From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Sight
I squint through the glare of the shop window at the sharp, nickel-plated submachine guns, wondering if the lads headed for blighty realize the world is turning into a jagged silhouette of steel and smoke. Ma is fussing with her new electric clock, its steady, haunting tick-tock marking the seconds until another ship like the Silius gets dragged into the deep. I flip the toggle light switch just to feel the spark of the new age, watching the yellow glow wash over my drab wool coat while the newsboys scream about torpedoes. Deeds not words, I mutter, wishing I could trade this quiet Sunday for something faster than a heartbeat.