Tea and Cakes

The fire started, as they all did, in the East Quarter. It was there that the underclass lived. The people that the city shunned, turned away from, pretended didn’t exist. Those who collected the waste, dealt with the dead the city’s invisibles.
The East Quarter itself was divided. Central, to the West of the East Quarter, was where the prostitutes lived and worked, the only section that outsiders occasionally set foot in: only those who couldn’t afford the more respectable pleasure areas of the North Quarter. The rooms in Central were kept dark. Large rooms divided into sections with flimsy curtains, lit only by candles to hide the rats and filth and evidence of the previous visitor. The shadows from the candlelight made grotesque the working girls, but those who paid them couldn’t afford to be picky.
The summer had been hot, and the air in Central was thick with the stench of humans. The narrow streets were dry for once, the duckboards not needed to get around. Central was busy. The heat of the city had people on edge, and drove them there in search of some relief, a few seconds of peace.
Christy’s was the first building after the gates marking the entrance to the East Quarter and had a steady trade. People didn’t like to loiter in Central once they were done. Christy himself stood just inside the door, relieving customers of their cash and steering them to the right floor. Ground floor for boys, first floor for girls, and second floor for those with special requirements.
The fire started on the second floor. The sky clouded over for the first time in weeks as dusk fell, and a sudden breeze whipped through the open windows, knocking a candle over on to one of the curtains.
The firebreak dividing the quarters was no use after the hot summer. The reservoirs were dry, and the flames spread.

None of the city was spared. The East Quarter went up like a box of matches, the buildings all running into one another and jumbled together as they were. The North Quarter, the pleasure areas, caught next, the sumptuous fabrics of the brothels and the alcohol from the bars fueling the fire. It didn’t slow in the South, the merchant’s areas, where the shops were close built and well stocked. The city fires had never reached the West Quarter before. The long, wide roads slowed the fire, but couldn’t stop it, and the wealth of the quarter hadn’t protected it from the heat of the summer drying the reservoirs. There was no water, and no stopping it.

~~~

Inspired by Red Sunset taken by Petteri Sulonen from Flickr.

Written for Flickr Fiction Friday. Others taking part (I think) are: Elimare, Donal, Tadamack and Aquafortis.

This weeks (again) was totally rushed and not very imaginative. I’d left it to the last minute and then a migraine threw me out for 24 hours. So, you get 400 words, and the bones of an idea that just didn’t get fleshed out. D-, must try harder.