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I scramble the room for the file. Many lives depend on the information, including mine. When I accepted this job, I knew the risks involved and didn’t care. Now I just want to go back to my life.

Where is it? I search the desk drawer and every cabinet, but nothing. Major Thompson may be wrong. I swear quietly. It is not here.

Outside the sirens roar and car doors slam. Yelling soon follows.

I slip out onto the ledge and wait for their destruction to end before entering the room again.

The Nazi’s didn’t catch me. Not this time.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

My Father

My father says it’s okay to be scared, but now it’s time to be brave. I trust and look up to him, so when he tells me to hide under the floorboard because the Nazis are coming, I do so.

There’s banging at the front door, and then it bursts open. Footsteps and yelling are what I hear. My legs are cramped and I’m sweating from my forehead to my cheeks.

My father is crying, pleading with the Nazis and I feel helpless hiding. I want to show myself, but I’m too frightened.

Gunshot, thump, silence.

My father is dead.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

A Mother’s Love

First it was only yelling. Then she sported bruises. The police carted him away. He came back. He was sorry, couldn’t believe he was capable of that. She let him back in. He escalated. A fresh set of bruises appeared. The cycle continued.

She stayed to protect the child. His safety was all that mattered. A mother’s love.

A protection order was issued, papers were served, the divorce imminent. That was the legal way to handle the situation, but not Dad’s way. He wasn’t worried about legal. He didn’t give his daughter away to be slapped around. A father’s love.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin