Homage to Stephen King’s “The Mist”
Stephen looked over at Angela, nervousness showing on his face.
“Where do you think it came from?” he asked in a voice that wavered. Without thinking he pushed his wide-rim glasses farther up the bridge of his nose.
Angela, a kind woman with a blonde cut and a pretty face, looked over at the large glass windows that made up the front wall of the grocery store. The outside world could not be seen beyond; a milky mist swirled in its place, thick enough to block everything else from view. It was silent and eerie as if waiting for something to happen, or for some foolish soul to step outside to prove it was harmless. Uncertainty clouded her face like a mask and she shrugged a shoulder.
“I don’t know. I’ve seen mist come down onto the mainland from the lake before, but nothing like this. This is…weird.”
Stephen let out a breath that seemed stuck in his chest. He was sitting cross-legged in the cereal aisle with a few other people, with Angela being his unofficial aisle buddy. A basket of fruit and other assorted goods sat abandoned by his side, forgotten in the wake of the strange fog. They had all been shopping when the mist rolled in. It happened fast and without a sound and in a few moments all they could see was a wall of white.
They had heard screams coming from the parking lot not long after, screams that had been suddenly silenced. That had sparked a note of fear within the people in the store and no one wanted to venture out to see what was going on. An hour had passed after that and nothing further happened. Sitting tight and waiting for some kind of help to arrive seemed like the best plan.
A strange feeling was unwinding in Stephen’s head. This whole scene seemed familiar. Without really thinking about it he withdrew a small notebook from his jacket. It was well-used; the spine was cracking and the pages were wrinkled. He turned it about in his hands aimlessly.
Night was falling swiftly around them. The light outside was fading to a dull grey through the mist and people were getting anxious. One woman hovering near the front doors turned to address the few who were with her.
“I-I need to get back to my kids,” she said tearfully. She was wringing her hands and her face held a gaunt panic that reminded Stephen of a cornered animal. “I said I’d be back soon, we live just down the street. They’re small, just ten and seven, they can’t be alone for too long.”
One of the grocery managers, a short man with glasses, stepped up.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. You heard what happened out there, we don’t know what’s - ”
“I don’t care, they’re my kids, don’t you understand? They must be so scared, they need me.”
She moved towards the doors but the manager took her by the arm.
“Please ma’am,” he begged. “We don’t know what’s going on, the best thing to do would be to wait. I’m sure your children are fine.”
“To hell with you,” Stephen whispered.
Angela, who had been watching the argument, turned to him incredulously.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“To hell with you,” the woman snapped, breaking out of the man’s hold. “I’m going to my kids.” She ran to the front doors but hesitated briefly with one hand on the glass. The mist churned quietly just beyond, like a predator staying silent until its prey wanders a little too close. No vehicles could be seen through it, and only a couple feet of pavement showed. It wasn’t hard to imagine that anyone caught in that could get lost very quickly. The entire store seemed to be holding its breath.
Stephen looked up from his notebook. It was opened about a third of the way with his scratchy writing visible in smudged black ink. Panic alighted on his face like sunshine.
“Stephen, what - ” Angela began, fearful of the way he was looking.
“She can’t leave,” he uttered, dropping the book and standing up. “Wait! Please, you must stay, it’s not safe!”
The woman turned around one last time and gave Stephen a look that suggested she wasn’t going to listen to him. Her eyes were determined and as she shoved the door open Stephen knew she wasn’t going to come back.
The congregation watched as the door slowly closed behind her, sealing her out of the safety of the store. Her figure disappeared swiftly into the fog and then she was gone.
Stephen watched her go, his nerves prickling. Please don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream…
As if on cue, the screaming started. Everyone in the market cried out and backed up, although unwilling to take their eyes from the windows. It was awful; one after the other the screams came in fearful wails, along with a roar that sounded like it came from the throat of a huge animal. A muffled thud was heard and then everything fell silent. A moment passed in the market where no one moved or said anything. Deer-in-the-headlights looks were on most faces as if they couldn’t quite believe what they just heard. Quiet sobs began from the back which led to hushed muttering rippling through the group.
Stephen turned shakily back to Angela, sweat beading on his temples. This can’t be happening…
She was holding his notebook open and looked up at him from it, blue eyes wide.
“This just h-happened in your book,” she said, voice cracking. “That woman talking about her kids, she just left and was…was…you have it written in your book! How is that possible?”
Stephen didn’t know how to reply. He moved like a zombie over to where she was now standing, holding open the book in front of her as if it were a weapon she just found. Her eyes demanded answers and he didn’t know if he could give her any, answers that made sense, anyway. He ignored her fiery expression and slid down to the floor.
“Just do me a favor,” he said, staring vacantly at the ramen display across from him.
Angela scoffed, still wielding the notebook. “And what’s that?”
He looked up at her, his own eyes fierce.
“Don’t read what happens next.”
Friday Feature: @istoppedtrying
It’s Friday again. HUZZAH! Of course, this means that we delve into the life of another member of this great writing community of ours. This week we head over to California to meet the very splendid @istoppedtrying
P: What is your given name and your Proser username?
I: My name is William and my Prose name is @istoppedtrying.
P: Where do you live?
I: Palo Alto, California.
P: What is your occupation?
I: I am a middle school student braving math tests, structured essays and the social perils of stereotypes.
Writing, (on Prose), is the highlight of my day.
P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?
I: My relationship with writing began with reading as it did for many others. I became entranced with the crude honesty of Cowper and the meaning packed poetry of T.S. Eliot.
I've been reading more and more contemporary poetry as the months go on and the poetry I write has reflected what I read.
I have used writing as a coping tool and as a boat for my "literary exploration."
P: What value does reading add to both your personal and professional life?
I: Reading adds another depth to literature that I can't achieve through writing exclusively. Street signs and advertisements have a new importance to me.
The most nondescript parts of our society suddenly have so much meaning to me.
P: Can you describe your current literary ventures?
I: Possibly some more books (collections of poetry, I don't have the stamina to write a full-length book) and similar individual posts to those I write now.
P: What do you love about Prose?
I: Prose is positive. Though many writers (including me) write about sadness and negativity, the overall vibe of Prose is positive.
This level of opposition creates a desire for me to never stop writing.
P: Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?
I: The Dream Songs by John Berryman is the most gruesome and vivid anthology of confessional poetry that has ever been written, in my opinion.
P: Do you have an unsung hero who got you into reading and/or writing?
I: I had an English teacher in second grade who saw something "different" in me and allowed me to write a poem instead of a paragraph about The Little Engine that Could.
I've been writing ever since.
P: Describe yourself in three words!
I: Idiosyncratic. Evanescent. Ignorant.
P: Is there one quote, from a writer or otherwise, that sums you up
I: I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. -Winston Churchill
P: What is your favourite music, and do you write or read to it?
I: I am a growing fan of alternative, electronic and folktronica music. I write to the latter daily, simmering in the abstract and strange.
P: You climb out of a time machine into a dystopian future with no books. What do you tell them?
I: Is there a rock and some mud around?
No mud?
My blood will do...
P: Do you have a favourite place to read and write?
I: I find darkness and silence to produce some of my freshest ideas. If silence isn't possible, white noise will do.
P: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you/your work/social media accounts?
I: I have a speech impediment. I practically cannot pronounce the "r" sound. It began when I was five and has continued, unabated to this day.
This is why I prefer writing to public speaking.
A thousand thanks to William for opening up to us and sharing his life. You know what you’ve got to do now. Follow. Like. Love. Interact. Do the Prose thang. Meanwhile, get in touch if you want to nominate someone, even if it’s yourself.
Do it on paul@theprose.com or info@theprose.com
