"The Grey" by DW Milton

I was 10 years old the day the grey clouds came. It was rare that the endless blue desert sky saw that much moisture. Typically, the sun shone over 300 days a year; but that was a long time ago.

“Look,” my mother pointed, “The clouds are kissing the mountains.”

My mother thought it was sweet, so near Valentine’s Day.

But the clouds never went away, and it wasn’t moisture that filled them. It was something else.

At first, the clouds were billowy and fluffy, like a child’s stuffed toy lamb, a flock making its way down the mountainside to play. We never suspected what it really was or what we would become. Who knew the clouds were its disguise. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. A predator that had caught the scent of its prey.

I can’t remember what the peaks of the mountains look like now. Too many years have passed.

The grey clouds moved in, carried on the wind. We thought the wind would blow the clouds away, but alas, the weather had other plans. Into the valley, the clouds came only to transform. Near the ground, they became an evil grey mist that slithered and gathered and held until everything blurred, lost its shape and then disappeared from view. Everything was still there but the fog had swallowed it. A grey blanket smothered us all.

One day, the sun ceased to shine. We were blind. Unable to see, life stopped; no one could drive. Planes could not fly. Ships could not steer.

Our homes were the only safe place, for a while. Then the grey fog stole in—under  doors, through cracks, clinging to us like a disease. Finally, one morning we woke from a long night, unable to see our hands in front of our faces.

No one knows why the sky fell. Perhaps it was because of our inability to care for our aging Mother Earth or resolve our petty human squabbles, which quickly withered in comparison to the power of the clouds.

Nevertheless, for now, the Grey rules us all. 

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DW Milton is a pen name. The author has a day job but would rather be writing speculative fiction. ​

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