The following is simply a description of a scene from a story I never finished, and it only consisted of three paragraphs (which is why it obviously wasn't finished) But this is the first paragraph and part of the second, as those are the parts I liked best.
I have no intention of ever finishing it:
The fog hung oppressively is the air. Leaves were strewn across the ground like bloody corpses strewn across a battlefield. There, amongst those corpses she lay in ecstasy, smiling, and laughing as she always had. However, a guilt plagued her, she had a conscience filled with pestilence, a never ending agony that would not let go, like a root in the ground. There, next to the scarlet-tinted oak, she lay in ecstasy, for no one knew her secret besides her own being.
It seemed not long ago that fate had planted a naïve seed into the fertile ground from which a white oak arose; it grew rapidly, and without caution, no ability to sense the danger that lurked right by its trunk.