Enter the fog
Picture the cold Scottish Moors, a thick layer of fog floats just above the muddy earth. The heroine with flowing auburn hair races to meet the carriage on the winding path that flows along the edge of the mountain. She blinks rapidly as the rising damp obscures her vision. The shoelaces on her boots come undone and she topples over the uneven ground, she somersaults in the air, then face-plows through the mud until she comes to a sudden halt. Laughter echoes throughout the valley.This was my imaginary scene which made me laugh all the way to the riverside path not far from where I live - which in the early morning, had nearly 10% visibility due to the cooler weather of the previous night.I’ve been told you either like or dislike the fog, I love fog, especially morning fog. Those Bronte gals really knew a thing or two about the northern fog as they so eloquently described in their many gothic tales. Yes, it makes you wet, that derma layer of mist seems to enter every pore and yes, your hair is speckled with silver droplets.A deep breath in and I pick up the pace, down the bend, around the cricket pitch and onto to the paved walkway. A jogger huffs and puffs past me, billowing clouds of smoke, his bum bag hitting up against his waist, I have the urge to jog past him, but instead I choose to keep the distance.Whoosh! If I had a pebble, I would throw it. Why must those cyclists persist on racing at top neck speed on a shared path and not adhering to the ‘ring ya bell’ rules. That should be written in the rule book. The book that comes with every pair of Lycra pant sold to the over 50s cyclist. Luckily, he rides into the fog.Suddenly a stout woman emerges from the marsh, she’s taken the scenic route by the water. Her Pomeranian yaps at her heels. She wears leggings and a matching jacket in a yellow and orange print that makes me think of 1970s wallpaper. Could be designer, I think it’s a mistake. The path widens closer to the waters’ edge. The fog still lingers. As I look in between the thick mangroves I imagine the worst, must be the novels I read. A leg here or an arm there. Anyone can keep themselves hidden in the dark.An army of dog walkers run past tugging an array of different colored canines. A black German shepherd has been let off his lead and bounds across the glistening grass. Its fur wet with perspiration as it runs towards the north end of the field. I watch its disappearing tail as it gains speed, faster and faster. It doesn’t bark or zig zag about, like most fur babies do when they play, instead it makes a beeline for the ‘I-wont-ring-my-bell-as-I-pass-you-scaring-the-bejeezus-out-of-you’ rider. He gets closer and closer. That dog is not slowing down, with one final push of his powerful back legs, he leaps and jumps into the fog.#shortfiction #laughouloud #foggytale
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