A little something that I wrote on Friday night based off of a picture...

Here is the picture: http://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/33360603338/writers-block-a-picture-says-a-thousand-words

Here is the writing(look at the picture first to understand :)

        

       After the war had hit the city, it had been left ravaged. Houses, stores, childhood meeting places; all destroyed. She came back though many years afterward to the apartment building in which she had lived.
       She slowly opened the door and it screeched on its hinges. Her old steps echoed throughout the spacious main room. As she moved through the room it was almost as if she could hear the sound of childrens' foosteps in the room, the sizzling of a pot on the stove in the kitchen, and the roar of the old television set that deafened everything else out with its noise. This was home, but not exactly how she remembered it.
      Thirty years ago she and her family had left in the dead of night against a threat of war. They took little and they left their memories behind, never expecting to return again. But here she was.
She scrambled over some fallen bricks and walked through the living room. She spotted the old olive colored arm chair, the coffee table still next to it. The red afghan was laying atop the chair. She smiled as she ran her finger tips over it.
     This was home. This was where she had lived in the early years of her marriage; where she had raised her young children; the place that she would be leaving again. She tightened the scarf on her head, buttoned up her coat and started for the door.
     Her feet crunched on something and she picked it up. It was her framed wedding photo. She clutched it in her hands, smiled and looked around one last time, and departed.