trash

The Fog

(A/N: Aaaand another school thing. I'm not particularly happy with it (truthfully I fucking hate it but I don't know why) but lots of lovely people in my Creative Writing class thought it was pretty fabulous, so yeah. We had to chose a piece of artwork done by a local artist and write a story on it. I chose a picture of a naked woman posing in the corner of ye olde common or garden glass greenhouse. Short story is very, very short.)

She was out she was free she was out she was running she was scratched, bruised, broken.

She fell.

She scrambled to her feet, fallen leaves swishing all over the ground around her. A giant centipede crawled over a tree root. She screeched and ran away, feet hardly touching the ground. Bare branches tore at her even barer skin. The air was crisp, an autumn fog rolling in. She kept running. Never going to stop. But she needed to find shelter. Somewhere to hide. Before it caught up with her. The moon was rising, the sky a pale green.

The sun was gone.

After an eternity, she came across a house. Weatherboard and battered. She didn't hesitate. She sprinted up to the door and banged on it with all her might. She screamed and hollered until her voice gave out, but no one answered. She looked through the windows and saw nothing but darkness and dust. She turned around frantically.

It was coming.

She stumbled around the other side of the house. Her head whipped around, looking for a hiding place.

The only thing she could see was the greenhouse.

She scurried in, closing the door carefully behind her. She got down on the floor and hid against the bricks. They were cold. The lichen irritated her skin. She made no noise.

The fog closed in. Everything went dark.

She held her breath.

There was scratching on the glass. She could here them. Wails of frustration, anger, vengeance.

Death.

The glass above her head shattered into oblivion.

The fogged flowed in.