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 A new blog to contain answers to prompts |
Since my old blog "Everyday Canvas "  became overfilled, here's a new one. This new blog item will continue answering prompts, the same as the old one. Cool water cascading to low ground
To spread good will and hope all around.  |
| Prompt: By Lyn I'm setting the scene, and giving you the opening line and you're writing what happens next: It's evening and there's a mist rolling in this small town. Begin your entry with-- I've never felt so alone. --------- Still Searching... (a story) I've never felt so alone, until then, while the mist crept in like a secret, winding its way through the narrow streets of Glen Hollow. Glen Hollow is a sleepy little town with one blinking stoplight and a diner that still served its apple pie like it was 1951. And there I was, again, in Glen Hollow, I walked at the edge of the old bridge...the one the kids said was haunted but adults just called unlucky, while I watched the world fade into grays and shadows. My boots made no sound on the damp wood of the bridge. The river below gurgled softly, its voice muffled by the thickening air. The wind carried a strange stillness, as if the town was holding its breath. I pulled my jacket tight and looked back at the trail of warm light behind me: porch lamps, the neon hum of Barrow’s gas station, a few Christmas lights still clinging to the Callahan's Inn. Then I looked ahead, into the fog swallowing the rest of the bridge. That’s where he’d disappeared. Ned. Ned, the only one who ever understood me. The one who knew what it would be like for me...to feel...after him. And this town, now, had pressed its thumb on my chest, just hard enough to keep me coming here, again and again. Ned, the only one who could make me laugh when all I wanted was to cry and scream. Until five years ago, when he’d walked out into this mist, just like I was doing now, but Ned never came back. “Don’t go lookin’,” the sheriff had said, avoiding my eyes. “Sometimes folks don’t want to be found.” But Ned did. I knew it in my bones. I took a step forward. The air thickened. It smelled of river moss and something older, stranger—like pages of forgotten books or memories buried too deep. I heard a creak ahead of me... and footsteps. “Ned?” I called. Silence. Then, the mist shifted. Not parted, but shifted. Like something large had moved just ahead of me. I should’ve turned around, should’ve gone home to Florida, and should’ve told myself it was nothing. But I was here and I kept walking. Halfway across the bridge, I saw something. A shape. Tall, not quite human. Cloaked in mist. And beside it—NED. Or the shadow of him. Pale, eyes wide, hand stretched toward me but unmoving. “Ned!” I shouted, breaking into a run. But the closer I got, the farther away he seemed, as if the bridge was stretching with my every step. The figure near Ned turned to look at me. No face. Just a sense of looking. Then, everything dropped silent. Ned was gone. I stood still. And the mist swallowed everything. The next thing I knew, I was on my knees at the edge of the bridge, gasping for air. The mist was thinner now. Lights from town flickered weakly in the distance. No one else was there. Except for something in my hand. A key. Rusted. Cold. Tied to it with a bit of string was a note in Ned’s handwriting. "Don’t trust the fog. But don’t stop looking." I'd never felt so alone...but now, I knew. Somehow, I wasn’t the only one searching. |
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