Mar 17
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The River

Death was on the air, it came in stages, each more definite then the last, unfolding like a dark flower. Hungry, always hungry... First a feeling, the feeling of the cold fog pressing in, its damp fingers brushing his skin, his soul. At first, this startled him. He jumped, slipped, skinned his knee on a rock, swore. He stood up, shaking his hands in a halfhearted attempt to purge them of mud. It was cold, so cold…The clammy breath of the fog brushed the back of his neck, begging him to turn around. He complied...the road had vanished, devoured by the fog, along with the fields, the trees, the… gone, all gone...there was only the river. A plain of unbroken obsidian, hanging still, so death… next came the voices. Soft mummers, barely more then a breath of wind. Drifting across the river toward him. They rose in volume, forming whispers, then voices. Twisting, writhing strings of language. Calling...calling...pleading…calling...he stepped into the river.
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