So. A million, billion years ago (or...one year) I wrote and self-published a collection of nine short stories. I am pretty sure all of them are crap. I decided to post a random one tonight because I am clearly in need of sleep and want to do something that I'll regret in the morning.

But the story is a true one, as far as I know. My mother told it to me when I was a little girl (the nurse in the story is based on her). Things have obviously been changed, and while I'm not proud of the craft, I am proud of the story itself. Not that I have any right to be.

Warning: This story deals with WWII-era themes, concentration camps, segregation, loneliness, etc. Do not read if you're triggered by such things.

( Cut for length and warning. )

And that is the end of that. Since the books are obviously not going to sell, I may just shrug it off and post all of the stories here, every so often. It's interesting to see how much I've changed as a writer, and how much I haven't. I definitely think I've gotten stronger since I wrote this piece, though. But I've never been a good self-critic.