dark fog
Here's a little scene I wrote a few months back. It may or may not end up in the final draft of "Touch of Fog" I was trying to get a grip on a character I had in my head but was struggling to write about. Good scene, hope I can use it somewhere.
Dark Fog
The window was new, a triple paned, aluminum and wood affair with a snowy white blind trapped within. Those blinds were pulled high, letting the diaphanous silver light pool into the small walnut lined study. Clouds of fog drifted past, swirling and ghosting between the birch and alder trees beyond. Their green leaves just starting to shift to gold and red, the colors muted and barely discernible in the early morning light. There was a small green shaded brass lamp on the heavy mahogany desk behind, but that was just a dim golden spot, nearly swallowed by pale cool illumination from the window. All was still and hushed, the only motion that of the gentle whorls and drifts of cottony mist.
A black leather chair sat facing the window and on it's arm rested a hand, broad and strong looking, with a few dark hairs curling on the back. Tendons and veins stood in gentle relief beneath the beginning pattern of age spots. A capable hand, one well acquainted with work with a pale gold band on the ring finger, it too looking worn but strong, a long time reminder of promises made. There was no sound, it was exquisitely quiet now, the perfect moment for contemplation. Cool and almost reverent with the pale shapeless mist hanging just out of reach.
The faintest breath of air touched his neck. So soft, he questioned he even felt it at all. Then again, only this time, it was no breath, but a presence. Cool, rapidly turning to cold, air briefly caressed the side of his neck. He raised that hand that had rested in repose, but before he could even bring it to chest level, the air turned icy, ridged and as dense and sharp as any blade. That blade pressed deep, the edge of compact air finer than any surgeons scalpel. It pressed hard against the yielding skin and before another breath could be drawn it cut. Skin and tissue and vessels parted easily, spreading open in a second smile, freeing hot, bright crimson blood to first trickle then pulse down a pristine shirt and the raised ringed hand.
Dark Fog
The window was new, a triple paned, aluminum and wood affair with a snowy white blind trapped within. Those blinds were pulled high, letting the diaphanous silver light pool into the small walnut lined study. Clouds of fog drifted past, swirling and ghosting between the birch and alder trees beyond. Their green leaves just starting to shift to gold and red, the colors muted and barely discernible in the early morning light. There was a small green shaded brass lamp on the heavy mahogany desk behind, but that was just a dim golden spot, nearly swallowed by pale cool illumination from the window. All was still and hushed, the only motion that of the gentle whorls and drifts of cottony mist.
A black leather chair sat facing the window and on it's arm rested a hand, broad and strong looking, with a few dark hairs curling on the back. Tendons and veins stood in gentle relief beneath the beginning pattern of age spots. A capable hand, one well acquainted with work with a pale gold band on the ring finger, it too looking worn but strong, a long time reminder of promises made. There was no sound, it was exquisitely quiet now, the perfect moment for contemplation. Cool and almost reverent with the pale shapeless mist hanging just out of reach.
The faintest breath of air touched his neck. So soft, he questioned he even felt it at all. Then again, only this time, it was no breath, but a presence. Cool, rapidly turning to cold, air briefly caressed the side of his neck. He raised that hand that had rested in repose, but before he could even bring it to chest level, the air turned icy, ridged and as dense and sharp as any blade. That blade pressed deep, the edge of compact air finer than any surgeons scalpel. It pressed hard against the yielding skin and before another breath could be drawn it cut. Skin and tissue and vessels parted easily, spreading open in a second smile, freeing hot, bright crimson blood to first trickle then pulse down a pristine shirt and the raised ringed hand.
posted by Deb Bluth at 7:12 AM
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