The roar of aircraft engines in the London anthracite sky made me want to crawl underground. To my husband, the Blitz was in full swing.
Hope was dying in the cradle. My road was one-way.
“Follow me,” the guide whispered, scanning for eavesdroppers.
I walked blindfolded, on the winding path to the black market.
“What’s inside your box, poppet?” the pharmacist asked.
“My wedding dress—silk. I need two bottles of penicillin,” I replied.
“The dress is only worth one,” he stated.
“Please, sir.”
“Four bottles—your affection and the dress,” he grinned.
“Agreed.”
The price of maternity had been high.
This is a bit of forgotten history.
I didn’t figure that out. Your feedback lit the light bulb for me!
Ouch. Her affection? I would think that worth more than 4 bottles.
woah. Powerful.
Sad. So it happens.