𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐲

𝐒𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈

"It was your job to help us win. He's never lost. Never." A pale siren boy with slicked back dark brown hair said menacingly to the merman boy, his large, pale hand placed on the table. Bianco's whole table, excluding the tall, black King, were looking at him with annoyance. The merman had a bruised eye (Thing accounts for punching him) and a grey vest, different from most of the students with navy ones.

The merman looks down defeatedly at his small slice of chocolate cake, which all the boys at the table were having.

Bianco abruptly turns away, frowning as he shakes his head.

☟☟☟

Typewriter keys could be heard clacking ever so faintly in Saturday and Ethan's room.

Ethan was sleeping soundly on his bed of explosive colours, wrapping his pale, long, muscular arms firmly around the big Poe Cup. His brooding roommate was catching up on some writing.

Nevermore continues to be an enigma. A place where the questions far outweigh the answers.

The bright yellow glow emitted from Saturday's desk light illuminates a portion of the large tall black framed window, the rest of the room pitch black at night.

Saturday himself was wearing a simple black and white striped shirt with a black zipper jacket hoodie.

But sometimes...

He picks up the creased prophecy and looks at the strange round symbol, the flower with a skull centre, holding it up to his light.

the answer is staring you right in the face.

He glances upwards a little, away from the page, then moves his pupils to the side, considering.

Saturday rounds the dark, high, stone corridors, yellow lamps now illuminating the sides of the walls. His objective: the bronze statue.

His black, floppy hair rushes with the chilly night wind as he delights in the slight shiver of his bare legs against the cold, wearing only simple black shorts and black elevator sneakers with mid leg black socks, black slate in hand.

Don't worry, Edgar Allan.

The tall, young boy shines his black light onto the poet's pensive face.

I see your sanctimonious smirk. But I will get the last laugh.

The boy vows as his eyeballs manoeuvre to the gold insignia, on the front of the book cover.

Your penchant for riddles was legendary.

He steps on the statue's tall bronze base, looking at the etched letters on its bronze pages.

And this might be your cleverest yet.

The boy admits as he skims over the writing, shining his small, handheld black light onto the letters.

Because it's not a single riddle.

Saturday realizes.

Rather, each line is its own separate one.

He flips open a black note book and takes out a black pen.

"The opposite of moon." Sun.

"A world between ours." Nether.

"Two months before June." April.

"A self-seeding flower." Pansy.

The boy carefully and efficiently writes those words down in the form of an acrostic poem, his black light shining between bronze and paper.

"One more than one." Two.