Slow the fog creeps in. Settles on skin and goes deep in. I remember you freaking. Standing arms wide and leaping. Demanding we hide from the dogs that were seeking to track us all down for the reaping. We never lied nor cried as we slipped from sight in the forest. Below the logs the fog won't reach and the Earth is breathing. The fungi forever bequeathing the soil its due while keeping the fog at bay. We toil and through endeavour, we foil the blue and clever creatures with the elongated features that have taken over the land today.
They came from the beaches. Shaking off the sand that was clinging to their hands and feet, their fingers like leaches, reaching for our skin to let the fog in, curling into our pores. We bandage up the sores and keep score. They were not aliens. Not from another world. They hadn't hurled through space in a ship to face us. They had been here the whole time, giving no sign no slip, that they came from the sea, deeper than a coalmine. Watching, clocking, all this time and mocking us our puny civilisation. Our nations crumbled before us. The cities rumbled to sawdust.
But still we stood and hid in our hood, the bold and the bad and the good. Striking hiding. While we the old and the mad in the woods were hiking, staying out of reach and biding our time by the ford and the logs. Praying that those leach-like hands wouldn't find us and bind us to the fog and remind us they were our lord. But no chord is louder then the collective, harmonic, respective defiance of those demonic creatures from the oceans. No potion stronger than uniting and fighting together as one until the day is done.
And so we struggle on, a tug of war of guerrilla antics to muddle our opponents. Striking from the interior against their superior strength and tactics. And we would be winning if it wasn't for the fog. But they would have won if it wasn't for the logs.
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