On this date in September, 1666, a spark from a humble Baker’s oven in Pudding Lane, London. What was an ordinary fire swallowed homes, churches and other buildings in the very heart of London.
On the surface, it seemed like carelessness. Others say that the fire what a result of curses hidden in the baker’s bread.
I say that it is fodder for a poem.
The loaves whispered, and London burned.
🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
The bakery old, on Pudding Lane
Flickering light through window panes,
Old-fashioned bread, concocted hot, in droves,
A smell–not yeast–comes through the loaves.
🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
The oven’s flicker bent its head,
Curling hot, a serpent’s tongue–
It would not die, but burnt in dread
Baking more than loaves of bread
🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
The loaves crack open, spilling smoke,
The fire feeds on prayers evoked–
From its split, soulless laughter, canned–
The sounds of hurt, of lost souls damned.
🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
The fire sears forth, a rancid beast,
Through a city, inflamed, ablaze–
Tower bells chime, stone gargoyles chase,
They lurch forth, forms choked in haze.
🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
An echo remains, in London’s soil
The fire still burns, though fast asleep–
A baker in a kitchen toils–
His apron drifts, his soul will keep.
🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
The loaves whisper what the flame don’t speak
His apron drifts, his soul will keep.
🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!
Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.
The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 