It was in Burma a dark nights of nights. I move slowly, my shadow dances in the light of the moon. The brown townhouse, our meeting place, is covered in withered ivy. A smashed window here a missing roof sheet there. This house, though old and withered, was our Utopia in this Dystopia that is Burma. This was our reprieve from the hardships and disgrace we suffer at the hands of the British. The doors are in sight. Knock. Knock. Knock.
The ancient wooden doors creak open; their hinges need to be oiled. I enter the illuminated room. The feeling of awe comes over me as it has done many times before; I once again admire the marked map of the city, and the red “X’s” that bring nice memories. The .38 caliber revolvers in their crates, all residue
The ancient wooden doors creak open; their hinges need to be oiled. I enter the illuminated room. The feeling of awe comes over me as it has done many times before; I once again admire the marked map of the city, and the red “X’s” that bring nice memories. The .38 caliber revolvers in their crates, all residue