The future is bleak, fantastical, and full of explosions
It is a grey day.What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving? Away from all suns? Are we not plunging continually? Are we not straying as through an infinite nothing? Has it not become colder? Is not night continually closing in on us? Do we not feel the breath of empty space? —Friedrich Nietzsche
Weak winter sunlight slants through a city of concrete and glass—grey sky shimmers, reflected in the windows of the tall grey buildings. Grey clouds cast grey shadows on the grey streets below. The whole world is grey—and cold. It is always winter now, and the sun's strength seems less with each passing month.
People trudge, grey-suited, down the streets and through the skyways of this city. Their heads are bowed, their eyes no longer bright. They are weary, their faces dulled by gloom, paled by lack of sunlight, weathered by the harsh, salty air of this grey, endless winter.
Salt!—man's last defense against the elements, his semblence of control over the ice and snow that threatens to engulf the world. It is scattered on the sidewalks, poured into the streets. Its residue kills the last of the plants and trees and stains the city—grey.
Grey, the equaliser, the middle ground, the weak, chilling place where all colors now meet. The world is dull, frozen—devoid of contrast, hue, and saturation. Blacks faded, whites sullied, colors all drained away. There is no brightness, no darkness here, just cold and endless... grey. The city moves slowly, trudging on toward quiet, frozen, whimpering apocalypse.
A figure slips quietly through the crowd.
—A look!
A glance, a motion—
Against the dull flow of people, two feet pound, running hard away, hitting the grey concrete in a ragged, pattering chorus. Faces grey, the businessmen shuffle through the cold—too weary to wonder at the racing aberration, too slow to question why anyone is running, too tired to notice anything unusual at all...
—A BOOM!
A blast, a shattering—
A wave of heat, a rain of glass, a thundering of rubble. Voices scream.
Thick columns of oily smoke plume up, shading the city and darkening the sky. People turn—jolted out of their mindless reverie,
And underneath the clouds of dark grey smoke, the city blooms orange.
Comments
Also, I will carry "chromoterrorism" to my grave. Thank you for that word.
Bonus points for chromoterrorism as well.
I'll PM you my story at some point in the future. How's that?
I posted a sound file of myself reading an earlier draft of the story. You can listen to it if you want.
Love, Sara