Writing Prompt

The clocks tick. The violins sing.

The leaves dance, the trees sway.

The sky is gray, the clouds white, the hope dark.

It’s time, time for the end.

We all knew since it’s start, but as time passed we shoved it in the back of our minds.

Collecting dust until a sound blew it away.

Static, screams, and the brush of danger.

The chances were low, but still there.

Our positivity and nonchalance were high, but not high enough.

Everyone remembered the night when the radio turned on, in the black and gray that we call dusk, announcing the date that it will brush by our small achromatic, dull world.

Today was the day, the day we bit our nails thinking about.

You could see the dread. Hell, you could’ve touched it.

Men were in bars drinking away like no tomorrow, sharing their stories and secrets to strangers. Making what would be their last friend.

Women were comforting their children, who were tearing up with anxiety. Fearful of the dark.

Elderly were strolling, looking up at the sky, looking back around at the sight of anxiety and nature. Reflecting upon their lives, wondering what could be but would never be and how much they lived.

Everyone preparing in their own way. To celebrate tomorrow, to die, to accept, who knows.

But we all snapped our heads up, looking up at the sky when we heard a shrill shriek purely mechanical and manmade.

Not a meteor, not the devil, not even goddamn aliens.

It was a fucking nuke.

An intimidating gray base with a black tip.

Король, a Tsar Bomba, King of All Bombs.

It towered over the crowds, engulfing us in the darkness that we were used to.

The shriek rung in our ears, a reminder that our time was up, the last grain of sand fell to the bottom.

We all saw the light, a flash of heat vaporizing us all before anyone could shed a tear.

Life’s a bitch, but dying in a dull world without knowing what your childrens eye color are is a motherfucker.

Outside Home lies a world within reach. I visit sometimes. Though its bright, cheery colors turn my stomach. The sun is warm, yet I long for the comfort of the cold. People smile an empty smile. A mask contorted of hidden suffering amongst its victims. Normal is normal. To ask for help is illogical, yet invisible chains hold me back, just long enough to gasp for innocent breath. Twisted words and dark secrets lay in locked abyss’. I return Home embraced in continual fury of fists, to linger in Home’s presence is a death wish. Death is my friend, my one comfort.

James hadn’t realized his adopted sister’s mind was so…sad. There was gray, gray, and more gray. He found her sitting in the middle, legs pressed against her chest. All the color she ones had had been drained.

“Juno?” He asked, standing behind her. There was no answer, only quiet sobbing.

“Juno…”

Then, a memory appeared in the air. It should have been a happy one…but she seamed to morn it.

“I’m going to get you!” A girl shouted, chasing two year old Juno around a yard. It seamed to be her older sister. Her REAL family.

“Mian!” Another woman called from a. Window. “Mian, Juno, dinner is almost ready!”

Little Juno giggled as Mian caught her, spun her around, and tickled her. When Mian put her down, she dashed toward the house through trees, Mian close behind. But when Juno finally stopped, Mian wasn’t behind her anymore. Juno looked confused.

“Mi Mi?” She asked, voice seraphic.

“JUNIE!” The woman’s voice from before called out.

“Oh my baby!” She said, coming into view.

“Ma! Where Mi Mi?” Juno asked, tilting her head. The mother’s eyes filled with tears, a distant scream echoing through the forest.

“Mi Mi isn’t coming home…” the woman brushed a hand across Juno’s face.

“And neither are you..” a boy appeared then. James recognized him from the funeral two years ago. Sam, Juno’s real big brother

“Sam, take her as far away as you can. Don’t reveal anything about us until the time is right. Wait until 16 to tell her what she is.”

Sam nodded, lifting Juno up.

The memory skipped forward to Juno on her hands and knees. Her black dress billowing in the wind, rain pounding around her. She had been 14 when Sam was murdered.

James had spent the two years she had been in his house hating her, and for what? If he had known this was what she was battling all this time, he would have made a bigger effort to be a better brother. He wished he could go back, wished he could take back every word he had ever said. Now he understood that her silence was a cry for help. each time she looked at him with expectant, pleading eyes, she was trying to find a reason to keep living.

The gray around them darkened until he could see nothing.

(Vocab word: Seraphic. Meaning: Angelic, sweet.)

The sky hanging above is a sort of toneless gray, like at the bottom of a drain when all that’s been poured down it is gravel. It isn’t the clean kind of gray, that of stone or the back of the eyelid during the night. It is incessantly plain, the tint of a dirty mirror. It is not the color a sky should be.

This is what people know, but very few actually remember what the sky is meant to look like. It happened so long ago; the loss. When first the trees had gone gray, then the oceans below and the mountains above, then the very people who inhabited the world. Then, of course, the sky.

But it has been so long now. And so very few who were here before are still here after.

There is one, however, who carries with her not her own memories of the time before the loss, for she is far too young to have been alive back then, but the memories of her mother, and her mother before that, and her mother before that. Her ancestors who lived during the loss and who have, through careful whispers and meticulous descriptions, passed everything they knew down to her.

It lives within her, all the knowledge of the past. It stews and it grows and it never hungers less.

It is a difficult thing, to describe colors to one who has never seen them. But it has been done before, only through the most painstaking detail, for nothing so delicate can afford to be nebulous. Only through the girl’s tenuous bloodline down generation by generation. Through difficult work, the aching tongues of her ancestors, the girl has become as familiar to the lost colors as to an old friend.

Blue, they told her, like the chill of ice on her skin, the melancholy lap of waves against her ankles at the beach.

Green, they murmured, like the rustling of leaves, or the harmony in finding someone who understand you.

Golden, they whispered, like the warmth of the sun during the summer, like the taste of apples in the fall.

Red, they chanted, like what you feel when you are the most angry you’ve ever been. Or the most in love.

On and on and on they would go, until the girl felt she had every color printed under her skin, beneath the very marrow of her bones. But that is no longer enough for her. It is no longer enough to allow the knowledge to endlessly hunger within her. No, the girl is quite frankly exhausted of harboring the craving that will never know satisfaction. Too much like being a child, and being unable to reach her favorite toy high upon a shelf beyond her reach.

No, today she works.

It starts in her garage. It starts with the petal of a flower. The flower is a delphinium, store bought and dehydrated, for she has not cared to place it in water. It does not matter. She only needs one petal.

She plucks the petal and discards the rest of the thing. From there it is only instinct.

She holds the petal in her hands and into it channels every word of her family and her family past—every golden whisper and fluttering green murmur, every moment of peaceful blue, every speck of love and hatred she’s felt in her life. She breathes in oxygen and breathes out distinction. The pump of her blood beats only in certainty, her heart pounds not for her survival but to produce the promise of recovery.

A gain, not a loss.

When she is done, and her instinct worn out, she opens her eyes. Then she opens her hands. Then she smiles.

She hears the voices of her ancestors, and they chatter in the background of her mind.

The petal is the chilly touch of ice, and the calm wisdom of the sea as it drags in and out forever. It is the depth of the ocean. It is not red, but it is love like the girl has never seen before.

Blue.

I awake desperate for breath, grappling for it in ugly, unmeasurable bursts. I become vaguely aware of a dimly lit room, a grotesquely plain one, with the singular characteristic of being colourless. A glance to the ceiling is all I need to know there is no light. Instead- a man. Objectively handsome and broad shouldered. Tall, yet I cannot be certain. He should be eye level with me but he is not. He is dangling messily, and from the ceiling, the only dash of colour in the room is the blood that pours down his sides. His eyes, bleeding, bloodshot and haunted- are still open. I cannot gather the strength to shut them and so I don’t. I don’t fight the inability to move, nor do I dislike it. I give into it for lack of reason to do otherwise. I’m heavy and weak and tired. Fatigue bounds me to the floor like a sadist with unmatched power (though I suppose in this case it’s masochistic rather than sadistic.)

The pain is addictive yet I force my eyes from his pleading face and throw them to the room. I’m on the floor, curled up in a ball. This room- it belongs to a hospital. Or an institution of sorts. The small candle in the corner reflects off the tell-tale white walls, making for an eerie glow. There are no windows. Thank god. Just a small door- locked from the inside.

My nose flares at the smell of sterilisation and blood. Such a familiar scent, and I thank it for reminding me I live. I live and I exist.

I look around again, and my eyes, they meet his. Him. His face- forever frozen in a look of agony- watches me as I walk the length of the room.

It is a small room. No more than 6 meters in length yet somehow it still feels as though it takes an eternity to cross. An eternity; infinite or unending time. The amount of time Lee will spend wherever he is now. Who is Lee? This man. This is Lee. He is familiar. I glance at his mangled corpse. Lee. I know him but I do not remember him. It is still coming back to me. Who killed him? Will I learn that too?

I decide to lay him down as seeing him every direction I look is just becoming irritating. As I slump his lifeless body, I notice his clothes more clearly. He wears a previously white jacket, thin and harsh, with a badge clipped to it. ‘Lee Smith’ it reads. Yes. This man is indeed Lee. I turn away as soon as he is on the ground. My feelings of resentment are sickening. How can I hate a dead man, it was not his fault he was killed. I should figure this out. But first, I need to rest. My body is frigid cold and I can hardly breath. I try to lie down on my back to rest, but instead I feel a sharp jabbing pain. I feel around and pull out a small injection of sorts. I cannot sleep now. I am too petrified of what will happen to me if I do. I will leave this room. I will find help. I will forget this ever happened.

I walk over to the door and unlock it. And then it hits me. The door is locked. From the inside. Such a simple thing, so easy to overlook. Yet, it terrifies me. The murderer is in the room. He or she is in the room with me. What if they try to kill me? I doubt that though, as they haven’t yet. Why would they wait?

Everywhere I look now everything looks different. The bed looks like a hiding place. The rope he was hung by now looks like evidence. This is a crime. A murder. The word tastes bitter in my mouth. Bitter yet familiar. Too familiar.

Another memory comes flooding back. Me, just sitting. On the bed. Staring at the wall. Counting the seconds as they pass. Then Lee walks in. I turn to face him. He locks the door behind him. I exit my haze of memories and return to the real world. I now know the name of this place. Danvers State Mental Asylum. But I am not mad? I do not feel a madman. But perhaps that is a sign of madness; The refusal to admit to it?

I need to get some rest but the injection comes back to me. Why was I injected in the first place? I grab it and begin to inspect it. ‘Amnesiatic Fluid.’ Amnesia. My Mother had that. What was it? Something to do with the brain. Memory, that’s it. It’s a memory loss injection. That’s why I do not remember anything. But the question still persists. Why was I injected in the first place?

I drop it. That’s the least of my worries. I am still in the room with a murderer. And so I sit. And I wait. And I hope that more comes back to me. So I wait some more. And then it comes.

James Morgan, my name is James Morgan.

I shake it off. The name gives me chills. I scan the room once more. A desk. I hadn’t noticed that before. Was it always there? It is metal, and therefore numbingly cold. I withdraw my hand quickly; it burns. It’s small and flimsy, with only a single drawer. I wrench it open and inside find merely a few slips of paper. Disappointing. One is simply a few illegible lines but the other one grabs my eye. It’s a letter. To James. Me, I suppose.

‘Dear James, I tried to get you out of there but I didn’t succeed. They say the consequences need to be severe. They say murder is unforgivable. I just want you to know the family forgave you.”

I can’t read anymore.

My face is cold,

I don’t see anything,

My vision is blurred with tears,

I am not only mad,

But also a murderer,

And I think,

I think that I killed Lee.

Actually,

I don’t think;

I know.

……

It is said that people who see no color at all are those who wished never saw their soulmates those who wished never saw the truth behind the colorless world that they lived in. Some say that the colors are a curse put on them before the last war… a war that took away people’s sense of sight thus making them see all in black and white even though these are still colors, they see no color at all even if they try to get some surgery to repair the damage it will cost more damage as doctors are unable to see the color of the eyes and so on. Perhaps is best if people never try to find a cure for this curse.

Drip, drip, drip. Click, click, click. Always the same, always the same. I believe I may be going insane. Always the same in this room. Except when I get my food. Maybe I’ll get a call today. Or tomorrow, it doesn’t matter either way. So fun to hit the padded walls. I run and play like it’s nothing at all. Nothing but the nothingness of the nothing inside. No worries to worry about on this carefree joyride. But I hate this place of nothing. I want to have everything. I wish the world still accepted me. I wish that my mind would let me be free. But I’m trapped inside it, so it won’t be soon. Because I’ll always be caged in my white room.

Six white walls, that is all I see everyday. White walls white food white clothed people wearing white masks and hats so I can’t see their faces. No mirrors and no reason to look anywhere except the walls so no colour left in my life, in my world. They said I was here because I was crazy but the lack of colour was what was driving me crazy.

Everything was gray. Blacks and whites. No color in sight.

Everything was so bleak, including the people. It was the same conversations everyday, no emotion, compassion, or any sweet thing.

Day in and day out all I saw were the neutral expressions of my family, friends, and community.

No one ever smiled or laughed or hugged or blushed. Everything was so bleak.

Until…

Until I found the red roses. A red so bright in a world of gray. I had never seen color before, all I knew is that things were supposed to have it.

I knew what they would do if there was color in this world… and if someone saw it.

Last time this happened it was a daisy that shone pale yellow. A couple people saw it and we never heard from them again.

The next day I ventured back to the spot where my red roses were hiding.

I decided to take them.

I plucked my red roses from the bushes and stuffed them under my jacket. Any pop of color was 100% visible in the endless sea of gray.

I walked home, as unsuspecting as I could, and placed the flowers on my nightstand. My parents wouldn’t be home for a while so I had time to figure out what to do with my red roses.

I decided to get a plant pot from the store and put them in there, then stuffing them under my bed and pulling my covers over them.

No one would ever know…

“Whoa.”

Garrett’s eyes were fixed on the small, round window at the other side of the rec hall. I followed his gaze.

“Whoa,” I echoed. I squinted my eyes. “Am I seeing that right?”

I heard a snort to my right. “What, is this your first landing? Come on, it’s your turn. Just fold already.” Yasinski gestured at the card game on the table between him, Garrett, and me. Garrett looked absentmindedly at the game, then back at the window. Without a word, he got up and moved toward the window. He had left his cards face up on the table. A star and four rings. Yasinski looked at him incredulously.

“What the hell, man!” He shoved his chair away and followed Garrett, who had only made it a couple paces. He grabbed his shoulder roughly. The chatter at nearby tables quieted, and eyes had fixed on them tensely. Several off-duty cadets looked ready to jump in if something were to start. It wouldn’t be the first time with them. I rolled my eyes.

“Yasinski, it’s fine, let’s just start another round - “ I started.

“You’re just saying that because you had shit cards,” Yasinski shot back at me. My eyes flicked to my hand. He had a point.

“No, Garrett here had to ruin the game over a fucking planet. Every planet’s weird looking, dude. Get over -“

Garrett turned to Yasinski and brushed his hand off easily.

“There’s no color,” he said quietly.

“What?”

He grabbed Yasinski’s by the face the way a mother scolds a toddler. I sucked in a breath - Yasinski was a head shorter and a fair bit skinnier than Garrett, and he didn’t like being reminded of it - but before Yasinski could protest, Garret had swiveled his crewmate’s head so he was directly facing the window

“Just look.”

Yasinski swatted Garret’s hand away, but he did look. And then, miraculously, he was silent a moment. All the fight seemed to rush out of him as quickly as it had flared up as he stared through that tiny hole in the wall, warped by translucent plexifiber strong enough to withstand 100Gs. Light gasps and exclamations spread throughout the rec hall as people followed Yasinski’s gaze. Some looked back to Yasinski, questioningly. I did too. He may be a hothead, but Yasinski was no idiot. Rumor had it that he scored higher on the math portion of the admission exam than Hallow had. Certainly higher than I had. I cringed inwardly as the image of Hallow’s disapproving face swam up in my mind unbidden, fluorescent lights turning his white hair blue as he shook his head. I shoved the memory back down and focused back on Yasinski.

Finally, he scowled, rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

“Maybe it’s just really bright,” Anders offered, seated two tables over. The broad-shouldered maintenance chief was sipping a drink across from Park, the resident doctor. If you handed Anders a gadget from another planet, he could fix it by tomorrow morning. But the science? People said he was a waiver recruit whose physical test and specialized skills made up for dismal exam scores. “It’s got to be - I mean, maybe it’s just… overexposed, like a photo, so everything just looks kind of black and white like that,” he said slowly. “Yeah,” he said, more assuredly now. “I mean, this sun is damn close, right? And if the atmosphere is too thin to reflect light particles back at us…”

There was silence for a moment, and then -

“Then it would be dark.” Callende, a young cadet a few tables over, had spoken up. Someone snorted. A subtle red crept up Anders’ neck and cheeks as he slumped back in his chair. “Just a theory,” he muttered.

Yasinski began speaking to himself again. It was it all took to regain the room’s attention.

“Any light reflected is reflected on the electromagnetic spectrum, and that spectrum emits color. A world without color would simply be a world with equal amounts of every color,” he said softly, and then looked up, as if just now processing what he had said. The room stared back at him.

“So, every single thing on that planet is the same exact mix of every color?” Callende asked.

Yoseph twitched his head. “More like, every single thing is reflecting back every single color on the spectrum.”

The room was collectively silent for a moment.

“Seems impossible,” Garret said.

“And yet…” I responded. I wasn’t sure what I had meant to say after that. I looked back out the window again.

Beyond it lay a truly greyscale world.