The Secret

Stamped -From his heart to the grave. He carried it on his chest until the day he died. Some say he wanted to start fights, others say he was just a believer. I knew better. I had heard the story more than hundred times, how he escaped prosecution. The beatings were terrible. They pushed and pulled his skin so many different directions that in the end, it was better they finally branded him. It was a mark that defined him: his life, his hardships, his hatred, and his reason behind his final act. Joshua Adam Slepinksy. Born 1916; Died 2006. The man who forgot what real was.

A long, long time ago, Mr. Slepinsky was my neighbor. I used to awake in the middle of the night to his screaming, and would run next door, terrified that he might wake up and think I was one of them. I would hurry and turn on the light, and quickly wrap a warm wash cloth around his sweaty forehead to calm him. Sometimes he cried, other times he would scream at me in a language I wished I didn’t know. Other people in the neighborhood were afraid of Mr. Slepinsky. They thought he was crazy – some even thought that he had gotten out of prison, but I had learned early on never to make assumptions: people can be wonderful, despite their battered shells. Looking back, I think I was the only friend the old man had. I never saw another car at his place, or any visitors stop by. In the five years he lived next to me, I never once saw another person knock on his door. Most of the neighborhood shunned away from him.

One cold Winter day I was out getting my mail, and I heard a crash. Mr. Slepinsk had slipped on his icy driveway. He had lost his footing, and had landed square on his back – the wind knocked completely out of him. That was how I met him. I went over to give him a hand – and although he glared at me through steely eyes, I knew in my heart that he was grateful.

From that day forward, I went over to my neighbor’s house daily. I would bring him the mail, cook him dinner occasionally, and clean his house while he would tell me stories of how he had been punished. He told me of his hatred towards them, and how they had maimed him for life. One day he lifted up his shirt to show me the mark that caused him so much grief: a swastika tattoo spread across his wrinkled chest – faded from years of neglect. The tattoo was so large, it nearly covered his entire torso. The ink had faded to a medium shade of gray, but it clearly was done with more emphasis than I could imagine. Mr. Slepinsky told me that he was a victim of the Holocaust. Sometimes while reliving the stories, he would start screaming in German – and I would pretend not to understand. Generally he would scream phrases consistent with torture, but occasionally throughout his ranting, he would mumble “Sieg Heil,” or Hail Victory – a term used by the Nazi’s throughout the War. I imagined he had heard the phrase so many times that i t was his subconscious reminding him of the terrible atrocities committed against his Jewish brethren.

I was making dinner for him one night during the Christmas season – Hannukah for Mr. Slepinsky, and he began his usual diatribe. He complained of his days of torture, and gave me a graphic representation that I shuddered when imagining. I asked him if he had any oregano – I was making lasagna, and wanted him to enjoy my homemade recipe, but I had forgotten it next door. He said that he did, and came over to the cupboard next to the stove where I was cooking. I’ll never forget what I saw next. Mr. Slepisnky was wearing a white tank top – with a light jacket draped over him. As he reached his frail arm above me to get the spice, I noticed a small scar on the inside of his left underarm. Old tattoo ink remained around the scar – and I was horrified by what it meant. For the next few weeks I would continue to visit Mr. Slepinsky, but in the back of my mind, the sinister memory burned.

My final visit came one night 13 years ago. He invited me for dinner to tell me about his life prior to the mark. He began lamenting about his wife and four children. Nostalgic memories poured from his heart, about the beautiful life they lived, and the warm Sunday dinners they shared. He told me about growing up in Germany, and the friends he once had. He rattled on about his mother and father, and the care they provided for their family. His father had two jobs and worked tirelessly to provide for little Joseph. He began to cry as he told me how his family had been taken from him. While tears rolled down my face, without thinking, I blurted out: “Es tut mir leid," the German phrase for “I’m sorry.” Mr. Slepinsky jumped out of his chair -seething inside. I have never seen such hatred from a person. He tore across the table in less time than it took me to realize what I had done. He shouted at me to get out of his house and never come back.

Two weeks later he moved, and for the next 12 years I wondered what had become of the bitter man. I prayed that he had met someone else to take care of him, and that he had somehow forgiven the young boy who lived next door so many years ago: a boy who himself had lost his grandfather many years ago the same War fighting against the Americans. Then last week, I stumbled across this headline, and knew that the man I wished I could have saved would have known the secret that I discovered:

Waffen-SS Survivor Shoots Himself in Chest, Carves

“I’m Sorry” Into Swastika Tattoo; Identified as Jewish Traitor

Jacob’s Freedom

Jacob stared vacantly out the window as the palm trees gently brushed the balcony. He could see their movement, but couldn’t grasp what was happening. He had seen the trees move before – wildly sometimes even, but normally Jacob only saw them in their stillness as they rested upright reaching towards the sun. Below, the beach was layered with people wearing underclothing, occasionally sprinkled with naked breasts and sun-kissed private parts. Jacob knew that he shouldn’t stare at the women, but was fascinated by the way that their nakedness seemed to free them. He couldn’t think of a better way to let the water stroke a body, and imagined it must be the same feeling that he gets in the morning, when his mother pulls off his clothing and makes him stand in the curtain covered white room, where the water splatters across his body from the metal thing above.


He wanted so much to run down to the beach and take off his shorts, but couldn’t get the meaning out of his mouth. He never could - he didn’t know how people moved their mouths back and forth to make words, but he understood when people made the sounds. He began to tap the window loudly with his fists, hoping that someone could hear him.


His mother walked in “Jacob honey, do you want something?” He bounced his head up and down pointing sideways with his jaw at the ocean below.

“You want the beach sweetheart?”Jacob nodded fervently, pushing his hands down on his shorts to show her that he wanted to take his clothes off.

His mother laughed, “honey, you can’t go out there naked – it’s only what grown-ups do.” He balked – banging his head into the glass.

“Oh honey, I understand – you’ve never been to the ocean before. Let’s get your sister and see if she wants to go swimming, k?”

Jacob looked out the window again, rocking quietly back and forth as his mother called in her high-pitched voice to his sister. He wanted to get into that water, and let it push him around like the other people were doing. Back and forth, he swayed. The colors below melted into him. As the indigo water kissed the white sandy ground, a kind of foam would emerge, reaching towards the sprawled out bodies. Jacob thought that the water was trying to touch them to make them free too.


Sarah bounced into the room smiling. “Hi Jake, what’cha doing?” Jacob rocked, and flapped his hands towards the window- grinning from excitement.

Sarah grabbed his hand, nodding approvingly at the Curaçao coast. “Let’s go – Dad can help you into the water.”

Jacob beamed, and continued to flap as he pounded his sandals into the ground after her. Sarah walked fast, her steps quick and calculating. Jacob watched her feet as he followed her down to the blueness. Behind him, he could hear his father’s voice telling his mother goodbye. Stomp, stomp, stomp, went the feet around him. Splash, splash, splash, went the water. Jacob swayed from side-to-side in anticipation.

“You excited buddy?” His father asked from behind.

“Uhhhh,” Jacob moaned, extending his neck to stretch his voice. He knew his father would understand – he always did. Even when Jacob was still and couldn’t communicate with motion, his father could read his fragmented thoughts, and would show him that he understood what nobody else could.

Sarah flipped her sandals off and sprinted towards the beach, kicking sand behind her as she ran. Jacob stopped abruptly and pulled his head upwards to watch his sister. He wanted to see if her face showed the familiar freedom that he had noticed all morning. As she stepped into the ocean, Sarah turned to face them, grinning from ear to ear, and Jacob knew that she felt it. He decided then that being naked wasn’t important, because his sister had on her underclothes and she was free. His father gently wrapped his fingers around Jacob’s wrist, signaling that he also understood.

Jacob turned towards his father, bobbing his head to let him know he was ready, and they began to walk towards the water. The women that he saw earlier were laying on brightly colored towels, their bodies soaking in the sunlight. Jacob started to move his hands, carrying his father’s with him as he swayed.

“Alright Jake, let’s take off your shirt and get in – I’ll be right next to you the whole time.”

Jacob moved his arms towards the sky allowing his father to take his shirt off. Without hesitation, Jacob grabbed his father’s hand and guided them into freedom, smiling broadly as he took his first step into the ocean.

The End

SIMON SAID

The following is a part of a larger story that I have been working on for quite sometime. Because it is somewhat of a memoir, It is sometimes too painful to continue, which is why I only have 10 pages done. Any comments would help - thanks!


Simon stared out the window. The snow piled down sideways and had started to cover up the pane, so that all he could see now was the cab of his orange truck. He knew it was time to go to the doctor again, but the blizzard was his refuge. The pain had reached inside and twisted itself into black knots of decay and he could barely stand up. Instead, he sat in his favorite leather chair with his right leg stretched out carefully in front of him.

The chair had been his only friend for the past year and it still smelled like her, so he sat for hours on end. Sometimes he even fell asleep, waking occasionally, to rest his nose against the cold leather, inhaling its fading memory. His refusal to get out of the chair that once held her, kept him from going to the doctor yesterday, and it surely would keep him from going today. He looked around the room at his possessions and thought of his success. Each thing he owned however, brought him back to remembering her, and the vicious cycle forced him to shut his eyes.

Two hours later, Simon awoke and looked out the window again. The snow had almost covered the entire glass, and he could only see through a small area, his fading bumper.

“Thank God,” he said out loud, startling himself.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken, or with whom, and his voice had a callous hoarseness to it, as if he were a chain smoker, and had recently quit. Although Simon didn’t believe in God, it was a phrase that he often said, and afterwards, always found himself silently frustrated that he had thanked something that didn’t exist. It would be one thing if he had thanked his wonderful chair - or the table even, but to thank God was ridiculous it seemed, and yet he said it again and again, and each time he wanted to kick himself for his stupidity. At any rate, he was happy that there was absolutely no way that he could go to the doctor and that he had yet another excuse to sit and remember the last time he held her.

It’s not as if Katrina had died or anything, she had just disappeared one day, and never came back. Simon had just taken out the garbage, and they were ready to go on one of those long walks that they took each night around the beautiful neighborhood. When he walked in, Katrina was standing in the doorway, screaming. He tried to calm her down, but she just went on screaming, babbling incoherently about her cat and its fur, and how much she wanted to stroke it. Simon didn’t understand the ranting, or where it was coming from - they didn’t even have a cat - hadn’t for years in fact.

He called the doctor, who told Simon to take her to the emergency room immediately. When he tried to get Katrina in the car, she screeched loudly, and slapped him hard on the face. It was as if she didn’t know him and had never seen her husband before. Simon’s face stung from the icy hand, and he tried hard not to grab her. Frantic, he called the doctor again, and within a half an hour, Dr. Wild standing on his front door step trying to calm Simon down. The doctor wouldn't make eye contact with Simon, who was starting to feel as if this whole event was planned.
He couldn’t grasp what was happening - why the family doctor of thirty years was so formal - why Katrina suddenly snapped, as if she had seen a ghost. It clearly defied all the rules of logic, and Simon was always a logical man.

Within thirty-five minutes, Dr. Wild had explained that Katrina had likely either had a stroke or was overtaken by sudden onset Alzheimer’s disease and would need further evaluation to be certain. Simon was beside himself. What would he do? How could they tell? Was there a test? Could it be erased? Could she come back? Would she remember him? All of these questions and more were thrown at Dr. Wild, who sadly could not answer them without stuttering and stammering and this made Simon even crazier. He wanted to punch the man in the face – the old man who had taken care of his family nearly his whole life. He imagined tearing Dr. Wild’s lips away from his mouth and stomping on them to force them shut. Simon couldn’t breathe, and his heart was thumping so loudly, he was sure Dr. Wild could hear it, and would tell him he was having a heart attack. But instead of dropping dead on the front porch, they were both summoned by a horrible, piercing shriek. Katrina had opened the door and was apparently terrified by the sight of the two men.

They managed to get her in the car, which was no small endeavor. She cried, screamed, and hollered her cat’s name, while angry tears poured down her face. When Simon tried to hold her hand, she pushed it aside and withdrew, as if touching it would taint her. They rode together in bruised silence, and Simon was sure he would faint if he didn’t get there soon.

When they finally got to the hospital, Katrina looked at Simon and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, remembered him. She clung to him as if her whole life depended on that moment. Simon held her and breathed her hair into his nostrils - the hair that he had smelled a thousand times before which was previously ordinary, smelled of roses. He felt her breasts against him, warm, and part of him. They fit together perfectly - better than any two people in the world, Simon thought. When Katrina let go, she reached her lips up to his, and whispered into his mouth the single words that he could never repeat, nor ever forget.

The Convert

The smell of Pakistan crawled inside his nose and he felt the need to vomit. Memories of neo talibs came rushing to his mind, and it was all he could do to suppress the pictures that once wrought his psychotic state. Outside was bleak and gray – the mountains appeared smeared with dirt: brown and colorless. Since the war, Abdul Khalil no longer saw the majestic Sulemans as beautiful, instead he viewed them with contempt and anger.

As he stepped outside of the Chai Café, he remembered he had forgotten his passport on his dresser. Panicking, Abdul raced back to the hotel, afraid that the clerk might steal it, or perhaps sell it to make a few rupees. As he approached the front desk, he saw a suspicious character, a definite extremist, jumping into a taxi. Abdul began sweating, certain that if his passport was gone, he would have no way to get out of this wretched country, and might be forced to succumb to memories everyday of his life until he escaped.

When he reached his hotel room, Abdul noticed the door was ajar, and a servant was inside cleaning. He pushed past the servant and over to his dresser, which was wiped clean, no remnant remaining. Screaming angrily in Urdu at the servant, he demanded to know what had happened to his passport. The servant was a Pahtan, and had no idea what the crazed man was talking about and stuttered a reply in Pashto only to be given an irate look of desperation from the man.

Abdul began shaking, frightened of the possible consequences if it couldn’t be located. He ran down the hallway towards the stairs when he heard some muted voices in English coming from the lobby. He could only make out a few words from a man with a British accent.

“Have you seen this man?”

“What time …. check out?”

“Shukria, Allah hafiz”

Abdul didn’t know what to do. Could they have been talking about him? Should he be seen? What if they had his passport? All these questions ran through his mind as he paced the hallway.

To Be Continued….

The Gift of Ignorance

This is a flash fiction piece I wrote a couple of months ago - I couldn't come up with a poem today :-(.....

Joni was on the hospital bed screaming, as the contractions ripped through her pelvis and abdomen. The pain was intolerable and moved inside her body every two minutes, like rolling waves. It was too late for the doctor to give her an epidural and just as she was ready to pass out from pain; her vagina felt a sharp stabbing ache, forcing itself open. Sweat started pouring down her face, and she could taste its salty beads on her lips. She gasped for air as the throbbing continued, and tried not to think of the only other time she felt this kind of agony.

Over the next ten minutes, the pain continued to escalate, and Joni couldn’t seem to get enough air. She gripped the side of her damp bed, digging her nails into the mattress. The doctor’s voice was mumbled, and all she could make out was the word “push.” She forced herself to press downward every time the wave came, and could feel the baby slide outward as she was torn open below. The last thing Joni heard was a high-pitched cry, and the room went dark.

When the nurse came in twenty minutes later to wake Joni with news that she had a beautiful baby boy, Joni knew there must have been a mistake. There was no way she had wasted nine and a half months to give birth to a child with a penis.

“That baby’s not mine,” Joni insisted, still groggy from labor.

The nurse looked down at the delicate blue bundle she was holding. “Well of course he’s yours, Ms. Kontroy, I helped with the delivery.”

“No! I’m sure you’ve made a mistake, I had a little girl - Cheyenne – with perfect little hands and tiny feet; I heard her cry,” Joni urged, and turned her head to give a vacant stare out the hospital window.

The nurse had seen this before; women who wanted a girl so desperately that they went insane upon discovering they had been mistaken their whole pregnancy. She wasn’t about to let this woman deny the child any longer and walked over confidently, bending towards her with the sleeping baby.

Joni inhaled the sweet earthy scent of her newborn, and slowly turned towards the nurse. Glycerin tears flowed down her cheeks as she looked down at the child outstretched before her. She didn’t anticipate what would happen next: her heart flip-flopped as her soul interpreted what her eyes beheld. He was the most precious infant she had ever seen. His cheeks were plump and rosy, and his dark lashes rested shut against his tawny colored skin. Although the nurse had not placed a daughter in her arms, she realized at that moment that this child was going to change her life forever.