Is It A Lie?

Anna walks in and out of alleys to avoid the Gestapo, hiding bread and cheese under her coat to feed the Jewish child she is hiding.

Anna, a Catholic, met Helena in the neighborhood when they were children and have been friends ever since. When news broke that Hitler would be sending the Jewish to camps, Anna immediately took her friend’s daughter into hiding.

She makes it home without incident. Anna hurries upstairs to the attic and pushes the latch open.

Anna takes the girl in her arms and tells her everything will be all right.

Is it a lie?

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Melodious Birds

Erik sat silently in the small attic, fatigued, and his legs aching from being crunched together in the confined space. His father had told him to stay quietly hidden until the birds chirped.

Before the gunshot, his mother screamed. His father yelled a profanity, then he heard another gunshot and muffled his cries.

As Erik awakened, the birds sang. He slowly opened the creaking door and went downstairs.

In the kitchen, his parents bloodied bodies laid on the floor and a Nazi soldier stood against the wall.

“Ich habe gewartet.” I’ve been waiting.

A gun was aimed at Erik’s head.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Love Letters

They sit in the bottom of a shoebox in a dusty corner of an attic on an unremarkable street in a neighborhood that could be located almost anywhere. Love letters. Old, forgotten love letters. They were written over thirty years ago by two people who barely exist anymore, only one of whom lives in this particular house. He doesn’t remember they’re there, of course, and she, wherever she is, doesn’t remember writing them. She has moved on, married someone else, had kids, just like he did. But the letters remain, fading reminders of a forgotten passion neither one feels anymore.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

Last Box

“Meat grinder?” I asked.

Arnold laughed. “Strange guess, sis’.”

“Not at all. Grandma kept her favorite possessions even when shecouldn’t use them anymore.”

Arnold shook the box. Contents moved.

“She grinded roasts for cabbage rolls and meatloaf,” I added.

The overhead light flickered as it swayed. I shivered.

“Let’s carry the box downstairs,” I said. “I hate attics.”

“Why, you’re scared?” Arnold snickered.

I followed my brother into the kitchen. Inside the box we foundparcels wrapped in Christmas print. Each labelled with tags spellingout names of the family.

Grandma didn’t have a chance to give them out.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.

Happier Times

Lindsey searched the attic for old family photos. Her dad had just passed away from Alzheimer’s and she wanted to make a collage for the funeral. Through dust and cobwebs she came across the box. She found the photo of her and her dad when she was five-years-old. The Ferris wheel was scary to her young eyes.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be with you to hold your hand.” She heard her dad’s voice.

She pressed the picture close to her chest. Then she placed the picture in the pile of memories she’d cherish from happier times before his disease took him.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Old Mrs. Meyer

Johan returns with the potatoes for lunch. Mrs. Meyer, who lives opposite, opens her door. Though he’s eleven, the kind old lady still gives him candy.

However, seeing the two Gestapo officers with her, Johan hides.

“My father was German,” she says.

“The Reich is grateful,” they reply.

Soldiers arrive. Knocking down their front door, they drag out his parents and the family in the attic.

“Jew-loving Dutch swine!” says a soldier, spitting at his father.

Johan never sees them again.

His eyes meet Mrs. Meyer’s, peering out from between her curtains.

He never forgets her look of triumphant malice.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Born and raised in Cardiff, Wales, Ian has an MA in English from Oxford University. He has had poems and short stories published in Schlock! Webzine, 1947 A Literary Journal, Dead Snakes, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Poems and Poetry, Friday Flash Fiction, and in various anthologies.

Genie: The Musical

So Naomi found this old lamp in the attic. When she was cleaning it off, a genie appeared and granted her one wish. Before anyone could stop her, she wishes for her life to become just like in a musical.

That's all well and good for her. She's married to a handsome tenor (though I reckon he's probably gay) and every dramatic moment in her life gets played out in song form.

I, on the other hand, never get to say (or sing) anything. I'm just the guy in the back trying to keep time during all the dance numbers.

The Attic

The Smith's attic had been used sparely in recent decades. Occasionally, one family member or the other would allow the ebullience of Spring to convince them to open the trap door, but the thick dust cloud that emerged always changed their mind.

As such, an entire ecosystem had erupted. New lifeforms unknown to science inhabited the various niches created among the forgotten furniture and boxes of National Geographics.

The Smith's often felt guilty for their neglect. Their cousin Tommy had once visited the attic and his body was probably still rotting up there. His parents always nagged them about it.

Dead Of Night

"Never open the attic door."

It was the number one family rule, one hammered into Simon from the time he could walk.

The caution seemed excessive. If the heavy padlock were not enough to keep Simon out of the attic, the whispered voices he heard in the dead of night on his way to the bathroom certainly were.

When his sister was killed, brotherly love succeeded where simple curiosity failed. Not two weeks after the funeral, he heard her calling to him from the attic.

Simon quickly learned why "Never open the attic door" was the number one family rule.