Rain-drenched trees bow politely at me, their branches shivering under the weight of a nocturnal torrent. Dark green forms somewhat veiled by substantial fog tease my imagination as I gaze into the early morning paleness.
Foul weather is the fuel of my imagination. What is an inconvenience to some is pure bliss to me. I see the fog as my security blanket, the rain as my lullaby. The wet smell of the earth soothes me as I trudge along.
I imagine myself to be a ghost, as pale as the fog around me. I swoop down the lane and slip through the cracks of an abandoned barn. I pause in the middle of the empty space and then sway to music only I can hear, oblivious to the dust and decay, recalling the barn dance nearly one hundred years ago. I asked my wife for her hand in marriage then, and we lived so happily.
I am the hawk gliding upon a thermal. My feathers are impervious to the moisture of the low cloud cover as I circle a mile from the ground. I fill my lungs with the air, relishing the clammy feeling in my nares.
I’m a molecule tossed into the air in the form of steam.
I am a vampire, prowling for my next meal. I see a house in the distance and feel my hunger rising. The fog deadens the sound of my tread on their porch. I enter and find the inhabitants to be an easy meal.
I am looking out my window and my mind returns from daydreams. Neither vampire or ghoul, nor hawk or molecule, I am simply me. I smile at the trees and roll over, content.
Foul weather is the fuel of my imagination. What is an inconvenience to some is pure bliss to me. I see the fog as my security blanket, the rain as my lullaby. The wet smell of the earth soothes me as I trudge along.
I imagine myself to be a ghost, as pale as the fog around me. I swoop down the lane and slip through the cracks of an abandoned barn. I pause in the middle of the empty space and then sway to music only I can hear, oblivious to the dust and decay, recalling the barn dance nearly one hundred years ago. I asked my wife for her hand in marriage then, and we lived so happily.
I am the hawk gliding upon a thermal. My feathers are impervious to the moisture of the low cloud cover as I circle a mile from the ground. I fill my lungs with the air, relishing the clammy feeling in my nares.
I’m a molecule tossed into the air in the form of steam.
I am a vampire, prowling for my next meal. I see a house in the distance and feel my hunger rising. The fog deadens the sound of my tread on their porch. I enter and find the inhabitants to be an easy meal.
I am looking out my window and my mind returns from daydreams. Neither vampire or ghoul, nor hawk or molecule, I am simply me. I smile at the trees and roll over, content.
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on Saturday, July 26, 2008
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Ah, the scent of fog, the mist, the totally sensory experience of your ghostly vampire are fantasy made real. What a gifted writer you are!
Your descriptions make me smell that wet soil and feel the fog on my cheeks. Wonderful writing.
stunning visualizations!!!
I think the fog and rain have been my favorites for a long time now, just love the foggy weather ..good to find some company :)
This is wonderful...it feels like you went deep with it...it feels true.
smiling at the trees and rolling over content.....wow, just wow!
An inspiring read. Thank you.
I like the new blog format, T. I have lots more reading to do now.