The landscape was glowing, the sunlight reflecting off the blood and glass on the ground. The mountain missing a big chunk from the explosions. Houses have no roofs, some are completely gone, some look like the wall will come off at any second. On the ground I see skeletons molding with color; there is green and black all around. I do not see a single speck of white in this whole field. But a month ago, I came here with my father looking at the mountains, beautiful full with green from all the trees and grass. The houses shimmering with their steel freshly cleaned. The air smelled fresh like it just came out of the dryer. The ground flat and freshly mowed. I could see my house in the distance on the mountains looking like a cherry on top. But then the Civil War destroyed us all. My house overlooking it all, the cannons blasting with noise still taunts me at night. My dad was the mayor; that's how they could not hit us. Our slaves shooting anyone coming up to try to hurt us. Me and my dad hiding in our bunker. It was all steel. The walls dusty from never being touched before. The room was empty with the exception of a desk with a computer connected to the cameras to see what was going on.
Oh how I miss the apple trees that used to grow. In my hand I had the last apple left on Earth cut off from the last apple tree left on Earth. It was shimmering red. Every day I would clean it. I knew it was old and molding in the inside; like a spider when it dies. It has been well over 17 years since my father cut it when I was born. But with one bite of it I knew the Civil War would stop.
Oh how I miss the apple trees that used to grow. In my hand I had the last apple left on Earth cut off from the last apple tree left on Earth. It was shimmering red. Every day I would clean it. I knew it was old and molding in the inside; like a spider when it dies. It has been well over 17 years since my father cut it when I was born. But with one bite of it I knew the Civil War would stop.