Well, should I post some more? I have some on the following subjects-several Holocaust/Nazi ones, a Roanoke one, a titanic one, a child abuse one, and a few more war ones. and more. shall i?

'Nother one!

Waiting

Every day is the same. A monotonous parade of days, months, years. I hat the waiting, though I know I should love it. Because each extra day means I am not yet to be killed. On the day the door is finally opened, I shall have to say good-bye. But I wish it was tomorrow. For otherwise, the waiting shall kill me first.

I did nothing wrong, I only did what was right. But apparantly right is wrong and wrong is right in this chasm of insanity the world has plunged into. All I have been taught has been swept away. Neighbors turn on neighbors. Friends on friends. And I can do nothing...just sit and wait.

I sit here on the cold cement floor, the thin prison garb I wear icy and damp. I cannot see anything, and it seems the world has been plunged into darkness. But I know everything about my cell. Nine steps to the door. Five bricks down to the food flap. Six steps to the other wall. And I am less than a step away from death.

Footsteps outside my door. A glimmer of lantern light. A key turning. Brown uniforms. Thin lips moving from beneath the caps. Saying, "It is time."

I follow them, and the prison door is now so close. So close. After so long. And it opens. Sunlight. Golden, a blessed warmth to fight the icy chill. Life. I tilt my face to the sky, ignoring the men with rifles aimed. Finally, my waiting is done.

Who wants another?

Kit Kat, it is said that sad songs are the most beautiful.  I agree with that sentiment.  You just proved that this is true for short stories as well.  Your stories flow beautifully, and make sense of the sadness in the world.  Your stories are very deep; I hope that you will never stop writing because that would be a waste of a precious talent.

Even Another one!

A Look In the Mirror

My unifrom is pressed and clean, soft upon my skin. As the flag of the Fatherland rises, I feel the drumbeats of war echoeing in my bones. To serve the Fatherland. To serve Hitler. To Kill and murder. But Hitler's goal sounds nice. Germany will be heaven on earth. And I will be thanked for my work. I am thinking all this as I watch the flag rise. We will conquer.

I am told I am to go with five men to a house where they say Jews are hiding. As the truck rumbles along the streets, I finger my gun, feeling its smooth coldness. Conversation swirls around me, nonchalant and cheerful. Why should we care that we are going to kill Jews? Hitler is smart. And he knows they are vile.

We come to the house, a brick two story on the edge of town. We capture the owner, and march onward. They are hiding, the Jews. But we know where they are. As they are forced from beneath the floor, the eldest boy, only a year younger than I, turns to me. And he speaks the words I shall never forget.

"Take a good look at yourself, Nazi. A good look in the mirror." I point my gun at him. Tell him to just get in the truck. He and his family are dropped off at the ghetto's train station. The next day, he shall go toFlossenburg. And the day after, he shall be dead.

His words stay in my head though. That night, I look at myself in the mirror. And I can not bear it.