We gather here, a faithful few, against winter’s bluster and the Devil’s sure wrath. The musty scent of old library books lifts off the shelves and percolates the room. When the clock strikes and a golden haze of light cuts through the frosted windows we bow our heads and fumble for words and wisdom. We are small minds, grasping at the rough-worn edges of Infinity. Outside, the world is tilting and plunging into hell, but we are looking for the other half of eternity. To whom shall we go? We ask, like Peter. You have the words of eternal life.
100 words. I like drabbles. They’re short and sweet and force you to cut bad adjectives. Thoughts?