London, 1940

London, 1940

There are sirens all the time now. Burning flashes in the sky and a rumble of destruction near and far. I lie awake in a dark room with the curtains drawn but that doesn’t keep out the lights.

By early morning the sky will be lined with a purple hazy smoke and the smell of death with be in the air. Everyone will walk past, bow their heads in sorrow but thankful it wasn’t them, and then the government men pick up the lost pieces who got the lesser end of the stick. We don’t do much to clean up now.

It’ll again occur later that night. Right when families will be trying to salvage tradition with a seated hot meal; only to be interrupted by the siren. The one doomsday alarm ever created by man. We’ll leave our perfect meals, we wouldn’t be able to stomach them anyway, for our cellars, bathtubs and wherever we think we’ll be kept safe. We sit and hope for safety, hope that we’ll still be alive the next day. There are moments when we feel slightly at ease because the booms of destruction move farther and farther away. But just as we start to get comfortable, the boom will reach right above our heads and shake the very ground that is underneath us. And we’ll hold on to our dolls and our books and each other as if that alone will save us from mortality.


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