Gray

By Lynnette Horn

Gray is the color of ashes, spewing from huge chimneys, blotting out the sun. It fills the air so thick we cannot avoid sucking its death into our lungs. The burnt remains of our loved ones cover the fields to fertilize our toil. A fare, ruby-faced nation eats our bones.

Gray is the color of decaying flesh stretched across emaciated bodies of death. Heaped into piles of wasted carnage, it waits for final rest. We weep over the mass graves we are forced to dig for them. We weep in shame, glad that our bodies, though aching and weakened, are not the ones beneath our shoveled dirt. We are the walking dead.

Gray is the color of ghostly haunts that torment my nights with dreams of the past. A finger juts from an outstretched arm. Pairs of downcast eyes avert my pleas. Trusted friends and neighbors watch but refuse to see. Snuggled in their cozy homes, do they think of me? No, I am but a memory faded gray, swept under the rug with the rest of the dust.

Gray is the color of betrayal.

(Won first place and was published in the Fall '01 edition of Flashquake.)