It’s my first evening in town. I could hear the ocean and the seagulls, but I could not see the waterfront. The mists filled the beach, covering the sand, blurring the horizon. The skyscrapers were swallowed by the mist. It was magical and mysterious.
Then came the lights and the music. The street performers started on the beach. People flocked in. The mists stayed, but the mysterious vibe was gone.
April 10 Mists 70 Day late, but it's been crazy around here!!
Shadows passed through the fog that early morning. It was so dense that the mists left traces of moisture on the faces and hair of joggers and walkers trying to get their exercise in before work. Most people wore headlamps or reflective clothing, ensuring they were visible to the cars on the road.
He was dressed in gray, from shirt to shoes. The car never saw him, and didn't stop.
The chilling mist hung heavy. The temperature was dancing at thirty degrees and Abigail Greer was stranded on the Hawker Highway. Her car sputtered, chugged, and the engine died. Tears warmed her cheeks. Hope abandoned her. She screamed in steamy anger and frantic frustration and desolation. Her husband Marc had died seven weeks ago. He was 32 years old. She was 30. Now her lonely, grieving heart shuddered and shrank in this awful, horrible situation.
I couldn’t remember the last time it was so dark. Mist covered the road so thick I could barely see to begin with. And then the car died. I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face, couldn’t quiet that primal fear that I had suddenly found myself in danger.
I turned the key to restart the car. My last moment in darkness was spent debating if I’d really heard music playing from somewhere down the road.
He’s dead. There were many things I could have done to prevent this—so many things I could have said to make his life easier. I did nothing I should have, and now I have a mountain of regret weighing on my chest…forever. He warned me, but I didn’t listen. I didn’t see. Now, as I lay a last rose on his grave, mists of tears cloud my eyes.
He felt like he was inside a giant cloud. The air was damp and humid, breathable according to his instruments, but he kept the mask on anyway. A voice appeared to come from the vapor saying, “I told you that you could explore Jupiter and the moons Io, Ganymede, and Calisto, but Europa is mine.” He started to gag as something moist entered his mouth. Oddly, it was the mist.
The mists rolled in on a sea of doubts. What was distinct, colorful, and tangibly crisp became soggy, drab, and unfocused. What once were legs to stand on terra firma, now are stumps. How can you grasp what hasn’t handles? How to digest something that has no taste? How dare you think when thinking outside of the mist is forbidden? The mist cleanses the shore of those who give up.
Gerald, this claws rather than drifts. The metaphor works hard, and it works well—“grasp what hasn’t handles,” “digest something with no taste”—those lines hit like stumbling in the dark, reaching for shape where there is none. It feels like a quiet rebellion masked in philosophy, asking what happens when ambiguity is enforced, not chosen.
The train never arrives, or perhaps it never leaves. Mist erases the tracks before and behind. They return often, though nothing confirms they've ever been. No announcements. No time. Just a sense—familiarity, maybe—but no name for it. Each step echoes, unclaimed. Memory thins like vapor. Do they know themselves when they can’t remember? They wait, not for something—only to exist. The platform forgets with them. Even silence carries no direction.
No they did not and that was my problem. I did not know that my Self, my true Self was exiled for the period of 47 years. I could not remember either. So the poem is a true story.
Walter hid, but in the nether world he saw her last image. His legs splayed in a running position, arms at his sides. Night opened his eyes. Mist rose. She become a dark shadow, shroud, a shawl. She retreated. Dissolved in the mist. No parting subtle smile. A bardo state of sidth, twilight mist, not rain, nor water or mistletoe. Both partners’ scattered. Dawn mist lifted. Imagined love left Walter.
The way you captured that sense of uncertainty between what was real and what was merely wished for feels achingly familiar. I especially loved how you ended on that paradoxical note - that even when memories are lost to "the mist," something essential still remains.
Please edit out this line next time : "Would you want to thread this tone into a longer piece? Or leave it suspended like this, a single breath held in time?"
Microfiction - 70mg of Mists
===
It’s my first evening in town. I could hear the ocean and the seagulls, but I could not see the waterfront. The mists filled the beach, covering the sand, blurring the horizon. The skyscrapers were swallowed by the mist. It was magical and mysterious.
Then came the lights and the music. The street performers started on the beach. People flocked in. The mists stayed, but the mysterious vibe was gone.
I remember this prompt, it was probably my second microfiction ever when I joined this one!
❤️❤️ We’ve been here for a long time together Olivia. Thank you :)
PROMPT: MISTS
THE ILLUSION
He’d been planning his latest illusion for months.
A feat of teleportation so spectacular, it would leave everyone gasping.
And they were left gasping.
But it wasn’t by the trick.
A stagehand went overboard with the dry ice, causing a huge cloud of mist.
And the whole show was ruined… 🪄😎🪄
April 10 Mists 70 Day late, but it's been crazy around here!!
Shadows passed through the fog that early morning. It was so dense that the mists left traces of moisture on the faces and hair of joggers and walkers trying to get their exercise in before work. Most people wore headlamps or reflective clothing, ensuring they were visible to the cars on the road.
He was dressed in gray, from shirt to shoes. The car never saw him, and didn't stop.
There's no late in here
he turns
her away,
the old one,
her father;
she will not
acknowledge
his need
to weep–
he knows
the public
cry
for help
is not easy
to ignore–
the tide
arrived– unwanted
surprised– giggles
the foot
in the door–
the care-home
overflow
car-park
swells, reflexive
smiles displayed,
when children
walk
away–
when light
of day,
drives the living
far away,
they say;
there is frightening
clarity
in open
spaces
The chilling mist hung heavy. The temperature was dancing at thirty degrees and Abigail Greer was stranded on the Hawker Highway. Her car sputtered, chugged, and the engine died. Tears warmed her cheeks. Hope abandoned her. She screamed in steamy anger and frantic frustration and desolation. Her husband Marc had died seven weeks ago. He was 32 years old. She was 30. Now her lonely, grieving heart shuddered and shrank in this awful, horrible situation.
I couldn’t remember the last time it was so dark. Mist covered the road so thick I could barely see to begin with. And then the car died. I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face, couldn’t quiet that primal fear that I had suddenly found myself in danger.
I turned the key to restart the car. My last moment in darkness was spent debating if I’d really heard music playing from somewhere down the road.
Mists are a wet fog
Silky cloud of cotton logs
Sinking round all all the little trees
Obscuring the view for
you and me
Dragons live inside the mist
and psycho killers give a slippery kiss
As they twine and invade
With their Gucci shades 😎
Play Misty for me ,
Clint asked again and again
That's all I can remember
From a movie back then
I'm all wrung out
No longer wet
Just glad I don't
Have to hunt a lost pet.
The mist holds its secrets
For killers and ghosts
I'd rather see clearly
I love sunny days the most .
Thank you , C. J.!
Thank you, Scott!
Thank you , Rian and Jeannine !
70mg - Mists
Every morning, the little boy pointed outside and said, “There are people in the mists.”
His mom would smile and say, “It’s just fog, honey.”
But he saw them—shadows moving, watching.
One gray morning, the mists came again, thicker than before.
She turned to call him for breakfast.
His bed was empty.
Outside, only silence and the swirling mist remained.
Did the people in the mists finally come for him?
Okay. I'm back. 70 Words on mists
He’s dead. There were many things I could have done to prevent this—so many things I could have said to make his life easier. I did nothing I should have, and now I have a mountain of regret weighing on my chest…forever. He warned me, but I didn’t listen. I didn’t see. Now, as I lay a last rose on his grave, mists of tears cloud my eyes.
70 words on "mist"
He felt like he was inside a giant cloud. The air was damp and humid, breathable according to his instruments, but he kept the mask on anyway. A voice appeared to come from the vapor saying, “I told you that you could explore Jupiter and the moons Io, Ganymede, and Calisto, but Europa is mine.” He started to gag as something moist entered his mouth. Oddly, it was the mist.
70-word story challenge—Prompt: “Mists”
The mists rolled in on a sea of doubts. What was distinct, colorful, and tangibly crisp became soggy, drab, and unfocused. What once were legs to stand on terra firma, now are stumps. How can you grasp what hasn’t handles? How to digest something that has no taste? How dare you think when thinking outside of the mist is forbidden? The mist cleanses the shore of those who give up.
Gerald, this claws rather than drifts. The metaphor works hard, and it works well—“grasp what hasn’t handles,” “digest something with no taste”—those lines hit like stumbling in the dark, reaching for shape where there is none. It feels like a quiet rebellion masked in philosophy, asking what happens when ambiguity is enforced, not chosen.
70mg of Mists
The train never arrives, or perhaps it never leaves. Mist erases the tracks before and behind. They return often, though nothing confirms they've ever been. No announcements. No time. Just a sense—familiarity, maybe—but no name for it. Each step echoes, unclaimed. Memory thins like vapor. Do they know themselves when they can’t remember? They wait, not for something—only to exist. The platform forgets with them. Even silence carries no direction.
Wow. Do they know themselves when they can’t remember?
Or anything? Here's to short-term memory!
No they did not and that was my problem. I did not know that my Self, my true Self was exiled for the period of 47 years. I could not remember either. So the poem is a true story.
MISTS (70)
The mists were so thick over the dark water that we could see nothing ahead of us. I lifted the oars and let the little boat drift.
"Mom, are we lost?" My daughter asked.
Suddenly, an enormous ship appeared directly in front of us. I grabbed the oars and rowed desperately.
"Oh no! What happens next?"
"I haven't decided," I told her. "Come on, sweetie. It's time for bed now."
Nice cliffhanger for the daughter. Nice story for us.
Thanks.
Oh, mean! What kind of cliffhanger is that to lull a child to sleep by? 😂
The kind that you write when you have no idea how to finish this in 70 words!
lol
😂
70 Dream mists
Walter hid, but in the nether world he saw her last image. His legs splayed in a running position, arms at his sides. Night opened his eyes. Mist rose. She become a dark shadow, shroud, a shawl. She retreated. Dissolved in the mist. No parting subtle smile. A bardo state of sidth, twilight mist, not rain, nor water or mistletoe. Both partners’ scattered. Dawn mist lifted. Imagined love left Walter.
The Memory That Stayed
“Did we ever walk through that mist, you and I?”
“I think we must have. Once.”
“Did we hold hands when we stepped in?”
“I believe we did, though it’s more of a feeling than a fact.”
“Did you love me then?”
“I might have. Or I might have wanted to.”
“What did the doctor say?”
“That the mist has taken everything we remembered.”
“Did it?”
“Yes. Except this moment.”
Oh, so poignant.
Thank you :)
The way you captured that sense of uncertainty between what was real and what was merely wished for feels achingly familiar. I especially loved how you ended on that paradoxical note - that even when memories are lost to "the mist," something essential still remains.
Thanks for the AI answer. Appreciate it.
Please edit out this line next time : "Would you want to thread this tone into a longer piece? Or leave it suspended like this, a single breath held in time?"