Ficly

Foggy Lands

The fog stretches for miles over the hills and the houses. When looking out the window, one can often see the silhouette of a woman walking home with her groceries or a man chopping wood for a fire. We don’t see much of each other often.

I leave the house, shutting the door quietly behind me. Most things here happen quietly. I put my head down and through the fog, find my way to the general store. The man at the counter doesn’t lift his head as I put the fruits I need onto the counter. Reaching into my pocket, I take out the change to pay for the good, and place it in front of him. I turn and leave.

The fog doesn’t like when we talk. I’m not quite sure if I remember how to, anyway. We go about our lives in peace and the fog keeps us safe. That’s really all that matters to us.

I open the door to my house and walk in, placing the fruit on my kitchen table.

The fog is my only friend.
And with the townspeople, my only mutual friend.

We don’t live, here.
I’d be surprised if any of us were alive at all.

View this story's 2 comments.