writing prompt

The clouds had started rolling in off the sea, slithering their way down the mountain tops like tassels on a fluffy white down comforter. With the mist as thick as milky soup everything became eerie and otherworldly. Almost like that inevitable dream sequence in movies were the main guy is dead but not dead and the whole world is hazy a white, and almost too bright. Amie always found the way the mist muted most sounds but made others louder a little freaky. 

Her grandmother had fed her on stories of fairies and elf maids that danced around in a circle and made the mist come down, the will-o-the-wisps that could either lead you a stray or lead you home. But those stories came from Europe with her grans family, a far newer addition to this country than, say, her grandfather's family, and that reflected the fickle nature of their fair folk. Her grans stories were sweet and a little whimsical. Maybe this was because the fairies of Europe had long ago been broken and tamed under the strict yolk of the Catholic church. Once gods and spirits they had been relegated to the realm of mischief makers and make believe, maybe explaining both their vindictive streak and their equal proclivity to help as well as hinder.

 Her grandfather's stories, conversely, were more true to this country and dealt with far less maybe ifs. No, here voices calling to you out through the mist must be ignored. Here there were no dancing women to bring in the mist but there was sometimes a dragons breath. Here you never left your path, high up in the mountains, walking, drifting amongst the clouds. Yes the fair folk of her grandfather's stories were no fair at all. They did not have a benevolent streak. The Church, Catholic or other wise had been forced to come to an uneasy truce with the creatures of this country. They weren't so easily cowed, more over they knew exactly what they had always been and never allowed anyone to forget it, even the Church. They had never been gods. They had always malevolent spirits in the mist, leading you astray, calling out in the dark. They had never had a love for humans. 

Those of course were just stories. Never the less Amie thumbed the smooth black stone in her pocket. The little black stone with a little rhino scratched into the one side in thin white lines. A sort of lucky charm, a sort of ward, a childish protection against evil. The mist hung in the air like cheap Halloween spiderwebs that dissolved at the slightest touch. The cold glancing touch, like a ghostly hand brushing against her skin, or the material of her wind breaker. Little droplets of moisture collected on her eyelashes and in the strands of hair that had pulled free from her ponytail.  All around her the mist painted a picture of uneven depth. Muting some colours and making others pop, greens and yellows, but most of all the many shades between black and grey. It both defined and sharpened the shapes while fuzzing the edges slightly. 

Amie hiked through the swirling masses of clouds. Higher and higher, the mist got thicker and thicker, until that instant moment she was no longer in the clouds but above them. The white-grey sea, complete with eider down fluff waves rolled below her like a fluffy waterbed. Above her the ever darkening canvas of sky rolled forever onward from the blues and greens of day all through to the deep indigos and blacks of night. Resting for a moment on a rocky outcrop, the world below her dangling feet obscured by the seemingly solid ocean of cloud. From her high perch it looked fluffy, and solid. As if she could step off into the abyss and be caught by the soft mass below.

Still higher Amie climbed. The air getting thinner as she went. Again she had to stop to catch her breath. Her hand checking on her little percious charm in her pocket. Again she allowed her thumb to glide over it, warding off the blackness creeping into the corners of her vision. With great greedy lungfuls she vacuumed in as much of the scarce air as she could.

Up here so high above the clouds the ever darkening sky, a bruised blue going to black, was clear and still like a glass smooth sea. The stars swam like little silver fishes just below the surface, as if you could reach out your hand, and if you were quick enough, touch them. Some of them were shy and swam in schools altogether, crowding each other for space. Others braver swam in small groups loosely, respecting each others space. The bravest swam on their own claiming large clear areas for their solitary, single selves.