Harvest.

Deep blue-black skies, and trees, and ground. So deep and blue it's hard to see two feet out.
         So deep and blue it all looks as though it's underwater.

         A pitchfork leans against the corner of the wall in the barn, blood-red rust cakes over its spikes. Hay scattered across the ground, silver in the moonlight. 

No sound. Earth is sleeping.

         Then crackling,
                       popping,
                           wood breaking.
         Switch to see bright red-orange, great disruptor of the blue-black quiet of the night. The hay is yellow again.

         Which direction? 

         Move in close to see the farmhouse, coming alive. The bright red flames roasting it blacker and blacker to the now-blue ground. 

         Moon has come out to watch. 

         Move in closer still to see their faces, swallowed up by the licking tongues of orange. Their cheeks are swollen. Their eyes are melting in the heat, turning to marble. Their hair is catching, its rotten smell perfumes the breeze. 

         Small white puffs of dust floating through the heavy grey air. Lungs filling and begging for clean breath. Mouths bursting over their chilling, throat-scarring screams in the blue shadows. It forces Moon to cover his face, to retreat behind the clouds. They scream for each other. 

Oh, to be underwater.

         

         No sound.