I jogged through the woods, hurrying to get home before dark fell. I had been out deep in the green belt behind my house when it started to mist up. The fog had rolled in low to the ground, seeming to rise out of the bowels of the earth in a thick, cloaking mist. Rising up in fat, thick, fingers coming up from a lower realm.
I hurried along, the trees hiding in the soupy air until I was close enough so that they could lunge out and grab at me. Rocks echoed down the canyon as I disturbed them, echoing as they descended deeper and deeper, clanging off the rocky outcrops like chalk bouncing off a black board. I stopped—listening. I heard something. I knew I did— but what? Then— out of the chokingly thick fog— it came. A hand with no owner, a wrist with no arm.
I proceeded to bolt

Off the cliff

I hate gravity.
Do you know how cold the river I fell into was? You don’t. Because, if you’re reading this, you are not the squirrel meat man, who had been thrown into the tundra of a stream by an angry tree hugger. The said tree hugger had been close friends with a squirrel, who being rather plump, and rather dumb, had been an ideal target for my fellow swimmer.
Isn’t this story so scary? You can tell at what point I was in the story I stopped to watch SNL videos on you tube. I may never be the same.
If you can still remember the first sentence of the last paragraph, I’ll answer my rhetorical question. A: as cold as a metal shirt in Antarctica. That is if there even is such a thing a a metal shirt.
I’m really off topic, so I’ll come back next week with the rest of the story.

Or maybe I’ll leave you hanging like I did with the cloud 9 story.

I really should finish that.