Novelista

Fog on a summer’s night mesmerizes. From the time it rolls in until the sun burns it off, I imagine all sorts of possibilities. People always ask from where I get my inspiration. The answer is simple. Most of the time, I look out my window. I watch the fog hug the streetlamp, then reach to kiss the window’s screen. Eventually it fills the void between the buildings, shrouding the brick and clapboard in a hushed whisper. The sky begins to lighten. A blue-gray glow settles into the mountains. Retreating into the valley, the fog leaves a shiny roof that reflects the light of the newly liberated streetlamp. Headlights pierce through the dense air before plunging into the valley. They emerge with a heightened Doppler effect, which barges through my window. A still breeze rocks the opened blinds gently. Spreading a chill, it mocks summer. I pull my covers over my head. In my writing, I often use what lurks outside my window. I made a mist only Declan coul