The Fog Bank
                            Tales From the Front
                        Copyright 1996 by Dave Laird

< The voice of the announcer on the television somehow overrode the buzzing
of the group gathered in the living room of one of the most plush houses in
all of the South Hill of Spokane, and they all hushed to listen.>

"We have confirmed tonight that the sales of crack cocaine and other illegal
drugs has swung to an all-time high in the streets of Spokane, Washington
where, despite neighborhood-based policing policies in use, it has continued
to escalate steadily for the last two years. A high-ranking police official,
speaking to our newscaster, have informed us that street gang influence has
continued to escalate as well."

"Tonight Police finally captured the bandits who, for the last four weeks,
have kept store clerks throughout the town nervous with an unprecedented
wave of robberies."

A vaguely-defined fingerlet of fog eases up off the river west of Spokane,
drifting slowly in the bitter cold air that lay just above the warmer water.
If fog were a sentient creature, it would have wisely reconsidered its move
from a sense of survival alone, for once it left its birthplace next to the
sluggishly-flowing water, it would be alone, adrift across the face of the
city and subject to the first beam of sunlight that found it, defenselessly
drifting across the cityscape.

However, with the sudden cold, in a matter of just a few hours, the foglet
unites with thousands of other fingerlets which, when thus amassed, covers
the entire river, from bank to bank, reaching from Grant County to Idaho in
one flowing continuous skein of gauzy moisture.

Nearing the city, and seizing the opportunity, the fog eagerly climbs up
over the bridge railing, onto the street and begins wandering around the
low-lying streets next to the river, peering into vacant shop windows,
poking vaporous fingers into the occasional open window it finds only to
pull back immediately when it feels the killing warmth inside.

Within a matter of no more time than it takes for a man to inhale
reflexively, pause and then exhale slowly, the fog begins climbing up off
the water in what appears to be an unending flood. Meteorologists, were they
watching, would have occluded the beauty of this feat by analysis, but no
one, save an old hobo dressed in a tattered overcoat, bears witness to the
event.

The temperature continues to drop just before dawn, and within minutes, the
sentient fog discovers that wherever it goes, whatever it touches, it leaves
a barely-visible trace of ice crystals. With a chortle of sheer glee, it
snuggles against the cold pavement, leaving a scattering of tiny diamonds
from Division Street to Maple, from the river which spawned it to the base
of the South Hill.

The old hobo sniffs, as if to sense the fog's sentience, ignoring the hoar
frost that mysteriously has formed in his ragged beard and on his tattered
clothing, and totters on up the avenue toward the homeless mission. This is
not a night fit for man nor beast, he sighs to no one in particular.

Still not so mature yet that it would become pompous and overbearing, the
fog plays gleefully with a vision of itself in the amber street lights along
Second Avenue, and dips briefly to equally caress the faces of the crack
dealers standing down the street from the bus depot and those of the tired
passengers just getting off the Eastbound bus from Seattle.

As the eastern sky begins to whisper to itself in false dawn, the night air
is full of fog-sentience. It smothers a cop car cruising aimlessly through
the city, taking the pulse of the night. For a time, it plays a childish
game of peek-a-boo with an entire doughnut store. One minute it was there,
the next minute it disappears behind the fog's hand. It toys, for a time,
with another homeless man who, tiring of the cold and damp beneath the
Monroe Street Bridge, climbs hopefully up toward the street, only to find
that fog, gleefully waiting to pounce upon him.

At the first bite of the early morning sunlight, the fog pauses, as if to
admire its handiwork throughout the town. Nearly every tree, bush and shrub
is handsomely dressed in silver ice crystals. The streets, themselves a
handsome piece of artistry, glisten in their new garments of ice. Everywhere
that the fog has meandered during its brief, sentient existence, there is
hoar frost coating every line, sign, shrub and cable that lay exposed to its
passage.

The sun continues to rise, and with its invisible, yet tactile pressure, the
fog begins to reunite with itself, as the solar heating will kill it
immediately, otherwise. It wisely begins the flow back toward the cool
waters of the river, but still, here and there, you can hear the
nearly-invisible screams of fog death, when independent little rivulets of
moisture have gotten themselves trapped in compromising situations.

Hurrying now, it dashes on invisible wings back the way it came, hovering in
fear along the riverbanks, awaiting the inevitable.

For a time, it came, was and is no more, as the morning sun slowly
eliminates the temperature variation that created it, gave it life and thus,
snuffed it out.

 * Origin: The Phoenix Echo/Used Kharma Lot Spokane WA (509)747-6207 (1:346/11)