by David Henson
The sky reddens. A dust cloud? Water vapor? We assume the blue will return, but the red persists, leaching to all horizons. Soon, even the trees and grass turn the color of blood. People at the farmers’ market confuse Granny Smiths with beefeaters. Blueberries become the color of cherries. Roses deepen in hue, and crimson overwhelms the daisies. The cardinals at our feeders appear befuddled. It seems everything natural becomes unnatural. Then we hear the sirens. We never thought it would happen here. Red is the color of flashing lights. Red is the color of our anger. Will we ever see blue again?
David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions and has appeared in various journals including Pithead Chapel, Gone Lawn, Moonpark Review, Literally Stories, and Fiction on the Web. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8.