Hope

Rachel’s hands icy cold and legs so frail she could hardly stand, she gagged from her own body odor. The babbling of the malnourished became constant and she tuned them out. Her skin was riddled with bug bites, her teeth loosed from lack of nourishment, and her lips craved water. Rachel’s crime was being Jewish, and the suffering had only begun. She didn’t know where the train was going, but knew it was bad.

In the last minutes of her life, when she and the others breathed in the noxious gas in the dark enclosed chamber, she adhered to hope.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Death Camp

Aviva Blonheim stepped onto the train with her parents. As the German soldier closed the door, he chortled. Aviva, only ten years old, didn't understand why Herr Hitler hated the Jewish, and as she glanced at her people packed into herds, unkempt, smelling of sweat and urine, she became more frightened. She tightly clutched her mother’s hand.

Upon arrival, they were led in groups to a small room. Aviva realized something bad was happening, and her parents collapsed, unresponsive. People clawed the walls to no avail.

As the poison gas entered Aviva, she grasped her throat and collapsed into darkness.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Next Gas 190 Miles

Genevieve stepped down from her jeep at the lonely fueling station, according to the sign the last chance for services for 200 miles, and smoked a cigarette under the half-dead oak tree. A litany of lizards scurried away as she approached.

She wondered how many drivers stopped here in a day. She had passed maybe half a dozen vehicles the entire morning. She couldn't imagine how the people out here survived so far from civilization.

The old man working the pump had skin as weathered as the geckos' from too much sun. She decided to tip him an extra twenty.

On My Way?

Speeding through town, the traffic light signals me to stop. I sit. Idle. Stone faced. I’ve been stuck here many times. On my way to the wedding. On my way to the police station. On my way to the hospital. To the hospital again. Even in the ambulance, I assume. On my way to court. Now, here, I’m stopped again. Alone. My right foot yearning to push the gas. I always obey the traffic light. Red light. Red blood. My blood he committed to spilling one soul-crushing punch at a time. Stupid traffic light. Suddenly, I get the green light.

From Guest Contributor Nancy Geibe Wasson

Wanderlust

At age eleven I begged to travel to Venice, to see those water streets.

“My desert baby has wanderlust,” Mama laughed.

On weekends, if we had money for gas, she’d tell me, “Pick a direction.”

We stopped at roadside attractions to buy those tiny spoons. We ate questionable tamales. We took pictures with four different Paul Bunyan statues.

For my sixteenth birthday, we followed highway signs promising The Thing. Surprise! It was a fake mummy. Stomach dropping, I realized people like us never saw the Grand Canal.

“We’re lucky,” Mama whispered. “Italians don’t even dream about seeing something like this.”

From Guest Contributor L.L. Madrid