Mr. Fogg and Mr. Glass

The mist was soft and grey. It seemed to hug the ground. More than a lover’s embrace, the mist clung to the moistness of the loam as if it were feeding. It happened often when the leaves started to change and the nights began to become something more than what they were. The substance of the air was deeper. The chill of the night was penetrating. The darkness, seemed to be increasingly more velvet and stark. Even at this twilight as dawn was coming into being, the atmosphere carried something more than what it did before. It was full of expectation.

Hidden trees stood in slight contrast of the mist. The muddled shadows that were made seemed to only increase the melancholy bleeding from the mist as the slowness of dawn came. If one were able to communicate with the trees, they would have warned in whispers to run and keep away from the mist. They had seen it before when they were younger and more supple. A breeze stirred high in the branches causing a gentle rain of crimson leaves to fall too slowly through the mist. If they could have, the trees would have closed themselves off in their winter bark to hide.

From the copse of trees the mist crept into the fields below. The wild grasses and flowers cringed. The small and simple beauty of the normally lively plants that were used to swaying in the breeze and reaching for the sunlight was corrupted. They were awash in the thickness of that morning mist. They seemed to gasp for breath and wilt as the smoky tendrils moved to lower ground.

Nightly birds and beasts silenced themselves in instinct more than fear. The pregnancy of the mist was more powerful than what they had ever sensed before. The stillness took over as the creeping mist grew, filling the void between the wilted plants and the overhanging blackened sky.

If the eternal burning stars could, they would look away. Such was their curse though to stand witness. It is their own cosmic cycle that brought everything to bear to allow  the madness to creep through the world again. They too were powerless against the ravages of time and destiny. As they moved in astrological scale, locks turned and gates were opened.

Muted at first from the pale mist, gay colors swirled. Pinks and blues formed into visions of sugared webs. Gilded nightmares taking the color of cotton candy and stretched taffy. These were the first to appear. Shades of crimson and chartreuse seemed to stretch into being from purposeful fingers of mist to form tented shapes.

A rumble of wagons could be heard, dull against the increasing strength of the mist. Chains and squeaking wood complained echoing from some impossible distance. The air seemed to sizzle as the dawn finally broke over the trees far atop the hill. Other noises coalesced along with images.

Black and grey shadows took form as the sparkle of starshine faded into pale blue skies. The chill, once reserved for nightly feelings permeated the now occupied field. A mundane looking pathway formed between gaily colored tents and rough-hewn barker stands. A antique ticketing booth stood at the head of the path. A great tent in red and yellow stripes was at the end. Strong men and beasts were grunting and growling as the final pole was put into place.

A short but portly man stood facing the camp. His silk coat and pants, black and shiny, seemed to absorb all the light around him. The top hat he wore brought his height to all of five feet. His fat face split in a smile that revealed a maw filled with sharp pointy teeth made for tearing flesh. Delicate eyebrows framed his wide eyes. A hooked nose stood out from his face.

In the distance, walking from the big top was a tall man in similar dress. His silks also seemed to hold all the blackness of night without release of starlight. A red cravat brought color to his pale face. His own smile was mellow and morbid at the same time. The man’s height seemed to be exaggerated by his incredibly thin frame. Long cheekbones brought his face into a pointed oval. Thick eyebrows outlined dark eyes. The monocle he wore flashed in the new dawn.


“Mr. Glass,” the portly man called out from the head of the path near the ticketing booth. He raised his hands in the air in greeting.

“Mr. Fogg,” the tall man called back to his friend raising his own arms into the air. “It seems that we have been freed once more.”

“Indeed, Mr. Glass,” Fogg chuckled, his jowls and wattle shaking with the effort. “The time is right once more.” Fogg removed his top hat and embraced the tall and slender frame of Glass as tehy came together. Glass seemed to almost double over as he leaned down to hold Fogg.

“Yes,” Glass sniffed the air and seemed to peer trough the dawn and dissipating mist into the unseen forces that aligned to bring them both back. “The time is right.”

For a time, they stood in silence, Fogg and Glass. They were content in just being in the world. The air stirred around them, wafting over the wilted grass and stirring up the scent of loamy death and rebirth. In the distance, atop the hill, the trees shivered and dropped more leaves from their branches.

The last of mist faded from around Fogg and Glass manifesting into bright white spats that covered their shoes and black lacquered walking sticks that manifested into their hands. Fogg’s somewhat shorter and crowned with a brass crow’s head. Glass’ own topped with a prismatic quartz ball.

“Mr. Fogg,” Glass’ voice drew power and command, “We are going to need bills to post. We need to get the men to work printing them and prepare a wagon for distribution.”

“Yes, Mr. Glass,” Fogg chuckled again, his wattle flapping. “It is time to get to work.”