20 February, 2014

Titles can be hard to think of - misty morning

On an early misty morning, you walk out the door into a wall. A wall of white, wispy fog. It's like entering another world. The fog tendrils envelop you and make you cold and clammy. It clogs your ears and dampens depth, so you can hear the silence rising. Bird song struggles or breezes in the distance. Moist dew beads and makes your clothes feel heavy. You feel sweaty without sweating, you feel dirty although you just showered. Dirt kicks up and clings to you from the back of your boots to the bare skin of your calves. Sometimes you can smell the rich moist earth - almost good enough to want to eat. Sometimes you smell decay, something rotting in a ditch. Sometimes you smell nothing, but the absence of any smell and the mist crawls up your nose and down your throat, threatening to choke you. Ominous shapes loom out of nowhere, appearing like old giant men or apparitions of the mist.

But then the sun, the glorious sun, it rises. Unexpectedly, the fog rises, tendrils twisting and writhing to escape from captivity in the strong sunlight. As suddenly as you walked into it, it's gone. Sounds resume - the insect scurry, the birds' song and the chickens calling to be fed. Smells waft with the new morning breeze. The dark shadow that looked like a stooping giant turns into an old tree, from which an old tyre swing hangs.

Until night falls and the mist comes creeping back, thickening into snaking fog that blankets everything.

On an early misty morning, you could accidentally wander onto the road and be hit by an oncoming truck you could neither see nor hear until too late.

On an early misty morning, you could disappear with a scream and nobody would see. Nobody would hear.

Which is of course what happened.

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