Writing Exercise #4 - Ryan Henderson

The fog enveloped the pine trees and obscured the path in front of him. The old man squinted into the clouds swirling around him, trying to remember which way he needed to go. A raven cawed somewhere in the distance. But he could not tell how far away it was, distance was lost in the opaque morning air. Everything else was silent except for the sound of water dripping off tree branches onto the slippery layer of pine needles that carpeted everything around him like a soggy mat. He had already fallen once, landing hard, his palms were scraped and the knees of his pants were moist from black mud that seeped through and chilled his skin. After that, he found a branch that he used for balance, stabbing the broken limb into the ground while he tottered down one hill and up another. Occasionally he paused to rest on a damp rock, leaning gratefully against the cold outcropping while wondering how far he had walked. He didnt even know what time it was. His watch was still sitting on his bedroom dresser and the old man could only guess how long it would be before someone came looking for him.