The War Zone

We came upon the war zone one day, when we were walking through the forest near our home. The war zone was a desolate piece of charred, blackened earth and plants destroyed by a fire.

The dead atmosphere made me shiver and the howling wind sorrowfully cried around us. We walked towards a large Oak tree and the crackling of leaves underfoot brought back the sound of the crackling fire. I looked carefully around the area for some sign of happiness or hope, but instead I saw emptiness.

In the distance, a raven crowed. It sat upon a broken tree stump, which resembled a gravestone and stared at us with curiosity. I inhaled deeply and the awful, choking air forced its way into my lungs and replaced the air, like death itself replacing life.

The stalk-like trees loomed over us menacingly and grabbed at us with long, thin fingers. The colourless landscape seemed to be stuck in a twilight zone or in the eye of a hurricane: no noises, no life, no light at all. The lack of colour reminded me of a black and white photograph; all the shadows clear to see.

A soft scurrying caught my attention and at once all my senses were alert. A tiny squirrel darted across the ground towards the remains of a nearby bush. It looked at us sadly and then dashed into the lifeless clump of black leaves.

Above us, the sky was one great, big chaotic mess; clouds jumbled up together with no sense of direction and no purpose except to block out any evidence of light. Their greyness seemed unreal; neither dead nor living, just there.