The fog moved through the trees and we moved through the fog. It was as impenetrable as a wall, as ephemeral as a ghost( a thought half formed? a memory not quite recalled?). We were boxed in; at times we could only see one hundred feet, sometimes we could see one hundred yards. Our horizons shifted and moved along with us. The only light seemed to come from the fog itself, thick, grey-white, sucking the color from all it enveloped, leaving behind a near monochromatic world of black or almost black.  It seemed to absorb all sound as well. The soft, damp ground muffled our steps, yielding like a pillow beneath our feet. We spoke but little, and that in hushed tones, eventually falling as silent as our surroundings. We became ghosts. Our breath became the ebb and flow of the fog, no longer distinct, no longer personal. We were wraiths in the failing light. The fog moved through the trees and we moved through the fog.

Fog was first published in The Gorge Literary Journal‘s inaugural issue, October, 2015