A blood red sun shone through a thick veil of smoke over an ominously quiet town. Black ashes fluttered in the wind, like the snow of death. Traces of gasoline lingered on the light breeze blowing through the skeletal structure of what was once a house. Charred doors stood as if still attached to a non-existent wall and shards of glass littered the surrounding grass. Large crows with black, beady eyes pecked among the burnt remnants of what was once a kitchen. Blackened cupboards with their doors lopsidedly hanging, melted trash cans, and a shattered cookie jar yielded their contents to the persistent pecking. Metal bed frames stood out in stark contrast to the ghostly white remains of a bedroom wall that easily flaked at the slightest touch. A smoky mirror hung, cock-eyed, in what was once a bedroom. At its foot lay the broken pieces of picture frames, a young child’s smiling face peeking out between the remains of a hand-crafted frame that had managed to escape the hungry flames. Outside, on the scarred lawn covered in debris, there stood a sturdy sycamore tree. Several of its branches had been suddenly amputated and a large chunk had been gouged out of its trunk. Tucked in the nook of the roots at the base of the tree, a well-worn rag doll sat with a childlike, yet expectant look on its face. Her body was disproportionate from years of cuddling and the smile on her face, though nearly worn off from numerous kisses, was one that even tragedy could not erase.
– Written October 6, 2011 for Creative Writing
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