Stories, poems and other musings from the mind of a writer who suffers from World Builder's Disease
There were six of us before the fog skulked in.
We had heard the tales and ignored the warnings.
Some believed the sacred, forlorn woods were cursed.
Others claimed the lands held wailing ghosts.
As for us, we weren’t scared.
Obviously, it was only fog.
Each friend, now gone.
We were fools.