CTS Writes

Historically round two is the furthest I’ve got in the various iterations of this writing competition. While I’m a smidge disappointed not to have made it to the final round but not entirely surprised given the size of the competition, I’m thrilled my little historical fiction featuring someone taking a break and the word ‘decay’ got an honourable mention in my group. Onwards and upwards.

SEPTEMBER, SIXTEEN SIXTY-SIX

Sunday brings hope.

“Five days left,” grunts the voice, shoving bread through the bars. I attack it like a lion would a carcass. Twelve months in this hellhole. How should I have known the content of those letters? I cannot read!

“Thank you,” I reply, but for what? Bread soured with decay?

I pray on each stone slab as I do every day here: for home, my Mary, our twins.

Monday brings panic.

Hastened footsteps, hushed whispers.

“Paper’s say London’s burning,” hisses the off-duty soldier sipping ale outside.

I press my palms to the cell walls, praying they remain cool.

Tuesday brings fury.

“Where’s the Lord Mayor?” someone shouts.

“St Paul’s Cathedral has fallen!” cries another.

I beseech each brick as smoke reaches its black fingers through the bars to touch my nose.

           

Wednesday brings excitement.

“Get the gunpowder lads, Bloodworth has ordered the firebreaks!”

In the chaos, I lose count of my daily prayers.

Thursday brings glad tidings.

“We’ve bloody done it!” says the soldier enjoying his break. “Tower Garrison saves London! Just in time for you to head home!” He clinks his tin cup on the bars.

I thank each stone for our straw bed, her warm embrace, their wild laughter.

Friday brings confusion.

It’s the sweet smell of freedom tainted with bitter ash.

It’s a heart that smoulders like the skyline.

It’s the blackened ghost of our home.

It’s her soot-streaked cheeks as she cradles no-one.

It’s a dream to be safely back in the Tower.