Gray Walls Novels & Stories

I'd determined that werewolf towns were full of sick monsters who were completely okay with abducting innocent people… and probably murdering them, too. The not-football team stopped in front of a row of townhouses and set me down, keeping a hand on my arm. In another situation, I would've thought the townhouses looked nice, maybe even cute. They were little two-story townhomes covered in siding, all of them painted differently with different accent colors and such, but all in the same shades of dove gray, dark green, and soft white. They walked as a group to the house at the end of the row. It was mainly gray, with white as a secondary color and only hints of green. I liked the color combin

I respond. He looks at his phone “Hmm, let’s see. It says if your favorite color is grey, it’s because you don’t like attracting attention to yourself. You choose neutral colors to blend in. Grey can indicate a balanced, intelligent personality who is a good problem solver. In some cases, grey is associated with technology, social media, and modern solutions.” He looks up at me. “So that means you hate attracting attention, you’re smart and love technology?” It sounds like he’s asking me. I shrug my shoulders. “I guess that is true. I do tend to avoid attracting attention to myself unless I’m on the runway… Let’s see I have a degree in web design so that does mean technology. I don’t believe

❦•: ZARA :•❦ His eyes were the colour of a storm cloud. A very dark and angry storm cloud. They were the most beautiful shade of dark grey I’d ever seen. Dark and piercing, like they could see through your soul. The subtle glow caught in his eyes gave depth to those beautiful charcoal grey, stealing every single breath from deep within my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. Yet, I couldn’t look away.

Grey walls. Grey carpet. Grey desk top. Everywhere I look in my office there's grey. Well it's not so much an office as a cubical. Okay fine, it's a cubical. Why are cubical farms so gloomy? If they force employees to work on Saturdays, the least they could do is add a little color. It's depressing.

It is afraid, and I too become afraid of it. The structure's details come into focus as we drive up the long driveway. The walls are made of grey stone, shaded gargoyles peer down from each cornice and ledge, and black vines scale the vertical sides, void of all life. As we park out the front, a servant greets us with thin lips and takes our car around the back.

Something worse. He stands roughly two inches taller than me. His black hair is combed back. Slick with gel. His color scheme is black and white. Like a panda. But nothing like said animal. He walks with vigor and a domineering prowess. But what kicks everything into limbo is his face. It sharp. Too sharp. It seems to be made of porcelain. Almost as white as my skin. But something else. Like it's been bleached. Bleached with so many chemicals it has no hope of returning to any healthy color. His eyes are grey. Almost like storm clouds. No. Nothing like storm clouds. I know that color too well. It can only be described in my words as the color of dead elephant skin.

Just earlier, I was crying with my heart out in my bedroom, Claire reminded me of my mission and what I must do once more before leaving our apartment. “Andromeda? Are you okay?” his big hands landed on my cheeks, worry was etched on his handsome face. I hope that the tear marks were fully erased with the water I used to splash my face. Our world that was painted with different colors, with rainbows, turned into a monotonous color--blacks and grays. But despite that, I still love it. After all, gray is the color of his eyes. How can I not love every part that makes him?

She frowned, and put her head down on the table, and closed her eyes for a moment. Dimitri and Pete walked through the door, Pete went to work on the soup, Ivan whispered to Dimitri about her arms. He looked over but said nothing. Pete cleared this throat, and Jade looked up. Her eyes a pale gray, almost white startled him he dropped the bowl of soup shattering the bowl when it hit the ground. He broke his stare, and grabbed a cloth, “My apologies you're eyes aren't as gray as they used to be. It’s almost a pale white,” he whispered.

magic. The room was vast, but it felt cozy. The walls weren't just painted; they were a mural. It was a forest scene—soft, whimsical trees in shades of cream, sage, and the palest blush pink. But as you looked closer, you realized the details: the trees were the ancient oaks from the Grayson Manor grounds. The skyline in the distance wasn't a fairy tale castle; it was the New York City skyline, painted in gold leaf. It was a bridge between his past and our present.

It looked like heaven to me. “What you think?” Juan asked, standing with his hands on his hips in the living room, admiring his work. “I think it’s amazing,” I said with a nod. The walls were a neutral gray color in the living room and office. The kitchen was a yellowish color, but not that annoying cheery, blinding color, and as I wandered down the hallway, I noticed the gray continued until the bedroom, which was more of a steel gray color. “I love it!”