Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

The Mountain Peak

"Are we there yet?" I hear my little brother call out from just ahead of me where he's walking with my dad along the path.
"I think this is about the 500th time he's asked this hour." I grumble to myself. I see my mom give me 'the look' out of the corner of my eye. I shrug, "Well it's annoying."
"He can't always help it." My mom replies, in a lecturing, all too calm tone that I heard too often.
'Right.' I think to myself, 'Doesn't mean it's not annoying.' I wasn't exactly in the best of moods. We'd been hiking the trail since seven this morning. And we'd been in a cloud the entire time. Not that I hadn't thought it was cool at first, but by noon it's gotten kind of old. The mist surrounds us, encasing everything from the trees and the rocks to the gorgeous views we had been promised. Needless to say it had been dull. I'd retreated to the recesses of my mind, dreaming up my next story, but I'd been constantly interrupted.
"Are we there yet?"
"Actually, we are." My dad replies. Finally.
We trudge past a wooden sign that points us towards the direction of lake. We move around trees to take our places on the moss covered gray stones and pull out our lunches. The lake seems to be the only thing that has survived the fog takeover. It's blue-gray water is almost completely undisturbed, little ripples appear here and there, but otherwise there's nothing. No sound except for us eating. You can see the banks vaguely and I almost say something about traveling around to the other side when I notice that the fog has advanced towards us on all sides, steadily creeping towards our spot. I point this out to my dad. He nods, indicating he's noticed too. Before long the entire lake, except for the five foot radius around us, is engulfed. Sadly, we pick up our bags and our water bottles and pass through the dimly glowing green of the trees and start our way down the worn brown path that leads back home.

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