Cannons Over Norwich.

The city basked in late summer sunshine, shoppers swamping the market, updated now. Around the castle, tourists admired the sand blasted golden exterior.

Then it began, suddenly.

The sky was torn asunder. Giant horses towing great golden cannons appeared over their unsuspecting heads. Then the noise began.
Huge roars as the weapons fired, unleashing balls of fire, downwards. The market place exploded among the detonations. Shoppers turned to human torches. Stalls smashed to matchwood.

The castle exploded, casting debris across the road, smashing buses, taxis and shop fronts. Bodies scattered as the iron balls reached their targets.

The cannons roared again. Spitting merciless death towards the rail station. Carriages and engines smashed. The station left a smoking ruin. The cannons spoke again.

Riverside, with its boats, hotels and homes, disintegrated. People panicked then. Too late. The cannonade was deafening as balls smashed the Adam and Eve. An ancient pub.

The beautiful Cathedral did not escape this wrath. The building collapsed soon enough under that murderous bombardment.

Then the cannonade stopped. A pall of thick black smoke hung in the noon air. Screams of pain rose toward heaven. There was no answer from there.

No one knew why. No one understood. No one really cared.
The city had been punished in truth. Punished for its dark depravity. The silence that followed that day was only a reprieve.

Only the cannons knew when the bombardment would be resumed.