The sun beat down remorselessly. There was no shelter. The only plants were no higher than a knee, stunted plants trying to claw their way through the black soil. A mountain cast its shadow over the hills, flows of magma glinting black at its peak.
The air was dusty and still, like the world had paused. Still, there were signs of life in the bushes. They were translucent, some green, some pink, some clear, with the fine tracery of veins almost visible. Or were those just the twists and crinkles of the material they were composed of? For the plants weren't made of leaves and bark and root, but transparent wrap that clung on itself. Every twist of the stunted branches was cunningly crafted to appear lifelike. None were the same.
Grass waved tall, stalks and spear jutting up on their hollow cores. The broad blades stuck to their neighbors when they touched, separating begrudgingly when the wind stirred them.
The insects were made of the same material. Tiny scraps and wisps, folded over and over. Then imbued with some animating force so they scurried this way and that. Or perhaps they were merely tossed by the wind.
The strata beneath the plants was sterile, nothing could grow in it, because it was burnt and crumpled plastic. A fine litter that spread as far as could be seen. Even the mountain in the distance was suspect. Was it truly an edifice of rock stretching to the core of the earth? Or was even that nothing but an illusion? Nothing but boulders of plastic shredded and burned.