As we honor the victims of the Holocaust on April 27 we honor not only what was lost but what was never created.
The smoke rises from the earth and the cries echo towards the heavens as the ashes dissipate into the ground. Ghosts of infants uncarried, unheld and left out to cry alone. Mothers and fathers watch as their children are told to walk right, walk left…
The lives unlived like a black hole in this world – six million exterminated within a 6 year period. Six million human beings. What knowledge was burned away piled unto others. Knowledge in medicine, the arts, life and knowledge which might have made this world a better place to live. Gassed, incinerated, shot and starved. Put through medical tests, torn apart, organ by organ…babies, children, adults used as guinea pigs.
Liberation began towards the end of 1944 – but the ashes were…
These small samples are from my new fictional diary series entitled the I Darling Diaries. I have two of the first draft novellas completed. The two I have ready are called “Seattle-Face Space-Case” and “Pink Palms and Train Whistles.” I have 7-10 page samples ready to send to anyone who might be interested in publishing this series. Inquiries for the larger samples can be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org.
The tent and the night sky outside the strips of mesh spin in opposite directions. I can see bare limbs of squat trees. A twig snaps, as if under a step. My breath hitches, and the shadows dim.
“Brian…” the ground shifts like the hand of a clock beneath my back. Another twig snaps, and a boot scuffs against rock, soft (familiar?) sound of sneaking up in the middle of the night.
“Brian…” I reach towards the form huddled at the other side of the tent, the distance a gulf, literally a canyon that opens gaping beyond view beneath my arm. In the deepening shadows, he who I have crossed an ocean to be with looks like a mound of moisture-rich soil.
“Someone wants to kill me…” I whisper to the motionless mound. “Brian!” I look back out the mesh window where the gently waving branches are skeletal claws. “Someone wants to kill me…”
I sit on a bare portion of mattress because the stained burgundy sheet is pulled off on my side. The off-white wall and the chipped beige porcelain lamp are stained with fingers of long-dried orange juice. Things are piled on the floor high enough to block the lower drawer of my dresser. I have no curtains. There’s broken glass in the master bathroom. One of the slatted metal closet doors leans against the other, dented by a fist and stained with blood.
“There’s nothing here, Iz. I’m dead inside.”
I hear a train in the distance, because I live in an apartment with thin walls. I’ve started to hate the sound for the way it reminds me of creaky places where cheap light fixtures swing and cast shadows on gaudy gold pillows and spots on the floor that look like stuck cockroaches but might be chewing tobacco instead.