The Weeping Mist
Link: Read full story here (~1400 words)
Some of the people of Ash Forest could see the sky that day. The dark clouds seemed to have descended on the tips of the birch trees and were now thinning away. These people had been waiting for years to see the sun. Wandering aimlessly amongst the thick grey trees, they had forgotten the feeling of warmth. Stretched arms, withered by the morning winds, reached for glimpses of light.
This is a story about children saving their grandparents from being forgotten. In a world separated by efficiency, there is no room for the inefficient. Children, grown-ups and the elderly each have their own district, according to their purpose in society.
The children in the Blue District live in care homes, waiting for a visiting ticket from their labouring parents in the Green District. The Violet District is the place to retire, knit, paint and drink tea. Two stone bridges connect the three areas. Little do people know, however, that a third bridge exists, hidden from curious eyes. Those crossing it go to be forgotten forever.
Silence grew deep over the valley, not a voice could be heard, not a breath could be felt. As soon as the last tired head tilted to enter his abode after a long day’s work, the sun sank completely.
Soft clouds of white smoke puffed contemplatively over the dark blue sky. A recluse star here and there shimmered over the vast desert of dusk. Their quiet sigh remained unheard by the stone walls of the houses below.
A velvet cat went sharply over the cobblestones, brushing their damp shine with its furry paws. She turned on one of the many lonely alleyways with confidence that not a soul would cross her path.
The cat stopped briskly, her ears pricked with fright. She hid into the shadows of the houses on either side of the alley. A most peculiar scene opened up in the square in front of her.
Flash Fiction / Essays
I write thoughts about life, essays and flash fiction from time to time. These writings are usually inspired by life events, artwork and people. They reflect my view on the world and often have a fantastical or lyrical touch to them.
“Mira turned towards the thistle, her eyes aflame from her mother’s lamp. She knelt in front of it and started digging at its roots. The faces were silent around her as her olive skin bruised and bled from the plant’s spikes. The moonlight started to fade, but she dug even faster as if summoning it back. Her breath trembled under the stares of her people as her teary eyes glistened in the fading light. The rays turned into darkness and Mira bursted into a suffocated wail. Her hands were soiled with the freshly turned earth. She wiped them on her white robe in desperation.” (On finding the golden keys from Voice Mountain)
“An old tall lady dressed in dark blue velvet was waiting patiently by the entrance. Her hair was tied in a high grey bun on top of a triangular face. Her pointy glasses shone in the light of a buzzing lamp, as she raised it to take a better look at Josephine. Without a word she turned slowly on the spot and walked towards the grand entrance with tiny steps. ” (On Miss Alma Letterstone from Voice Mountain)