Foggy Nights

The fog rolled in. A bird perched on the boughs of a high oak tree and sang. The shrill notes pierced the cool air; the music settled on the valley floor. All around it was silent. And all the time, the fog rolled in.

The sun set, the last glimmers of light faded from the distant horizon, and High on the tree a bird watched. Where once the golden notes had sunk into the valley. Now: no more. Instead of a gently rolling hill, bearing thickets of shrubs on its verdant back, which gently sloped down to a burbling river, the valley was no more: an ocean stood in its place.

The stars twinkled in the dying light. A chill evening breeze passed by. The bird sat and stared. For, far away, at the other end of the mountain, lay its mate. Hours before, it was only a small valley. Hours before, the pair were joined in the joyous light of day. Hours before they danced in the air, the afternoon sun warm on their wings. Now, it was night. Now the valley was no more, and now they sat, on branches of a tree, and waited.

The moon shimmered on the curtain of fog. Two birds stared out across the sea. A silent breeze rustled the trees, and the damp ground released fragrance into the misty air. In a quiet world, filled with the slumber of life, and the dance of death, these two birds, lovers, lay their heads down to sleep. It was night. Time to rest. For soon, the new day would come.

A Night of Ruins

Alice was pissed.

A burst of flames engulfed a cart as she walked by it. Her steel-toed boots clamored against the cobbles. Cape swing behind her, she marched down the deserted street, and glowered at the world.

Her hair smoldered.

Alice turned down another street, and tossed a ball of fire down the empty halls. The ball exploded against an old stone wall. In a moment the wall was no more. Without a thought the woman walked through the nascent doorway, paying no head to the red-hot stones beneath her feet.

Twenty summers ago, Alice thought, she had grown up here. In these magnificent walls, under sunlit days and moonlit nights. Now there was nothing. Not even him.

Alice spat on the ground. The bastard, he had left her out there. Alone.

Red flame embraced Alice’s hands. She raised them above her head. A wooden door splintered into a thousand pieces. Alice stormed through the smoky rubble and rumbled: “Where is he.”

Twenty men and women were crouched over cots, or laying in them. The sick and dying. A small sliver of the dying light from a yellow-black sky filtered into the room. Alice glowed. The men on the cots ignored her; the others pretend to not notice. She stormed past them into the tunnel beyond.

She would burn down the stone if she had to. She wanted him found.

She found him.

He stared at her. Alice walked towards him. Her body ignited in a skin of flames. The air burned.

“I am sorry,” he said quietly, his voice week.

Alice looked at him. And stopped. The flames that embraced her body seethed.

The world stopped. A minute passed. Alice glowered at him. He stared into her eyes. The flames flickered. She breathed in deeply.

The flames died. He walked towards her. Alice glared at him. Her hair still smoldered.

Slowly his hands wrapped around her body. He hugged her. Alice relaxed. A single tear dripped out of her eye.

Alice was pissed. But right now it did not matter: she was home.