I would cry, but my eyes are dry and burning, and any tears I might shed would be far too little to save me now. There isn’t enough water in me to douse the flames now consuming my home.
Then the fireman comes, picks me up, carries me out.
The fresh air is more painful than the smoke, and I almost wish I were back inside. At least then I wouldn’t have to watch my life’s work be devoured.
I fear I am nothing more than the sum of my labors, and they are now ash, blown in the wind.
Oddly enough, this came out to exactly 100 words, first try. And I wasn't keeping track as I wrote it.