Anthony's Literary Lens

Tag: fog

  • Beyond the White Veil

    Beyond the White Veil

    The author tapped their pen against the worn notebook, frowning at the blank page. Outside, the hills of west Wales slumbered in an afternoon lull. They were supposed to be writing about wild hills, about the way the mist rolled in, swallowing everything whole. But the words wouldn’t come. Was it because the real hills outside looked so tame, bathed in a weak spring sunshine? Or was it because the very idea of writing about the wildness, the untamed nature of the world, felt utterly inauthentic?

    Preseli Hills, Pembrokeshire, Wales

    Pen searches for truth,
    Wild landscape in the mind blooms,
    More real than the mist.

    Anthony

    In the fictional world they were trying to build, the mist rolled in with a purpose, a living entity driven by some unknown force. It wasn’t the kind of mist that rolled in most afternoons, shrouding the valleys in a milky haze. This mist was hungry, it devoured the landscape whole, leaving only the skeletal outlines of trees and the ghosts of forgotten ruins.

    But here, in the real world, the mist ambled in, a lazy afterthought of a sea breeze. It did little more than dampen the enthusiasm of the ramblers, forcing them to pull on their waterproofs a little earlier. The author sighed. How could they write about a mist that devoured the world when the most dangerous thing the real mist devoured was a tourist’s picnic plans?

    An idea flickered. What if the wildness wasn’t in the mist itself, but in the way it exposed the wildness within the characters it touched? The author started to write. The first line came easily: “The mist rolled in, uninvited, as it always did.”  This time, the mist wasn’t a malevolent force, but a catalyst. It seeped into the cracks of their lives, revealing the buried anxieties, the unspoken desires. The characters, a young couple on a weekend retreat, found themselves arguing over neglected chores and unspoken resentments, their petty squabbles echoing in the muffled landscape.

    The author smiled. The wildness wasn’t in the mist, but in the way it held up a mirror to the human heart. And perhaps, that was a wilder thing after all.

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  • Misty Realms

    Misty Realms

    “Mist veils ancient tales,
    Gwrach y Rhibyn whispers doom,
    Welsh hearts etched in fear”

    Anthony
    Black sheep

    Hag of the Mist

    In the mist-shrouded realm of Welsh folklore, there exists the haunting spectre known as Gwrach y Rhibyn—the Hag of the Mist. This malevolent entity, draped in the cloak of death, emerges when the air thickens with an ominous fog. Gwrach y Rhibyn, a wretched crone with ancient secrets and supernatural powers, casts an unsettling shadow upon those unlucky enough to cross her path. Her appearance forebodes impending tragedy, and the mist itself seems to whisper tales of doom. In the misty veil between the living and the supernatural, Gwrach y Rhibyn innokes a chilling narrative, leaving a lingering sense of fear etched into the hearts of the Welsh people.

    Gwrach y Rhibyn

    Yn y byd cysegredig wedi’i wympasu â niwl yn chwedloniaeth Gymreig, mae yna ysbryd frawychus o’r enw Gwrach y Rhibyn— hag of the Mist. Cyfentrodd ysbryd niweidiol hwn, wedi’i wisgo mewn mantell angau, pan fydd yr awyr yn trwchus gyda niwl dywyll. Gwrach y Rhibyn, hen wrgi â chyfrinachau hynafol a phŵerau dychmygol, sy’n taflu cysgod anghyson ar y rhai anffawdus sy’n croesi ei lwybr. Mae ei hystyr yn rhagweld trais sy’n agosáu, ac mae’r niwl ei hun yn ymddangos fel bod yn sibrwd chwedlau o ddinistr. Yn y llenni niwlog rhwng y byw a’r gorllyd, mae Gwrach y Rhibyn yn ennyn naratif o oeri, gan adael teimlad parhaus o ofn wedi’i ysgrifennu yn llygaid pobl Cymru.

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  • Peace?

    Peace?

    Peace is a gentle breeze,
    Whispering through the trees.
    It’s a warm embrace,
    A loving, healing space.

    Blue piece
    Dryslwyn river. Tap to view my redbubble gallery.

    What’s the point of peace and serenity,
    Of beauty and reflection?
    When all that we have is a moment’s reprieve,
    From the chaos and destruction.

    The river flows on,
    Uncaring of our plight.
    The trees sway in the breeze,
    Unmoved by our cries.

    The fog rolls in,
    Obscuring our sight.
    And the reflection in the water,
    Is a distorted image of our reality.

    So why do we strive for peace and serenity?
    When all that we have is a moment’s reprieve,
    From the chaos and destruction.

    Let us embrace the chaos,
    Let us face the darkness.
    For in the darkness,
    We find our resilience.

    And in the chaos,
    We find our strength.

    For peace and serenity,
    Beauty and reflection,
    Are fleeting illusions.

    But the chaos and destruction,
    Are our reality.

    Let us embrace it,
    And find our way through it.

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