TL;DR - Given a photo, and the rest is up to you. 1000 words max, post a link in the comments if you want.
The 2012 challenge for this included a photo of a crooked tree lost in the fog. Very enigmatic. I picked a similar photo and edited the story a bit. I wrote this originally on a very hot day, so the images of cool mist were a pleasant change. It’s short, at only 400 words, as it was mostly about the setting. And with a twist at the end, of course.
Honour
The morning mist clung to him, seeping through his wool uniform, chilling him to the bone. Once more, he stood alone in a muted, shadowy world, waiting.
He squinted across the field, and eventually picked out the old tree, more shadow than shape. The early hour, the isolated location, this thick mist, should give them all the privacy they needed for the ritual. This was how a proper gentleman defended his honour.
This time would be different. He breathed in a calming breath, and tried to focus. The damp air smelled of both life and death, of fresh grass, early morning flowers, and the musk of a passing deer, of leaf mold, smoke from the battlefield, and quickly buried bodies.
The distant sound of cannons was muffled, but reminded him that after this was over, he still had a regiment to lead--hopefully to victory, but likely to death once again.
He’d only been waiting a few minutes, but already the dampness was sneaking through his riding boots. No point in delaying the inevitable. He straightened his jacket and stepped forward. Within minutes, the wet grass had soaked his pant legs to the knees. Hopefully, after this was done, he’d be able to grab a few minutes in front of a hot fire, and maybe even a quick shot of whisky.
As he got closer to the tree, the shadows resolved into shapes—horses, his opponent, their seconds. He tensed as he approached the crowd, yesterday’s insult fresh in his mind, but maintained a calm resolve. His cousin stepped forward with the weapons, a matched brace of pistols, the silver filigree bright even in this light. He picked one, then waited while the seconds retired to load the guns. He hoped the powder was still dry, as last time he’d had a misfire.
The morning sun was just starting to burn through the mist as he took position, back to back to his opponent, both ram-rod straight, pistols cocked and ready. Their seconds slowly counted out the paces. “One, two, three . . .” At ten, he turned, aimed and fired. Damn. Another miss.
He saw a puff of smoke from his opponent’s pistol, then heard the pop. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, and blinked as a red mist formed in front of his eyes. He’d lost.
“Waiting to respawn – five, four, three . . .”
The field vanished.
He adjusted his headset and flexed the haptic gloves. “Squeeze the trigger,” he muttered. “Don’t pull.”
“... two, one, zero,”
The morning mist clung to him, seeping through his wool uniform, chilling him to the bone.