Stefani Allison enters our contest once more with a burning desire for literary recognition. She might try a little canned heat. (editor’s note–that would be moi–ambition should bee made of sterno stuff)
Here is here entry into You Didn’t Write That. Our last submission will be accepted on Sunday, midnight California time (is there ANY other time?) and we will announce finalists Monday morning.
by Stefani Allison
“You didn’t write that,” Hannah pleaded to me.
“Silence, 398734,” my superior barked as he ripped my love letter to shreds. “Hauptman Fritz, escort her to the furnace.” My orders were that simple.
When I fell to my knees in the mud before her, I saw finger-shaped bruises on her neck where there should have only been kisses.
“Does your love for me burn as hot as the furnaces?” I asked her as I squeezed her hands.
She grimaced for a moment at my choice of words, but she squeezed back.
“Hotter,” she whispered. My superior grabbed me by the collar of my jacket and forced me to stand.
“Then the furnace should feel much cooler,” he sneered right before the American tanks buried the gate doors into the ground.
I grabbed Hannah’s hand in the insanity of liberation and we made a run to an abandoned cabin near the camp. When we got inside, Hannah’s strong but undernourished body collapsed against mine and I ran my hands through all her licorice red hair she had that had barely begun to grow back.
“There’s no electricity here,” I whispered to her. “So we’ll just have to make our own heat.”