Ficlets

The Rider and the Fog

The horse’s nostrils flexed in and out as it whinnied nervously, softly. Its rider had fallen several hours ago; the fog had somehow separated them.

It was a terrible, tangible thing, this fog. It reached out and seized the possessions of living things – their lives.

~

The Rider swung wildly around in the haze, blundering around and waving his hands through the thick mass. Some blunt, yet soft, yet painful force had hurled him from his steed, and it had gone galloping off into this living force.

He growled with frustration and yelled for his horse once again.

Neigh, neigh.

The Rider stopped. That wasn’t a horse whinny, it was a person’s voice, almost mocking.

Rider, Rider…what mysteries do you think the fog holds?

The voice cackled softly, and the Rider was driven by an inexplicable force to the ground. And suddenly it was inside him; he could feel the sticky presence in him.

I’m tearing you apart. Sticking a hot poker in your brain, Rider.

And it felt like it.

And he screamed.

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