Flash Fiction Friday
Mackinac Island: Fog
The fourth installment in my Mackinac Island series. See the other parts here.
Rounding the island the far corner finally appears after miles of teasing and taunting from a never-ending path, but still the taunt continues. A fog hugs the island. Sitting so heavily over the land it’s as if the clouds have come down from Heaven to grace us with their presence. Though, they lose strength in the low air, tapering into a wispy mist. As if trying to escape the mist, the trees peek through the bottom of the fog, but it holds them back. It secures them in the haze, masking them from view, and distorting their appearance as if hiding some secret within.
Further into the fog the secrets reveal themselves. A wall rockets up to heights far above my head, tempting me with the challenge of climbing to its peak. It tantalizes me with the idea of finding the apex so that I might look out over the land to truly enjoy its beauty. Yet, the sharpness of the mountain side abates my thirst for adventure.
Stuck at the bottom the trees silently welcome my arrival. They cling to the almost sheer cliff side, where their trunks curve so that they might reach for the sky. An odd fashion, indeed, when compared to their horizontal counterparts. Yet, the trees care not, even as gravity tugs on them, threatening to plummet them down the mountain into the waves lapping at the rocks below. The battle’s remnants lie in the unveiled silver roots. They appear as a frenzy of smoke grey tangles amongst the burnt red of the mountain floor. Such a clashing of colors is set ablaze in the early morning sunlight.