Plague
First little Amy was stricken, taking three days to die.
After collecting the body, the wardens painted the black cross on the door.
Then her husband and son Mark sickened. She could do nothing for their agonies.
A cart collected them to be buried in the pit.
Now the street is sealed off. No food arrives, and the water is almost gone.
She sneezes twice. She knows this is the end. But what is there to live for?
Thus the pauper Mary Wells died alone in London in 1665, with no priest to console her, no caring God above her.
From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher
Born and raised in Cardiff, Wales, Ian has an MA in English from Oxford University. He has had poems and short stories published in The Ekphrastic Review, Tuck Magazine, 1947 A Literary Journal, Dead Snakes, Schlock! Webzine, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Poems and Poetry, Friday Flash Fiction, and in various anthologies.
Please support the site by purchasing one of my books on Amazon. Check out Quitting The Grave, a murder mystery set on the Oregon Trail. Plus, don't forget my other books: They Both Loved Vonnegut, Ahab's Adventures in Wonderland, and Picasso Painted Dinosaurs.