The fire red and wrought with fury, screaming at the dying street.
"Fire fire roar. Roar roar, fire fire."

"HELP! OH GOD HELP!" Screams filled the night sky, echoing the voice of death, burning flaming, through the ash and rubble. Screams threw the burning oil and sulfur; eating at the shanties decrepit in its fury.
The sky is red with blood
The sky is red with blood.
"Fire fire roar!" A mad man with a flaming torch, his hands covered in oil, his hands covered in blood. Their blood, a fire in his heart, deep and low and black. He danced towards the red glow, laughing and screaming, a whore banshee cry.
Laughing and screaming. Laughing. Screaming. The fire. The blood. Screaming.

They stood at the mouth of hell.
Run...Run...RUN. Their feet were numb with burns and blood.
RUN. 
They ran, bangles bundled in a sack behind them, clashing, screaming as they ran.
He ran, a book in his burned hands, thumping on the crimson mud, his feet black with soot. He ran.
Even as children, their primal instincts were to live.
It is continuous, the want to endure, scream, survive. The last echoes of a dying life. Life continues in the wake of death, till it is gone, like smoke from dead fires.
Run Run RUN. Pain will come again. Run run, there’s no where you can run. It is continuous.

RATE THIS CHAPTER!