Gray

In a dreamy state I stumbled barefoot through heavy roots and rope-like vines. When my mangled feet met sweet grass, the sun rose above and shown on the world as it was. My fingers, they drifted submissively to my forehead in salute formation, sheltering my eyes from the floating spotlight.

I had not given much thought to my existence, but I supposed in that moment that fingers were meant to be placed just so; that my face had been molded to fit its own defense. I understand simplicity, and also that it scarcely exists�"in my own mind, or otherwise. But here, it hardly matters what one thinks. (Complexity is a rare disease contracted by creatures of thought.)

A few steps north sat a teacup, snuggled quite nicely into the fine green hands of the earth. I pressed it to my mouth, mimicking the actions I associated with such an ordinary object, and indifferently admired the tip of my nose.

How silly, a teacup; I almost felt sorry for it. Objects of mediocrity rarely find their place in settings that effortlessly command eloquence. I did, however apathetically, come to discover that my reflection had not been altered by my transportation. Now I understand the teacup’s purpose.

The handle and rim had been chipped and I rubbed my finger across the jagged imperfections to force myself to feel the irrefutable sting of monotony.

Simultaneously, I refused to believe that I was anything less than extraordinary, and assured myself I had lived a successful, busy life. (Tropical vacations, 5 bedroom home, mother of 2, avid church-goer.)

It burned, so I dropped it to the ground and waited to see it shatter. The intricate Chinese designs disintegrated to a pile of dust equivalent to its original size, and the grass around it faded gray. It didn't end there. I stepped backward, fearing the salvation of my vibrancy. The droning virus spread quickly and violently, infecting the liveliness that had previously subsisted.

How could I be surprised that my being had tainted perfection? Had I expected to thrive in faultless precision?

I sped back the way I had entered, the pigment absorbing ailment close behind. The path had transformed. The thick, monstrous vines ate at my flesh, and tangled my limbs; they tightened.

While I suffocated and thrashed, I was aware that my fighting wasn’t for my life, but for a claim at excellence; for a pleasant sentence or two concluding my journey on a stone in some insignificant patch of weeds.

As I drew in my last breaths, arms still gripping vines that would never relent, the gray consumed me. I went cold, and I was okay. Dying, absolutely lifeless, but okay.

This was hardly anything new; I had always been dead (inside). Always been a shade of gray.

Reviews

[Tim Schultz]

You always have done well with visualizations. For some reason, this really reminded me of a hybrid between Alice in Wonderland and Jumanji. It was cool that you separated the actions and the thoughts the way you did (one was personal, the other felt as if it was an out-of-body experience).

Good job, Ms. Watterson.