Towering over everything was the Grey Wall. For a thousand generations the Grey Wall had separated the worlds, looming above each in silent threat of what lay on the other side.

Looming in the heart of the the unchosen.

No being had every crossed the Wall.

No human would try for the abject terror it brought the imagination. Even the birds, circling and wheeling about the azure sky would not cross the line of demarcation. The Wall meant safety and the Wall meant death.

Zenyassa did not care for safety and she did not fear death. She was Unchosen. What did it matter? What was life without the risk of losing it? She could not feel alive sitting before a thatch hut milling grain while the men of her village hunted wild yissana beasts. Their hunt brought them adventures and risk for the reward.

The yissana beasts were the prey of the mighty zarach. All teeth and claws, armored in leathery skin decorated with bright plumage. They hunted alone. Even the men in all their fervor feared to encounter on.

Zenyassa shuddered at the thought of the zarachs. She was brave, but to face one alone was a challenge akin to the Grey Wall itself. No, the Grey was a different challenge. With the zarach, it was life or death. With the Grey it was unknown. What happened on the other side was unknown and there existed fates worse than death.

Fear pervaded her, cutting off all other feelings as Zenyassa stood at the base of the Wall. Her hand grasped a protrusion, bulging from the wall’s unyielding flank. It felt cold even though the day was hot and the red sun burned and scorched from above. None knew of what material the Grey Wall was made from. It was just another of the mysteries.

Mysteries Zenyassa was going to solve.

Hand over hand she climbed.

Each precarious hand hold bringing her closer to destiny. The Unchosen who crossed the Grey.

#fiction

https://jtwannabewriter.blogspot.com

She runs against a grey wall. It is so tall that she cannot see the top of it. There are no doors, no openings, no ladders or ropes, and as far as she can see there are only solid grey bricks stretching into the thick fog. There has to be an end, or at least a curve, a place where the wall meets itself. It can’t go on forever, can it? She puts two hands out in front of her and lets them rest on the cool bricks, applying pressure. Nothing happens; of course it doesn’t. The girl slumps down against it and lets her chin rest on her arms, feeling tears begin to course down her hot cheeks. How long has she been running, she wonders as she tries to relax the tense muscles in her aching legs. What was she running for in the first place? She sits there and continues to cry, too exhausted to try standing up again, to keep on running, pressing against that wall. If only she would look in front of her now. If only she would try the other direction, push out of the fog, reach the goal that she was first trying to attain. But she sits there weeping by the grey wall, eyes lowered, mind numb, and she does not get up again.

Reds and blues,

greens and yellows,

so many colors in the world.

Yet I am grey.

I will always be grey,

a glitch in the beautiful world,

a grey wall

where there should be a brilliant field

of rainbow flowers

and green pastures.

But I am grey,

as grey as they come,

a storm cloud in a clear blue sky,

a slab of concrete in a forest,

so out of place.

I am a grey wall in the kingdom of colors,

and I will never be colorful.

I will never be a red rose,

or an orange sunset.

I will never be a yellow dandelion

made into a flower crown.

I will never be verdant grass,

or a sea of perfect blue.

I will never be a purple twilight,

with white stars shining like holes

in violet fabric.

I will never be a rainbow,

lighting up the sky after a storm.

I am a grey wall,

concrete scarring the beautiful world.

I can see the colors,

but I know for sure,

that I'll never be one of them.