Blue

The eyes are blue, speckled with black. They shine eerily bright in the fading light, twin pools of arctic water in a face ice-white. The lips, slightly parted, are painted the same colour as the road, concealing the paleness underneath. The clothes are torn and scorched, gradually turning grey by the gently falling ash that dances and twirls like burnt snowflakes to the eagerly awaiting ground. The whisper of the wind sighing through the streets is barely audible over the ringing in their ears. Every step crunches and every crunch sounds like a slowly burning fire that crackled and consumed and spread instantly and effortlessly. Buildings once white are blackened, cars red and blue turned into hollow husks, burning carcasses of giant beasts, skeletons of what was. The air feels warm and the ground feels warmer, even through rubber-soled shoes. Everything tastes faintly of screaming and despair and breathing through your nose doesn’t help. There were clouds, but they have since fled, choosing to spend their vigil watching over someplace less dismal. In their absence the heavens are empty but for the ash, not even the sun to be seen. The sky is blue, speckled with black.