INTENT:
Some fiction and non-fiction pieces I have written over the past 10-15 years mostly old stories from my collegiate tumblr era
The Fog:
He scanned the shelves meticulously and at a speed he was not too comfortable with. The dusty shelves lined with mostly novelty books were resting above a few customers heads who were sipping coffee, occasionally stealing glances at him for seemingly staring at them. His intentions were however quite the opposite. After the brief scan of the shelves, he ruled that there was nothing quite worth reading and went back to his seat. There were only a few people muttering light conversation in this small little coffee shop with burnt yellow walls. The coffee was good and the atmosphere was better but his cup had run dry. With a glance at his watch, the weather showed rain incoming which he confirmed with a quick glance out the bay windows to reveal an eerie heavy fog.
There was a feeling only the last sip of a cup of good coffee and the realization that you have no purpose being in a place could bring. Rather specific I know but it was enough to bring him out of his chair with coat in hand and walk out the door. Into the fog. The day was Christmas eve and nobody was outside, even the sun did not dare to rise above the treetops, just enough to illuminate the fog with a light burned yellow glow. Familiar. He headed for the river along a path that extends through the reeds along a land mass that juts like a spear into the rivers side. It was paved, commercialized yet natural. The fog felt unnatural though and kept him in a state of limbo and did not dare dwell on a self calibration in the event that he determines this state is unknowingly in-calibratable. That fear did not shake but the enigma of its growth in his head was idly amusing so he allowed it as he walked through the mist as thick as steamed milk foam. Soon the reeds surrounded the paved path on each side forming walls 10 feet high. The fog filled the form between the reeds and to his eyes everything beyond that point didn’t exist. To think of what could be hidden in the mist frightened him so it was best to assume it simply erased everything. That thought almost felt worse.
It was in his head now, growing, infiltrating him like fog through the reeds as he made it to the pipe. Known by local stoners as such, it is quite literally a huge steel pipe that extends from just off the paved path, through the reeds and into the river, piercing the Hudson like a spear. Familiar. He made his way through the first steps and into the dense thicket of reeds that covered the top of the pipe. It was raining lightly at this point and each drop made a light pitter patter sound on his jacket. The pipe had grown slick as be crouched to avoid the low foliage. Slow and steady wins this race. Once through, he noted the fog had grown even heavier now and as he neared the end of the pipe he couldn’t even see the other side of the river. This was now unending. The water he was now balancing above, endlessly flowed out into the distance, he was sure of that. The dull diffused sunlight created almost a grey-scale filter him. The fog was hungry, and color was its second victim. At the end of the pipe some 50 feet out from the path, he stood feeling lucky he had a waterproof jacket on as it was raining quite steadily at that point. Looking out at the gradient where the last visible picture of the water enters the solid fog expanse above it, an idea grew in his head. What if it was alive and it hungered to consume everything that disappear within it? This hungry, heavy fog.
This little idea grew a personality and rapidly took form within his head. It was growing too fast and fear began to consume it. What if ‘here’ was where he died, he thought, rapidly scanning for the other side of the river to no avail. It was gone and so was he, consumed by the fog. Flight took over and he headed back down the pipe to the path, certain that every time he looked up he would be no further further from the end of the pipe than he was mere steps before. As he made his way back looking up constantly to check if he was going mad or not and if the shore really was growing nearer, he made it back onto the path. Something didn’t feel right. He felt an emptyness somewhere within him and he dwelled upon it as he headed back to the mainland where his car was. The pitter patter of the rain on his coat reminded him of how wet he had become. He surmised that due to the age of his coat, the waterproof had simply faded away. Familiar. He realized the hollow feeling he felt as he left the reeds now. That personality, the idea that was born there and lived, separated from itself when he crossed from out of the reeds. It was stuck there, never to leave, where its fear of the fog never ending, consumed him. He resigned the feeling, knowing that he could never help the being lost there.
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Theres more stories but idk how proud enough I am to display that work... time will tell.