Writing Challenge for October - WEP + IWSG
Here is my Horrible Harvest:
Golden orbs, a blush of pink on their cheeks, sway and bob from branches of the ancient, gnarled apple trees. The sweet smell of freshly mown grass rises from the earth and the cicada chorus tunes its tymbals to accompany the sun’s descent. Dusk’s deepening colors splash playfully on the fruit, filtered by the leaves of the trees in the orchard.
The scene is idyllic . The sort that plein air painters capture on their canvases. The day’s end in fall; the clear blue sky blending to purple, with washes of red and gold; cooling night air a portent of winter to come. The scene is deceptively sweet. Deceitful.
As nightfall advances a curious phenomenon occurs; sugars produced by the sun and stored in the apples combine with naturally produced yeast on the skin of the fruit. Fermentation begins. The fruit exposed to more sunlight during the day, on the upper branches and those on the southern side of the trees, are the first to ripen, and the first to become noticeably tipsy and silly.
The orchard fills with sounds of mirth, the volume increasing to eclipse the music of the cicadas as evening stars march into their places in the sky. The moon arcs across the sky; the party escalates in cacophonic splendor. Less inebriated fruit duck under leaves within the trees’ branches, fearing the loss of control of their comrades and the resulting consequences. They’ve seen it all before.
More alcohol is distilled within the most exposed fruit and tempers flare. Nasty comments rent the air. Ugly, harsh voices snarl and screech. Emily Post filters of etiquette and reasonableness fall to the ground, along with the first colored, withered leaves of autumn.
The fruits bob on their stem tethers trying to turn hateful words into hurtful actions. Biting words turn into blows when one fruit manages to reach another. Heavy, wet plops echo throughout the orchard as drunken fruits smash to the ground, pulpy and brown, releasing an odor of apple cider that has turned. The fruit within the inner sanctum cringe at the bawdy behavior, wanting to disassociate themselves from the horrid show of inebriated excess. They sense the coming terror, with anxious tightness in their cores, wondering when they themselves will lose control and plunge to a pulpy end. The raucous noise slowly abates, turning to muttered epithets as sounds soften with the first blush of daylight. Actions slow, and with the exception of an occasional guttural grunt, a somnolent snore and soft mutterings, all is quiet. The sun’s first rays focus on sweating fruit, seemingly from a heavy dew, hanging languidly on the branches. The cloying sweet smell of alcohol rises with the morning mist. Throughout the orchard smashed bodies, oozing sticky wetness and attracting numerous buzzing insects, are mounded in the grass casting long shadows across the ground.
The sun rises. The light intensifies, beginning the cycle of destruction anew.
Word Count: 486
Feedback is always welcome.