All the Colors of the Dark

by Chris Whitaker

Three weeks into three months as winter undressed Monta Clare, tipping its way down the bare hillside, the naked arms of trees knitting a white sky without break.

He saw ice and snow fall like ash from a white fire. Buildings so tall they leaned toward him. Refracted lights and glass and steel and steam rising from grates. She painted it all with her words, and he could feel the smoldering of that energy as it smoked from Wall Street and dazzled on Broadway. Voices and engines, the rustle of newspapers.

She was beautiful and hateful, thunderclouds and summer rain.

Normal lives flickered like fireflies, so luminous he wanted to reach out and hold on to them awhile.