Miscellaneous topic for short stories I write

[mead1]

I'm on a writing binge today. I really liked this concept, but I figured it would be better as a short thingie then an actual fleshed out work.

---

Dear Diary

Diary, I’m being discriminated against. Life has always been hard on me, but lately it’s just become unbearable. I don’t mean “messed up haircut” bad, I mean “Stacey decided to leave me for my best friend” bad. No. It’s worse then that. It’s like every time I go into school I’m a target now. People are always calling me an “emo fag” and “wrist-cutter.” I don’t get it. I mean, I might be a little bit emo, I’ve never denied it, but when did it get such a negative connotation? Even the nerd kids act like they’re better then me now. It’s terrible. I used to have a bunch of friends, or people who were like friends. We all liked the same music, shopped in the same stores, and all had the same problems. Since everyone started to hate on “emos” they’ve all left me for brighter clothes and outlooks on life. I don’t understand how they did it. It’s just not that simple. This is how I’ve always known to deal with things. I write in my diary. I cut once or twice. I dress in black because it suits my mood. How am I less of a person because of it? The other day, a kid came up to me, and he asked me why I was so desperate for attention that I would threaten suicide. He didn’t know me at all. He had just heard about my trouble after Stacey left. He judged me right there, before he had met me, as a nobody. Someone only fit for taunting. Diary, it just isn’t fair. I’ve never even met these people? Why do they hate me? When I was writing my last entry, this other kid tried to steal you. He said he wanted to read my awful poetry. Yeah, so I like to write poetry. So what? I don’t see what’s so wrong with that. He judged my poetry based simply on stereotype. Not that I’d ever let him read it. School has become to me less like a prison and more of a torture chamber. There is nowhere I can go. Today after school, three football kids followed me as I walked home. When I was like a block away, they pushed me into an alleyway and beat the crap out of me. As I ran away afterward, they yelled for me to whine about it on myspace. I did. It didn’t help. I can’t take this anymore. I used to cut because nobody wanted to know me. I’m ending it all because now they all know me too well.

[mead1]

Valhalla Inc.

Jared was one of the over five-thousand employees at Valhalla Incorporated. His job was something most people would consider special, possible even extraordinary, but Jared didn’t think so. He worked the nine-to-five like any other average Joe, and went home to his family and slept in a normal bed. As far as he was concerned, his life was totally average. He had a fairly boring middle-class life. He had two cars, two children, three televisions, and last summer the family had gone to see the Grand Canyon. But Jared’s life isn’t really important, because he was correct, and his life was boring. The only point of interest is his job. This is why the story began by mentioning his job.

Jared had two bosses. They were both the oldest looking men you had ever seen. Mr. White always wore white. His hair was white, his suit was white, his eyes hadn’t even pupils, only white. He was a kind fatherly figure to his employees, even if the business had grown far too large these days. Despite employing over five-thousand people, Mr. White knew everyone. Whenever he saw someone, he greeted them by name, and enquired about the state of their personal affairs. This was not the idle small talk made by other employees, when Mr. White enquired about your life, you felt as though he really and truly cared about you.

Mr. Black, as his name would suggest, was the exact other side of the coin. His suit was black, his hair was black, and looking into his eyes was similar to trying to peer down a well. Mr. Black did not speak, he communicated. If Mr. Black spoke to you, it was because something needed doing. He said not a word more then was necessary to anyone. At the same time, as he spoke, he commanded attention. He was the single most powerful and compelling speaker Jared had ever seen.

We’ve sort of strayed off Jared, it seems, but now is the bit where we get back to him. Jared’s job was to judge souls. In fact, this was the job of all of the employees at Valhalla Inc. On his computer in his corner cubicle, a picture would appear, and then there would be about a page of text. This text contained a summary of the life of the person in the picture. These summaries covered the important events of their lives thoroughly, so Jared felt he ended up knowing all of them fairly well. After he had read the page, he clicked one of two buttons at the bottom of the page. Salvation or damnation. This was what Jared did for a living. He liked to think he was fair. In his mind, children were saved immediately. Sex offenders were always damned from Jared’s cube. Those were extreme cases, Jared thought. For the most part, he did his best to be fair. Though there had been a few other special cases. He had once saved a woman on looks alone. He had never seen a figure so beautiful. He loved his wife, certainly, but he felt that beauty that great could never truly be evil. Through some accounting error, he had been put on the file of his cousin Jeremy. Cousin Jeremy had been a hulking brute of a man. Jared remembered all the times Jeremy had stolen from him, remembered all the times he had come home from his Aunt Millie’s house with bruises from Jeremy’s fists. Jeremy had been sent off to military school, and Jared hadn’t heard from him in years. Jared didn’t even read Jeremy’s summary. Damnation it was.

Jeremy had gone on to become a firefighter. He had saved the lives of hundreds of people. Every month, a portion of his already measly paycheck went to some charity or another. He was just a big-hearted guy. His wife would continually chastise him for bringing people home for dinner unexpectedly. They would be homeless, or merely “in-between jobs”, but they were always treated with kindness and respect. In the end, Jeremy had met his maker one night when a burglar had picked his house. Jeremy was awakened by the sound of his door opening in the early morning hours. He moved downstairs, grabbing a baseball bat autographed by his son’s favorite player. He crept slowly around the house, trying to look in every direction at once.

He moved into the living room, still seeing nothing. It was dark. Too dark. His eyes were slowly beginning to adjust. He thought he saw a darting movement out of the corner of his eye. He swung. Nothing. He felt something pawing at his side. Jeremy had almost brained Schnitzel, the family dog. He patted the dog, told him to stay, and continued to walk. Suddenly, he heard his wife scream. He wasn’t sure how, but the Burglar had gotten upstairs. Jeremy ran up the stairs, filled with rage at the invasion of his house, and the danger to his family. He flung the bedroom door open. The burglar was wearing a ski mask, and was going through the jewelry box by the mantle. Jeremy ran at him. The bat landed with a sickening crunch on the burglar’s skull. He sunk to the ground. This happened in a flash. As it was taking place, Jeremy’s wife was still screaming. Jeremy couldn’t even hear her as he landed blow after blow upon the burglar. If he had listened, she was saying “Jeremy! There’s another one! In the other room! Jeremy! He’s got a gun!”

A single shot rang out, and Jeremy was no longer alive.

As a point of interest, Jared coincidentally also was given the file of the burglar that had shot Jeremy to review. He had been caught later that night, when the car he had stolen was spotted on a suburban highway. The police surrounded the car, and told him to get out. The burglar was only fifteen, and was caught up in the moment. He jumped out with his gun firing. No policeman was harmed, but this burglar was severely riddled with bullets. Jared saw the age on this file and gave him salvation. Fifteen was still a child. Had barely lived at all.

The afterlife was not what Jeremy had been expecting. When next he was conscious, he was standing in a small box. It had a bench, and a television screen. No doors or exits to speak of. He sat down, and pressed the large black button next to the television screen. It had “Push Me!” written in friendly black letters underneath. On the screen, there appeared Mr. Black and Mr. White.

“Hello, I’m Mr. White, and this is my associate, Mr. Black. I am the one you call God, and he would be known to you as Lucifer. This is the time of judgment. At this very moment, one of our expert staff is reviewing the merits of your lifetime. Once they have done this, you will be sent to either my domain, or Mr. Black’s. Let me just say you don’t want to end up in Mr. Black’s domain.”

“We have whips.” Mr. Black said simply.

There may have been more to the video, Jeremy never knew. Jared was done with his file.

Black and White had scheduled a corporate meeting that day. The entire company filed into the company’s auditorium. Mr. White told everyone they were doing a fantastic job, and that efficiency was through the roof. There would be sizable Christmas bonuses, and that raises would be fairly large this year. As a side note, he mentioned his son would be coming back into the company after his extended vacation later this quarter, and he hoped they would all give him a warm welcome. There was applause. Mr. Black walked up to the stage and said “We no longer offer Dental coverage.” No applause. But no Booing either. You didn’t Boo Mr. Black.

The employees filed out slowly, going back to their cubes on different floors of the huge building. Mr. White turned to Mr. Black. “Lunch today?”

“Chili’s” Mr. Black said.

“Chili’s it is then. Shall we take my car?”

Mr. Black nodded.

“I was a little worried by today’s meeting Mr. Black. I feel the company has gotten a bit too impersonal these days.”

Mr. Black shrugged. Mr. White went on:

“I don’t know. Maybe we’re just too old for this game, Mr. Black.”

Mr. Black just shrugged, and continued walking. The two men drove to Chili’s and had an excellent meal.

[FoJaR]

Originally Posted by mead1

Valhalla Inc.

Jared was one of the over five-thousand employees at Valhalla Incorporated. His job was something most people would consider special, possible even extraordinary, but Jared didn’t think so. He worked the nine-to-five like any other average Joe, and went home to his family and slept in a normal bed. As far as he was concerned, his life was totally average. He had a fairly boring middle-class life. He had two cars, two children, three televisions, and last summer the family had gone to see the Grand Canyon. But Jared’s life isn’t really important, because he was correct, and his life was boring. The only point of interest is his job. This is why the story began by mentioning his job.

last sentence is lazy and superfluous. the second to last sentence could use some polish too.

Jared had two bosses. They were both the oldest looking men you had ever seen. Mr. White always wore white.

maybe mr white was white, not always wore.

His hair was white, his suit was white, his eyes hadn’t even pupils, only white.

hadnt even? that sounds weird.

He was a kind fatherly figure to his employees, even if the business had grown far too large these days. Despite employing over five-thousand people, Mr. White knew everyone. Whenever he saw someone, he greeted them by name, and enquired about the state of their personal affairs. This was not the idle small talk made by other employees, when Mr. White enquired about your life, you felt as though he really and truly cared about you.

Mr. Black, as his name would suggest, was the exact other side of the coin.

wording of that last sentence sounds weird.

His suit was black, his hair was black, and looking into his eyes was similar to trying to peer down a well. Mr. Black did not speak, he communicated. If Mr. Black spoke to you, it was because something needed doing. He said not a word more then was necessary to anyone. At the same time, as he spoke, he commanded attention.

consider combining those last two sentences together:

"He said not a word more than was necessary to anyone, and when he spoke he commanded attention"

He was the single most powerful and compelling speaker Jared had ever seen.

We’ve sort of strayed off Jared, it seems, but now is the bit where we get back to him. Jared’s job was to judge souls. In fact, this was the job of all of the employees at Valhalla Inc. On his computer in his corner cubicle, a picture would appear, and then there would be about a page of text. This text contained a summary of the life of the person in the picture. These summaries covered the important events of their lives thoroughly, so Jared felt he ended up knowing all of them fairly well. After he had read the page, he clicked one of two buttons at the bottom of the page. Salvation or damnation. This was what Jared did for a living. He liked to think he was fair. In his mind, children were saved immediately. Sex offenders were always damned from Jared’s cube. Those were extreme cases, Jared thought. For the most part, he did his best to be fair. Though there had been a few other special cases.

last sentence isnt quite right. it's like a repitition of the sentence before. maybe:

"He did his best to be fair, but he was human after all."

or maybe leave off the last sentence.

He had once saved a woman on looks alone. He had never seen a figure so beautiful. He loved his wife, certainly, but he felt that beauty that great could never truly be evil. Through some accounting error, he had been put on the file of his cousin Jeremy. Cousin Jeremy had been a hulking brute of a man. Jared remembered all the times Jeremy had stolen from him, remembered all the times he had come home from his Aunt Millie’s house with bruises from Jeremy’s fists. Jeremy had been sent off to military school, and Jared hadn’t heard from him in years. Jared didn’t even read Jeremy’s summary. Damnation it was.

Jeremy had gone on to become a firefighter. He had saved the lives of hundreds of people. Every month, a portion of his already measly paycheck went to some charity or another. He was just a big-hearted guy. His wife would continually chastise him for bringing people home for dinner unexpectedly. They would be homeless, or merely “in-between jobs”, but they were always treated with kindness and respect. In the end, Jeremy had met his maker one night when a burglar had picked his house. Jeremy was awakened by the sound of his door opening in the early morning hours. He moved downstairs, grabbing a baseball bat autographed by his son’s favorite player. He crept slowly around the house, trying to look in every direction at once.

He moved into the living room, still seeing nothing. It was dark. Too dark. His eyes were slowly beginning to adjust. He thought he saw a darting movement out of the corner of his eye. He swung. Nothing. He felt something pawing at his side. Jeremy had almost brained Schnitzel, the family dog. He patted the dog, told him to stay, and continued to walk. Suddenly, he heard his wife scream. He wasn’t sure how, but the Burglar had gotten upstairs. Jeremy ran up the stairs, filled with rage at the invasion of his house, and the danger to his family. He flung the bedroom door open. The burglar was wearing a ski mask, and was going through the jewelry box by the mantle. Jeremy ran at him. The bat landed with a sickening crunch on the burglar’s skull. He sunk to the ground. This happened in a flash. As it was taking place, Jeremy’s wife was still screaming. Jeremy couldn’t even hear her as he landed blow after blow upon the burglar. If he had listened, she was saying “Jeremy! There’s another one! In the other room! Jeremy! He’s got a gun!”

A single shot rang out, and Jeremy was no longer alive.

As a point of interest, Jared coincidentally also was given the file of the burglar that had shot Jeremy to review. He had been caught later that night, when the car he had stolen was spotted on a suburban highway. The police surrounded the car, and told him to get out. The burglar was only fifteen, and was caught up in the moment. He jumped out with his gun firing. No policeman was harmed, but this burglar was severely riddled with bullets. Jared saw the age on this file and gave him salvation. Fifteen was still a child. Had barely lived at all.

The afterlife was not what Jeremy had been expecting. When next he was conscious, he was standing in a small box. It had a bench, and a television screen. No doors or exits to speak of. He sat down, and pressed the large black button next to the television screen. It had “Push Me!” written in friendly black letters underneath. On the screen, there appeared Mr. Black and Mr. White.

“Hello, I’m Mr. White, and this is my associate, Mr. Black. I am the one you call God, and he would be known to you as Lucifer. This is the time of judgment. At this very moment, one of our expert staff is reviewing the merits of your lifetime. Once they have done this, you will be sent to either my domain, or Mr. Black’s. Let me just say you don’t want to end up in Mr. Black’s domain.”

“We have whips.” Mr. Black said simply.

There may have been more to the video, Jeremy never knew. Jared was done with his file.

Black and White had scheduled a corporate meeting that day. The entire company filed into the company’s auditorium. Mr. White told everyone they were doing a fantastic job, and that efficiency was through the roof. There would be sizable Christmas bonuses, and that raises would be fairly large this year. As a side note, he mentioned his son would be coming back into the company after his extended vacation later this quarter, and he hoped they would all give him a warm welcome. There was applause. Mr. Black walked up to the stage and said “We no longer offer Dental coverage.” No applause. But no Booing either. You didn’t Boo Mr. Black.

The employees filed out slowly, going back to their cubes on different floors of the huge building. Mr. White turned to Mr. Black. “Lunch today?”

“Chili’s” Mr. Black said.

“Chili’s it is then. Shall we take my car?”

Mr. Black nodded.

“I was a little worried by today’s meeting Mr. Black. I feel the company has gotten a bit too impersonal these days.”

Mr. Black shrugged. Mr. White went on:

“I don’t know. Maybe we’re just too old for this game, Mr. Black.”

Mr. Black just shrugged, and continued walking. The two men drove to Chili’s and had an excellent meal.

didnt finish it, i have to go, but that's what i've looked at so far

[mead1]

The Saddest Story Ever Writ

--

Mrs. Midge was giving a sermon about the proper use of the exclamation point. Shane wasn't paying attention. English class was a fun time for those students fortunate enough to have been placed in The Midget's class. Their teacher was four feet tall and bled grammar. She was not one of those "inspirational" teachers, she was one of those "You'll remember this class as one giant party" teachers. Shane, himself, was somewhat of a literary genius. In fact, it would not be detrimental to the story to inform the reader that Shane was the finest writer ever to live. He was contemplating the universe when The Midget announced a timed writing.

Timed writings were fantastic things. Shane wrote for the entire time, and finished with something resembling a beautiful painting. His writings were delicate, yet vibrant, they spoke to the soul. Nobody other then The Midget ever read them. Shane was not one to show his writing off. The Midget wrote on the board "The Saddest Story Ever Writ"

"Class, for today's writing assignment, I am going to give you fifteen minutes to write the most depressing, angst filled, heart wrenching piece you can. That is the only guidline. You may begin."

And so they began. Most students had to spend a few moments considering their topics, but not Shane. He was off in a flash. His pen scrawled lines of lightning accross his paper. The words flew like sparks from a forge. The wordsmith was in his element. In the short fifteen minutes, words covered the paper. He signed his name at the bottom, and turned it in.

The next day, The Midget was gone from class. Nobody knew exactly why. There was a teacher named Ms. Maine. She was fresh out of college and had no idea how to control students. She spoke with an english accent, and explained she would be their teacher for the rest of the year. She didn't explain where Mrs. Midge had gone. The class broke Ms. Maine quickly. In all honesty, they were a horrible class. Paper balls, book drops, chanting, the works. Ms. Maine was in tears by the end of day two. "Bring back The Midget, at least she had some spine!" One classmate jeered. Ms. Maine cried harder.

"She's dead! Midge is dead. She hung herself. We were friends." The teacher choked out. "And I can see why, with a class like this."

The class was dead silent. They had loved The Midget, even if they did act up every once in a while. Ms. Maine stormed out of the class, and didn't return. The period ended, and school went on. When Shane walked into his home that evening, he found a package had arrived for him. It was sent from a Mrs. Gail Midge. He opened the package slowly, and found two sheets of paper. The first was a letter, written in shaky hand, tears staining the paper.

"Dear Shane,

At the time you read this, I will be no more. I simply cannot bear to live on after reading that story. I wanted the saddest story ever writ, but I did not even imagine I would get anything like this. I have cried for hours, debating on if I could possibly live on in this world after reading it, I have decided I cannot. I want you to know that you're the single most gifted writer I've ever known, and you have great things ahead of you. I have sent your paper with this letter. It is too great to be destroyed, but too tragic to be read. You must keep it safe. It is truly a fine work, but incomprehensible in it's power.

- Gail Midge"

Shane folded the letter, and threw it away. The paper underneath it was indeed what he had written two days ago. He read it aloud, and the family dog, who was very old indeed, curled up and stopped moving. It was a profound moment in his life. He realized the sheer power in writing. He grabbed a pencil and some paper, and began writing a letter to the world. He didn't come out of his room until the next day. His parents were worried, but they knew he was a bit of a recluse, and he'd come out when he was hungry. He burst forth from his room, eyes bloodshot and mouth stretched in a mad grin.

"I've done it. I've written it. This is the letter. The letter to the world. It will solve everything. World hunger, war, hatred. Everything. It solves all of it."

His parents were a little skeptical to be sure. They sat down, and read his work. It was two pages, single spaced, in Times New Roman. When they were finished, they looked at each other. They stared for a moment at each other, then turned to their son. Then, they smiled.

"We have to call the press. Our son has saved the world!" His Father said.

"Forget that, get in the car, we're going to Washington." His mother called.

They all hurried into the car, and got on the highway. They could take this to the White House. Everything would be fine from now on. Father was driving like mad. He was going 80 in a 65. A cop stopped him, but he let them go after reading the letter. He said he was going home to tell his children he loved them. They continued on, faster this time.

The black sedan was coming from the other direction as they crossed the brodge. The driver had been drinking since noon. He had been laid off from his job that day, and his wife had left him the previous night. He was on the wrong side of the road.

They were crossing the bridge. It was a two lane suspension bridge. They saw the Black Sedan. Shane's family swerved to avoid him. Swerved right off the bridge. Straight into the water. They didn't make it out in time. The letter was never found.

[Grandiagod]

Mead, I just have to say, the last story was magnificent.

[mead1]

Coo~

[mead1]

Reflections from a Yellow Mop-Bucket

There is a table in the restaurant. There are many tables, but the staff sits at this one on break. It’s in the furthest corner from the counter. It’s a good job, but everyone wants to get as far away from the front line as possible. People sit there, and for a moment, they are no longer co-workers, they are friends. No longer are they depending on one another to bag the next order, to butter the next sandwich, to assuage the anger of that customer over there. At this table, time stops, people laugh, and the job seems oh so far away.

When standing on the front line, your vision changes. You see every person as not a soul, not a face, but an obstacle to be overcome. Or, that is how it should be. It simply isn’t, though. You try to treat every customer the same, to give them all the best service possible, but that’s not how it is. These sixty-second meetings give you a real impression of a person, and you start to notice things. From the poor, lonely woman who sits in the same booth day in and day out, reading alone, to the family who has just picked up their daughter from dance class, their eldest son from football, and their younger son from karate, you get to know them all.

In theory, training the newbie is a simple task. You have a list. It’s to be checked off. They give you four days, even though it takes three hours tops. Training is so much more then mere passing down of knowledge. The process for the older employees is something similar to having a child. They come to know not only how to do their job, but how you do yours. They learn not only the textbook knowledge, but the little tricks of the trade you’ve picked up along the way. When they train someone, They will pass on their own as well. Employee Evolution. It’s a shame in that matter, that most come and go so quick.

New employees are like Customers, really. Even though you know they’ve only come to this job temporarily, and will probably be gone within the month, you come to know them. When they leave, within the month, as you expected, it truly is like the loss of a family member. You remember only the good times. The times where you depended on them, and they came through for you. This memory isn’t accurate, but it’s what you see. Even if you didn’t get to know them, you mourn the loss of one more competent hand. The restaurant needs as many of those as it can get. It’s a pity they come and go so fast.

Then there are those whom you’ve worked with forever. In reality it has been only a year, but it feels like forever. The group of those of us still foolish enough to work there is a diverse one. We aren’t the sort of people who would come together under any other circumstance, but that’s what happens when you work with people. Rarely do we meet outside of our job, but still we are family.

At that table, in the far back, is an employee. She’s worked here longer then most anyone. Her shift ended hours ago, and just a few moments ago she returned to the restaurant. Nobody asked her any questions. She sits alone, sobbing softly to herself. She makes a dozen calls on her cell phone, telling her friends from the real world about the tragedy that has just occurred. A few yards away, the front counter isn’t busy. We haven’t had a customer in hours. Nobody notices what is going on at the table. A lone employee is out on the nearby floor. He has to mop the whole floor in the next hour. Just three hours ago, he and this same girl sat at the table she is now sobbing at, and chatted airily about school. He sees her, but he simply continues his work. The only sounds in the restaurant are sobbing. Sobbing, and the sound of the mop. Swishing and swaying.

Back

And Forth

Back

And Forth

[Valtrix]

I like your stories, however I have one quick suggestion for you (since, I'm not in a very revisionary mood right now). I noticed in some of the righting that you've used words such as "we," and "reader," but I think that they don't fit the rest of the perspective of the pieces, since they're mostly third person.

Just something to consider about when you're writing. Unity = good, keep on writing =P

[FoJaR]

Originally Posted by Valtrix

I like your stories, however I have one quick suggestion for you (since, I'm not in a very revisionary mood right now). I noticed in some of the righting that you've used words such as "we," and "reader," but I think that they don't fit the rest of the perspective of the pieces, since they're mostly third person.

Just something to consider about when you're writing. Unity = good, keep on writing =P

just something to consider...

[Valtrix]

>_> I don't proofread what I WRITE all the time.

Plus, don't criticize a single typo when you don't bother to use correct punctuation.

[mead1]

The difference being that FoJaR has shown consistently that he is intelligent.

I once wrote a rap about him.

That's how cool he is.

[FoJaR]

just bustin' your balls valtrix.

and mead i didnt dislike them, but the only one i really enjoyed was valhalla inc.

but i really did enjoy it.

[mead1]

So this one I wrote in June of last year instead of doing a conventional Holocaust project. I don't recall if I posted it, but I don't think I did

--

Winter at Auschwitz

It is winter at Auschwitz. You are a 16 year old Jew currently residing in the camp. You have been there for about a week. The labor has been back-breaking, and the food has barely kept you alive. You weren't a very physical person back at home, and now you are paying for it dearly. Your family, both mother and father, died in the last selection. The only reason you still go on is that You and your twin brother made a promise. A promise that both of you would make it out of this pit of despair alive. One day, while hauling some heavy machinery, you hear about a special labor unit headed by Doctor Mengele. You saw him when you first arrived. He was a short man, with a bit of a creepy smile. Rumor says if you join his unit, the rations are better. You reason the work must also be easier, as the special labor unit never leaves the hospital. The two of you talk it over one night, and decide that the situation couldn't possibly get worse, so the next day, the both of you apply for the unit.



After another day of hard labor, your brother comes in smiling; you haven't seen him smile since you've been here. He says you were both picked, and tomorrow you are to report to the hospital bright and early.



The next morning, you walk together to the hospital. Dr. Mengele is standing at the door, smiling that creepy smile and offering his hand. He tells you that this will be your new home for the duration of your stay at Auschwitz. He guides both of you to a small room where you are presented with new clothes, and a slightly larger ration then what you are used to. You have no duties that day, and you spend most of it lying in bed, trying to prepare for whatever awaits you the next day. Slowly, you fall asleep that night.



As you wake up, it is dark, you are half aware of not being able to move. You try to look down, but your head is restrained. You call out to your brother. He is there too, presumably restrained somewhere else in the dark room. The lights come on suddenly. Dr. Mengele comes through the door. He explains that he has always had a morbid fascination with twins, and that he believes the two of you are genetically the same, and could become one being. He explains that the both of you were sedated last night so that you could be transported and restrained properly, so that today your duty could begin. The structure you are attached to is wheeled a few feet, and you can hear your brother's breath beside you. Your arms are now side by side. You clasp his hand, and remind him that you will both make it out alive. Before you can reassure him further, you are both gagged. Two doctors in white clothes simultaneously cut open your right arm and the left arm of your brother. You try to scream out, but the gag holds. You can feel them plucking veins out of your arm. The pain is intense, and burning. The doctors go about their work. Sewing the veins of your arm to that of your brother's. You can see the needle out of the corner of your eye. It's like some twisted perversion of grandmother's knitting. You pass out in another minute.



When you wake up, it is dark again. You still cannot move. Your limbs feel weak. You imagine it's due to blood loss. Again, Dr. Mengele enters and the lights turn on. This time, your brother is not in the room, and this time, you see a bloody stump where your right arm should be. Dr. Mengele explains that the surgery did not go well, and they had to amputate your arm to avoid the spread of infection. Your brother however, had not been so lucky. He had lost so much blood on that table that he had not ever woken up. When he explains this to you, you lose hope. For the first time since you have been here, there seems no point in going on. You cry out to him to kill you, to send you to the crematory, you no longer wish to live, but he just smiles the same creepy smile you saw on your arrival to Auschwitz. He says you are just getting started. He says the troops on the front line are freezing to death, and they need to find a way to survive. That's where you come in. A guinea pig of the Nazis. He tells you that you are doing the greatest service for the cause any Jew could.



A few doctors move you to a stretcher. You don't try to fight back, what little strength you once had is gone. They remove your last few strips of clothing, and take you outside. It is winter at Auschwitz. The temperature far below zero. Your body does not even have the strength to shiver. They set you down outside, and go back in. You can see the sky, and the snow falling. You do not even notice the cold anymore. You muse at how pretty the snowflakes look, as they fall onto your eyes, eyes that barely have the strength to blink. Eventually, you decide to try to die. To stop thinking. To stop Feeling. To stop being. And slowly, you feel it working. You drift slowly into death's cold grasp. But you are happy at it's embrace, because it's much warmer then where you came from.



Your next impression is light. Bright light. Light that blinds you, and burns you. Once more you are gagged, and restrained. You feel cheated. Death had claimed you, you had escaped. Doctor Mengele comes in, and tells you that you almost didn't make it, but the heat lamps revived you. He also tells you that you will be left in front of these lamps for about twelve more hours, to test the effects of Overexposure. He leaves, and the burning sets in. Your skin feels scorched already, and now, it starts to crackle. This room has a clock, you see it has been no more then five minutes since the doctor left. Your skin begins to peel about thirty minutes later, but you can't tell. By this time it hurts too much to open your eyes. The lights constantly feel hotter. The pain would be unbearable, but you stopped caring about pain an eternity ago. Again, you will yourself to die. Will yourself to let go. Will yourself to be free. And this time, you don't want to wake up to a smile.



They remove your body the next day. A mass of burned skin. You are thrown into a large grave of hundreds of others from the special labor force. The snow covers you in about an hour, and yet again, it is winter at Auschwitz.

[TheGreatDecay]

Those were all pretty good, they've got more depth and meaning than dozens of novels I've read.

"Winter at Auschwitz" was probably my favorite.

[mead1]

WARNING OBLIGATORY LOVE STORY

I didn't really intend for this to end up as such as excellent paragraph, but I really like how it turned out.

--

Greatest Moment of My Life

I think it was when I stared into the cool blue eyes of the woman I loved on that magical night years ago. The room was dark, some sappy song was playing too loudly, but for me, the night was brilliant. Every detail is etched into my mind as though it was yesterday. The way I stood, the way she smelled, the way we moved. It all feels like a dream. Like it happened a moment ago, like it happened a millenia ago. I could hear her singing the song, but it sounded distant. I was too far gone at that point. I was wrapped up in the moment. I was in love, and it was everything I had hoped for. Our embrace seemed to last for hours, I had to force myself to breathe. I was so afraid. Then, I let go. I let myself be rather then being. As I shifted from active to passive voice, it was as though my life was being viewed through a television. A magical romance, fit for a late night movie, cherished by the old and the very young.