Wrote this a few days ago; It's going places.
For thirty miles, the hills were bare. The highway, laden with remnants of a Friday morning snow, maintained twenty-foot visibility through the thick fog.
Thirty miles ago, there had been trees. They were smashed together, a yellowish moss leaking out of the only divide. Along the stretch, the cedars had been assimilated into rows, growing smaller and smaller until there was only brushland speckled with green. And then none. The barren ex-beauty slapped me in the face, hard.
As I got farther from civilization, the barrenness was greeted by static silence from the radio and the slapping of the wind through the open window. I didn't care how my nose stung from the winter temperature; I needed noise.
Luckily, there was a single scream ahead. A gasp. The subtle quieting of my engine. A single home stood, supports half-exposed in the torn-up nothing. Its shutters had been hastily put down, the door (having fallen) leaning on the front porch like a person would if *their* forest was to be decimated.
The scream was half-covered by a black tarp, the wind having pushed it aside to reveal the shrill cry of protest. It was in white spray-paint, carefully written on the wet board. I stopped and stared, putting together what little of the letters were at my disposal. A single word was written, creating a streak of fire within the nothing.