DAY 97
STORY #97
The Old One
The silvery mist entwined itself around the ashen treetops, as leaded skies bent under the weight of corpulent rain clouds. A rustle in the tall tawny weeds of the meadow, and the strains of tiny, fluting voices.
I'm just your average amateur writer, on a very special mission: write 100 one hundred word stories in 100 days, to benefit Accord Hospice in Renfrewshire, Scotland. Please pledge your support by visiting the link on the page.
The silvery mist entwined itself around the ashen treetops, as leaded skies bent under the weight of corpulent rain clouds. A rustle in the tall tawny weeds of the meadow, and the strains of tiny, fluting voices.
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