Mister Fawkes stood watching the inferno and listening to the shouts and screams.
He had an excellent view, but he wasn’t happy. After all, there was a lot of bad politics going on, it was rife in the country. He told himself that this was just another Guy Fawkes Night. He reflected on the fact that the back garden bonfire, with families letting off their own fireworks, was gradually dwindling. Even community celebrations like this were being phased out. Is it civic duty at play, with genuine concerns about health and safety, or is it something else? Do they want us to forget? Maybe these revellers are celebrating the potential emergence of the people against the government!
What was happening beneath the current four centuries ago? Was it simply one faction against another in a deadly mixture of religion and politics? Do the history books give an accurate account of the mood of the people when the plot was discovered? What is really being celebrated down there? What’s really in the minds of those standing around in the flickering light, watching the effigy burn? Do some wish that the gunpowder plot had succeeded? Is there a sense of lawlessness here? Who here is genuinely pleased that the plot failed? With the rolling in of new generations, how many here know that there was a plot?
He could see the heat, but he couldn’t feel it. The cold wind was biting and he retreated from the balcony of his nineteen floor apartment. The city would quieten down in a few hours.
None of his speculation would help him come to terms with the fact that he had never been really comfortable with his family name.