Yesterday's Fog
an excerpt

Every now and again, a thick and smoky fog crawls into Northern Ireland from the North Channel. It doesn’t last long, disappearing into mist before it goes too far inland, but it makes the most of its short life by blurring the landscape into uncertainty. The vibrantly green grass quivers and blends into the grays of the clouds in the sky, making it unclear where one sprig ends and the other begins.
The fog is unpredictable. One never knows when it will come or in what form, only that it is as inevitable as finding a three-leaf clover.
If I were any sort of literary genius, I would use this image as a metaphor for the story I’m about to tell you. It would become my example of how even the most stable environment can crumble in an instant.