The Lovely Unwanted.
The woods were ashen. Occasionally, grey trees dotted the land, lonely and forsaken. The earth was dead and dying. It seemed as though every echoing footstep, every reverberation, was a hollow cry of the sick and weary.
Nothing was alive. It was all dead. All of it. The land lay deep in slumber, unwilling to wake itself. There was no wind, as though it knew better than to blow through these lands, weary of what it might find. No sunlight dared shine, as though it was frightened to look at the scarred land below.
It was unnatural. The mist looked far too similar to the smoke that had not so long ago writhed along the ground. It was far too reminiscent of the day when the crisp autumn air had been tainted with an acrid stench, and the bright, gaudy leaves were not the only fiery colors weaving through the forest.
This land was marked, the few scorched trees sharp and pointed, like harsh, unmoving guardians.
This land had once been beautiful. Green, rolling hills, grass rippling in waves that raced the babbling brooks and creeks.
Now the hills looked like mounds of ash. Burned branches and remains clogged the once clear waters. They now moved slowly, grey trickles of sludge inching their way through the broken lands.
However, beyond the charred hills and trunks, across the sludge river, there was a tiny clearing, so small even it's insignificance went unnoticed.
But here, in this tiny, insignificant clearing, there was a small disturbance. A minuscule patch of dead grass and soil had been pushed aside. In this minuscule patch, something small stood tall. Tiny green leaves unfurled, eager to catch any glimmer of light, awaiting the sun's return. An over-sized wildflower bobbed on a fragile stem, beckoning the wind to return with every movement.
It was a weed. Unwanted by almost all. But here- it persisted. It refused to leave. It refused to give up. While the forest cringed and lay dormant, it curiously poked its head to the surface.