Snow Falling In Colours

Snow Falling In Colours

Snow Falling In Colours

Looking out from the cliff top the day after the dark event, the search for something to cling to goes on. The answer was there yesterday, does it still remain, through all the destruction that rained down? Belief in something small is often the biggest tool to carry and while others succumb to the night that falls in the middle of the day, hidden high at the top of the cliff could be the one thing that everyone is looking for.

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The heavy vermillion brushstrokes streak across the canvas of the morning sky like a scathing wound, hovering like elegant echoes from the battle of yesterday. Away on the horizon sits hills, too distant to be comprehended in size as they lay idling under the rising sun, waiting patiently in shadows formed by the low sitting clouds. Warm winds whisper across the barren plains below, collecting dark ash along for the journey across an earth that never stands still.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday everything stood still and the sun never got to shine. The Dark Day descended upon us and stole away our hours.

Wind, colder with elevation, gently ruffles a long black coat about my legs. It’s a wind that tousles my unkempt black hair and stings at my tired eyes. The new light almost burning through the fragility of my corneas.

From the edge of the cliff, I stare across into the eastern sky of blood, aware that at my feet a cavernous drop to rocky wastelands beckons. But I’m not here for the beauty of the new day. Neither am I here to let the rocks below devour me. I’m here because yesterday morning, when the sun was high, I found Hope up here amongst the isolation. I am back to check that Hope never died in yesterday’s gloom.

Staring at the hills today they look different. I wonder if maybe after the horrors of yesterday, they are now not as they first appear. Are they blacker in their shadow? Have they grown? If only I could get closer to them in order confirm new thoughts abound in my head. Thoughts that I can’t push away. Sinister ideas that perhaps the hills are hiding in a veil of shadow because they are no longer made of the earth, but instead of those that dwelt upon its surface. What if I were to fly from this cliff over to those hills? Would I find them to be not soil and rock and moss, but instead, bodies of the deceased, piled upon one another? Thousands upon thousands of decaying remnants of human bodies forming new hills upon the scarred earth.

Is that why the sky has turned red this morning? Has the sky now been forever stained by the blood of the bodies in those hills? The bodies of the fallen masses that lay down at the end of the world when the Dark Day came and prematurely stole away the townsfolk. Maybe the scarlet sky is a sign that we have been judged. Maybe too the rivers will run red when the autumnal rains come from these clouds, and perhaps crystals of crimson will fall instead when the winter follows on from that. When the snow falls in colours other than pristine white, we will remember the coming of the Dark Day.

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