Creative Writing: The Color Of Gray

The first time I ever saw it I was sixteen years old, I was in my backyard relaxing in the embrace of the blades of grass. My body splayed out against the greenery, eyes closed and head tilted up; almost as if I was trying to meet the sky for a kiss. The fresh smell of a renewed mother nature drifted lazily as I inhaled; and the low monotone of hums and buzzes were faintly heard in the cozy spring afternoon.

Thump!

The sound came from the right of me. I turned on my side and saw that about ten feet away from me was a small bird; it originally had pure white feathers—now stained in blood—and looked completely mauled. Its little chest moved with the vigor of a child that's been playing for hours nonstop while feathers lay scattered around its frail broken

It started with my hands; replacing the usual lightly tanned skin was a light grey, as if I in was a scene from a movie that was decided to be vintage instead of the newest color restoration and they were now erasing all color. My eyes drifted to the ground, the green grass with patches of brown was turning grey too. The color looked like it was melting from the tips and cascading down, and then seeping into the soil. I looked up and the blues skies were now bleeding grey, like how water droplets slide down walls. I turned in every direction, every angle I possibly could and saw only white, greys and black. I didn’t even notice I was squeezing the poor bird in my now clenched hands until it squawked in pain. My eyes widened and I looked down to see what I think was blood–a liquid dark grey colour–dressed on my hands and gushing out of his wounds. The fine black lines were still there too, advancing further on the bird and increasing their pace whilst wrapping the bird into their cocoon of black lines. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the reflection of what the scene looks like and turned to face the alien world with the bird still in my