Valley of Bones
Typing in notes created when I was a teenager...
There is an intense and endless silence here, like a cloak of emptiness. There are no sounds, no cry of birds or buzzing of insects, no small skittering or scrape, not even the rustle of wind through the trees to give evidence of life.
The trees have a gray and wintry look about them, and even the leaves that should soften and color their bones bear the look of a scarecrows rags. Scrub brush and sawgrass rub against their trunks, with bramble bushes twisted together in a desperate effort to reach the sunlight.
The mist is everywhere, a deep and pervasive sea of gray that shuts everything vibrant away. It hangs limp in the air, unmoving as it smothers trees and brush, rock and earth. A screen that blocks away the sun's light and warmth. There is an inconsistency to it, in some places it is thin and watery and merely gives a fuzzy appearance to what it seeks to cloak, while in other places it is as impenetrable as ink. It brushes the skin with a cold, damp insistence that whispers of dead things. As if to prove this fact, a crunch underfoot reveals bones, a number of them scattered about.