There are days the world comes to full colour from the night, from the greys under the moon to every colour of the rainbow and more. Today we have the fog, and so as it warms up the world will be born from this whiteness, as if it were art appearing on a three dimensional canvass.


Today the clouds sit upon the earth, as if they decided the heavens were down here instead. So I walk on the grass, flying as high as the birds, seeing only white.


The trees are veiled in the lightest of mists, their trunks sombre brown with sable cracks that gnarl the bark. As my eye travels to the edge of the woodland they become silhouettes against a blanket of white, as if it is only daylight where I stand, as if I am encircled by twilight.


A vast blanket of white hung heavy over the hills. It suffocated every building and every tree at their base, swallowing every distant object and vanishing around every corner. It crept round St. John's church, its silent footsteps tiptoeing around each gravestone in the churchyard, passing by Jane Thomson, Rupert Nicholson and many others, before finally coming to rest at the foot of a freshly covered grave. Scott stood in the still silence of the churchyard, his only comfort being that of the cold white blanket that hugged his shoulders and grabbed at his trouser legs.

By beth, March 31, 2014.

It swooped in and skirted around the buildings and the trees, like a giant eraser moving indiscriminately to eradicate what was once there into something that's not. Jeanne stood in a pocket of it, but it only seemed like a pocket to her. She knew that she too was swallowed, erased, eradicated by this enveloping whiteness. It hurt her eyes, it was so white. Staring at it made her feel like she was staring at herself staring at nothing. Her mind fought hard to drum up a thousand different description to plaster across it. But there was nothing that could truly describe nothing. Each thought she had seemed loud and exposed, just like every movement she made in the silence that wrapped like the fog around her. Maybe the fog was somehow in her, just as she was in it.

By manchu4you, July 2, 2014.

The freezing fog wrapped around her like a blanket, the everyday familiar sights of the street lay mysterious, hiding, looming out at her in their whitened haze at the last minute like images from some half forgotten dream. She held out her hand in front of her and watched it become partially obscured. She imagined herself chanting spells, conjuring the mist like a deranged witch drunk on her own powers, cackling, eyes twinkling.


The early morning fog loomed as far as he could see, it was almost tangible, shrouding everything in a thick white veil, the light barely managing to penetrate the haze. The sounds of birdsong and motors that should have been filling the air around him all seemed to have disappeared, even his footsteps had been swallowed by the greedy beast.

By fnic97, January 13, 2015.

In the fog the city is blurred like an old painting; it could be a great work drawn by expert hand. The buildings and the Japanese cherry trees are silhouetted black, two-dimensional. The streets yawn in every direction with only the old newspaper dispensers and street-lamps to break the view between buildings so high that the tops disappear in the swirling white. It doesn't smell right at all, in fact it smells of nothing but the damp trees not yet in bloom. Without the fumes of the traffic its odour is as fresh as any meadow without tincture of grass. Jenna's footsteps echoed like stones off a cave wall. She wanted to melt onto the darkness but what was the point? This place had been abandoned long ago, other than the odd roosting birds, she had the only beating heart in many square miles of concrete.


Kayerts stood still. He looked upwards; the fog rolled low over his head. He looked like a man who had lost his way; he saw a dark smudge, a cross-shaped stain, upon the shifting purity of the mist,

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, April 24, 2012.

Found in An Outpost of Progress, authored by Joseph Conrad.


Condition of Mourning Fog

100% humidity
no visibility
illuminated ambient
by dawn’s fog lamp
through the stable cloud deck
static at the edge of my wooden one
where my gaze wanders on
and haze stretched supine
rests long upon
gray stained boards
about 12 feet up here
at my little stratosphere
eerily mysterious-
yet curiously sublime-
such is this morning mist divine

By annetteschrabclark, October 12, 2013*.

Fog like white wool, drifting past him in fleecy flakes that looked as if they had solid substance. Warm fog that was like balm upon his frozen skin.

By dan, January 30, 2013.

Found in The Heetle Horde, authored by Victor Rousseau.