When Harry said he was going to build a fence to keep the fog out, people thought he was mad.
In the winter of 1993 they were proved right.
Harry was certified insane. His friends left. His family forgot him.
No fog has been seen since.
Today, in a field in Leicester, a piece of land (no bigger than our back gardens together) is fenced off into a slightly wonky rectangle. Inside this quirky quadrant stands a Silver Birch, 7 sheep (sometimes 6 – Gary often goes walkabout) and a small patch of fog roaming – searching for an exit.
If you enjoyed this, why not read 100 other stories from writers around the world all contributing toFriday Fictioneers. If you can’t get enough of them, why not check out another 52 one hundred word stories in my collection, People Watching.
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