Saturday was our first full day on Inishbofin. It was rainy outside, so we learned some revision tips from Tessa, shared some writing, and continued to work on our pieces.
-Julia & Chris
This post features student writing from Liza and Sophie.
“The smell of a funeral pyre is something you would not know unless you’ve stood in front of the flames. It is acrid thick smoke, tinged with the nauseating smell of burning flesh, meaty and horribly sweet, bringing out the darker parts of anyone’s psyche.
I am the only one at this funeral, staring at the corpse as it burns. I watch as my father’s skin cracks, black blood boiling, sizzling grim. His hair catches quickly, and in a moment, it is already gone. I feel nothing in my chest, but a hollow ache. Lady Death came for him, and one day she will come for us all.
Remnants of the plague still fracture Draeya. Without my father, it’s left to me to carry the mantle of Torchbearer, healer of men and seer of souls. They say Torchbearer is a position of worth, of prestige and value. Then why are we cast to the outskirts of the town, away from the sight of the nobles. So far away that they don’t have to see our char-burned bodies or smell the miasma of ash and death on us. They only call on us for matters of death.
I watch until the ashes that were my father smolder, rubbing my thumb across the back of my scarred palm. I watch until there is nothing left, and I leave.”
-Liza
I am the only one at this funeral, staring at the corpse as it burns. I watch as my father’s skin cracks, black blood boiling, sizzling grim. His hair catches quickly, and in a moment, it is already gone. I feel nothing in my chest, but a hollow ache. Lady Death came for him, and one day she will come for us all.
Remnants of the plague still fracture Draeya. Without my father, it’s left to me to carry the mantle of Torchbearer, healer of men and seer of souls. They say Torchbearer is a position of worth, of prestige and value. Then why are we cast to the outskirts of the town, away from the sight of the nobles. So far away that they don’t have to see our char-burned bodies or smell the miasma of ash and death on us. They only call on us for matters of death.
I watch until the ashes that were my father smolder, rubbing my thumb across the back of my scarred palm. I watch until there is nothing left, and I leave.”
-Liza
