The fog fell on the muggy downs, while the wind whispered and swished. The air was wet and it plastered Jim's hair to his skull. He was staring out over the moor, trying to pick out where he had lost sight of his kite. Jim was nine and a half. He felt he knew enough to get by in life. He hated school.

  His kite was blue. Blue as the sky had been a few hours ago. Blue as the color of his eyes. Now the the sky was grey and damp. Jim did not like the fog. He liked the clear blue skies. He liked the sun shining on his hair. He liked watching his Kite dancing in the sky.

   But now Jim's Kite was gone in the milky white that filled the air.  Jim pulled on his kite string, he could feel the tightness in his hand but he could only see the string going into grey. Then suddenly the string fell into his arms, tumbling and swirling, he fell over onto the wet green grass.

   Jim looked up. The sky was still white as his Grandfather's beard. Yet he knew in his heart, that the sun was still shining up there. And as this knowledge gripped him, the sun broke through the clouds, and shined down on Jim.

There in a tree was his kite, torn to shreds.

Jim looked up to the sun and cried, "Why did you show me the truth! Now you have destroyed my dream of how my Kite flew, I HATE YOU!"

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So we carry on,
   clouding in fog our thoughts and morals.
        Then await, our, their, or the end.

~~~niantar~~~