“Papa, what are those?” She pointed to a painting on the wall, a green field littered with pricks of blues, yellows, and reds and a bright sky hanging above.

“Those are flowers, Amy.” The old man placed his fork on the table and stood to grab the painting. “I painted this when I was a boy just about your age. I used to live near this field. Every day during spring I sat under a big oak tree and just watched the world. Bugs, rabbits, birds, deer, and of course, the flowers.”

“So, they’re real?”

“As real as you or me.”

The man handed Amy the painting. “This was just before the Migrant Wars. I left soon after—along with everyone else. This is the only painting I’ve finished and something I hold dear, memories of a much better time.” He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and dreamed of a world full of color. A world full of life where kids just like his great-granddaughter played and laughed. Not at all like the world they now lived in. The world outside was barren.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“You know, I went back there. Just after your parents were born. They’re still there, those flowers. The bugs and the animals too. They’re different now but I think the world I once knew has become something even more magical.”

“I want to see it too!”

“Maybe when you’re older. And maybe your great-grandchildren’s grandchildren will be able to return and live there again. But Earth has rejected man and made itself uninhabitable to us. Yet it still remains so full of life just to spite us.”