty, lapping at chairs where students once sat. It slithered into the boiler room and settled down.
The heating broke. We shivered in the upper rooms whilst the water receded. They closed the building down and we rejoiced like schoolboys sent home early due to snow. The collective dream we've shared since infancy.
No
More
School.
In the morning we slept in with smiles on our faces, saying prayers of thanks to the river gods.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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