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to tell, but
until this past year, I never gave any consideration to the length.
And when I started putting my stories out there for others to
read, they tended to naturally run to about the length of a novel.
So last year, when the opportunity came along to write a
Silo Saga story set in Hugh Howey’s world of Wool , my
initial plan was to again write a story that was novel-length.
But as I worked out a plot, I reconsidered, and decided
that I’d like to pull back and give a short story a
try.
     
    I discovered that it was a difficult
challenge. We’ve all seen connect-the-dots puzzles; imagine trying
to design a full-page connect-the-dots puzzle, but shrunk down
to fit in a space the size of your palm. Compression. The
short story presents the writer with a similar constraint: somehow
you must fit all of your story elements, your relationships,
your structure, into a very tight package.
     
    “Going Gray” is my second published short
story, and I hope I’m getting better at it. I wanted to tell the
story of an accident—an accident with catastrophic consequences.
“Going Gray” is about a disaster that changes everything
we know and everything we do, and hints at the great
accident referred to in my Gray Skies series.
     
    I greatly enjoyed writing “Going Gray,”
especially since I’d never planned on visiting what exactly
happened centuries before Gray Skies takes place. But as in Gray Skies , the story really isn’t about the accident at
all; it’s about how people react, how they change, adapt, and
become someone else completely.
     
    In fact, now that “Going Gray” is
written—now that Emily’s world has been transformed—I’m already
considering writing more “Going Gray” stories. (You see, even
when I write a short story, I still can’t help but wonder what
happens next!)
    Website: writtenbybrian.com
    Twitter: @WrittenByBrian
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    The thick, white damask and heavy beading of her wedding gown was no armor against
their hate. She could feel their loathing burrowing into her back
like a dagger. It was not just her corsetry which crushed her
breath from her breast. Their silence there in the king’s chapel
was more chilling than the screams of war. Still, the wedding
continued. She looked up at the carved statues of strange saints
over the altar, their long and sharp features judging her wrongful
presence, just like every stone in the castle whispered back in her
echoing footsteps that she should fly. She glanced at her
bridegroom: this king, this widower, this enemy. How could she look
upon this day with anything but the heaviness of duty? But she
would do her duty, no matter the cost.
    But what cost! She was the daughter of a dead
king, the man who killed the family and friends of these, her new
subjects. Peace was her pitiful dowry, but peace bitterly bought by
abdicating her rule, stolen from her by her uncle who would take
over the northern throne while she ascended in the southlands as a
despised queen. Here, she would be no more than a figurehead, a
pretty bird in the courts with no more power than a sparrow.
    She glanced once more at this King Stephen,
the man whose command was responsible for killing her father, whose
armies slaughtered thousands of fathers and sons of her own people.
The back of his rough, hairy hand was cold beneath her resting
palm. It sought no warmth or comfort from her. In fact, it seemed
to repel it. Or perhaps it was her own revulsion which thought it
so. She was gladdened that he had no interest in her, that he did
not even meet her carriage at the gate upon her arrival. There
would be no pretense of affection. Only duty.
    There were whispers that King Stephen had
once been a mighty king. His dark, blonde curls caused women to
swoon, and his bear-like physique caused men to quake. But now he
was broken. There were rumors that he still longed for his
long-since-dead wife,