Field of gold

A SCORCHED FIELD REST IN THE DISTANCE.
A fire, some would consider being enormous, or maybe colossal, had snatched the field up and shook it, rendered it achromatic. But, of course, the ones who thought it vast must not have been from around here, or born in this century. The fire, steadfast and certain, made its way to what was once cerulean firmament. Once though, once was eons ago.
Not black, gray. Gray ash fluttered in the air and engulfed this wretched landscape. An eyesore of a landscape. It was migraine causing and sunglasses wearing kinds of pain, this landscape. Yet, this was only the landscape, a peering into the distance. If one were to look up close, much more horrendous, vile misdeeds were occurring.
The cattle, the horses, the sheep, the goats, the buffaloes, the men, the women, the children, ran rampant. There was a continuous piercing screech of a noise. A horrible, horrible noise. A noise so familiar. Yet, the noise was still horrifying, and still capable of a ghastly, chilling shock. The sight was almost too much to grasp.
But not for the fire. The fire, steadfast and certain, consumed the fields. The flames spread, faster and faster, until a fine smoky fire was burning all there was to burn. Mounds of gray ashes floating in the air. The ashes resembled butterflies, and a notion of catharsis accompanied them.
Sandra stood still. Here eyelids were static. Stuck open to witness. She was prisoner to a portrait of destruction. Condemned to stare as her son, Jeffrey, met his fiery demise. But she wasn't utterly helpless. She could take pictures.

SNAP - SNAP - SNAP SNAP SNAP, her Canon camera clicked. Each millisecond teased Jeffrey, bringing him closer to his end. His burning flesh tenderly falling off his oxidizing bones. His burnt flesh barely grazing the inferno, before immediately turning to ash. Howling, and shrieking, Jeffrey, and all the others ran, desperately trying to escape, attempting to flee.
Sandra watched. She watched Jeffrey. She'd never seen any human being convey such distress or turmoil before. From the depths of his viscera, Jeffrey howled a howl. A howl that would echo in Sandra for as long as she'd live. A howl that almost brought tears to her eyes. But she knew it wasn't worth crying for. Snapping pictures, for an album that would almost surface in to the real world, that, was worth crying for. But like all revolutionary era pieces, it was burned.