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Weekly Contest #281
CW: Death, PTSD VE Day, 1945. Somewhere in London. The pub is drowning in the light. The stench of strongly-scented perfume and cigarette smoke seems to seep from its pores, filling up every corner in a manner that should be suffocating, yet is instead somehow liberating, just in its very existence. Jazz music plays at the side and champagne flutes clink, pulsing in sync like a collective heartbeat. Florence weaves in and out of the exuberant crowd, inhaling the elation, the freedom. She plucks empty glasses out of strange hands th...
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