When the pen takes control.

At first it was the silence that disturbed me. I had always imagined that, like being blind, if sight is restricted then it heightens the other senses. This was different. All sound was deadened, vision was restricted. there weren’t many left, one of them was smell and this was unpleasant, acrid leaving a hint of a bitter taste on my lips. The air was clammy to the touch, warm, unlike most mists or fogs, usually cold and damp, this was like perspiration. From above my head large drops of water were falling at regular intervals from the motionless leaves on the trees. When one fell on my cheek I shuddered in disgust for it felt sticky to the touch. I examined the drop more closely, inside the ball of liquid was a small brown dot, it was moving. It resembled a tiny brown maggot, it’s back bending as it wriggled with what I assumed was the head bending down to the end of its body and springing back. With an involuntary, “Uggh,” I dropped the sticky, gelatinous blob to the ground. I couldn’t be certain that these were droplets of the trees’ sap or part of the fog itself. Considering the numbers that were falling I decided discretion was the better part of valour. Turning I retraced my steps with a bit more haste to wait and see if this curious fog would clear.