(Flash Fiction: 200 Words)
September 2nd - September 5th
-1666
It was the end of summer, some time close to midnight. A soft ember from a bakers oven strayed from its nesting place on a cool shallow breeze. Creeping, crawling, licking and leaping, with each small thing it ate its hunger grew.
Nobody cared, that's what father said; about the baker or his home, or the little flames in another street. Not until the streets where alight, but by then it was all too late. Within hours the grand city of London was burning to the ground. Against the black sky, for the first time, she almost looked majestic. Her streets were bright and bustling, and all the rooftops were gleaming.
Out on the river we clambered into little rowing boats, and even though the wind was cold the flames kept us warm through the night. When morning came we watched in fear and anticipation. The hours dragged to days, and the fire got bigger and bigger.
By the fourth day, London was dead. St Pauls cathedral had been destroyed - the giant crucifix behind the alter hung scorched and broken. The ruin saw even children able to climb over the rubble of the weeping western gates, who also had bowed to the blaze. Bridewell palace, where I had been schooled, still sung in her majestic tone, even though she knew that her children would not return.
With tense shoulders and bowed heads we walked, dragging our feet along the ground. Britains proudest city now lay in ashes beneath our weary feet.
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