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Weekly Contest #232
The Hooded Man I tried talking to the hooded man once, many cycles ago when he came to replenish my wood supply. He always comes from behind, slow and icy as a glacier, silent as the Mariana Trench. That day, I felt his merciless chill slink up beside me. “Why am I here?” I asked him, gazing at his misty figure. His cloak was even blacker than the sea of darkness that surrounded us. Where his face should be was only a clouded opening, its mist opaque but tantalizingly fluid. Behind the cloud of his face I sensed the answer to my question. ...
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