Should this letter find you, it’s probably too late for both of us. I’ve made a grave mistake in coming to the isles, and I fear they’re scheming to swallow me up. Most everyone is dead: Winters fell into a crevasse, and while we tried to reach him, we could find no bottom and lost others to the search; Dublin succumbed to poisoning from brushing against a local flower, which was as large as a man, with five red petals like an opening hand with a swirling amber and violet palm. The sickness was swift and brutal—I shan’t relive it through describing its course—but he passed on within the day. Chaucer drowned. The thing about Chaucer is that we weren’t near the coast, and by all accounts we found no stream nor lake nor inlet. He had been holding the rear of the line and suddenly disappeared. We searched for him for under an hour, finding him on the trail, soaked from boots to bones, with two lungs full of foamy, briny saltwater.
Notes: In this exercise, I followed a prompt to write a letter from one fictional character to another.