The Fingers of White - Tales from the Milkwood Lounge
The Fingers of White It was there, out in the woods that I began to run. The frigid air clawed at my skin and pawed at me through my light clothes. I wasn't prepared for this... Maybe I thought that if I pretended such a thing was impossible, it wouldn't happen. "Out of sight, out of mind," they used to tell me. Well, it wasn't working for me anymore. The slender, pale fingers grasped with a vice-like grip. There was no escape, but at times like these logic goes out the window. The forest was not alive. To be sure, I don't truly know if it was dead either. The faintest hints of green were still there, but much was hidden behind the white. The fingers had gotten at that too, I supposed. Every inch of greenery had been caressed to sweet oblivion. The animals were gone, and all that remained of their passing was the occasional footprint. For seemingly illogical beings, they knew what had been coming. They had planned for it. I may have education and a sense of ci