Thread: 01/07/12 - LM - Shoes Hanging on a Wire.

LITERARY MANEUVERS
The July Challenge


A reminder of the prizes awarded to the winner of the LM.
Their entry will appear in the WF Newsletter, which is a good chance to get your work widely circulated.
Now we are also offering a Friends of WF (FoWF) subscription free for a month to the first place winner!


So, do your best.

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This time around in the LM Forum we use the prompt:
Shoes Hanging on a Wire
In 650 words, write a story where the line above is either the title, or is included in the story, or is in some way the theme of the story. So there should be many ways to connect to the prompt.


The judges for this round are Terry D, Fin, BabaYaga and Mr Mitchell.
(To the judges, send your scores to Potty - and if we could aim to have them sent a week after the closing date that would be ideal.)

Now a recap of the rules:
1.The word limit is 650 words not including the title. If you go over - Your story will not be counted.
2.You can no longer edit your entry after posting. There will be a 10-minute grace period, if you want to go in there and edit a typo or something, but you should approach this as if you were submitting your work to be published and paid for. When you submit, that should be your final work, the work you are happy with.
3.And of course, there can only be one entry per member.


As always, there are two ways to post your entry:

You can opt to have your entry posted in the LM Workshop Thread which is a special thread just for LM entries in the Writer's Workshop. You would put your story there if you wish to protect your first rights (in case you want to someday submit the work to a magazine or whatnot). Take note: If you have elected to put your entry there in the Workshop thread you must copy the link into the main competition thread or else it will not be counted.

If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you could place your here entry in the LM Challenge thread.

Everyone is welcome to participate. Judges are welcome to participate, too, but their entries will not receive a score.

This competition will close on Sunday the 15th of July. To avoid confusion the thread will close at 11:59pm (Sunday Night) LOS ANGELES, USA time.

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No comments, please - Only competition entries (and links to) to be posted in this thread.

Also hold off on the likes until the judging's done.

Now that all's set, let the writing begin!

Diogenes and the Beach Comber
(649 words, excluding title)

It was easiest to find them in the winter time. I could comb the beach in quietude. There were other treasure hunters as well. They used metal detectors, walking slowly, swaying the rod with the circular dish at the bottom from side to side. Occasionally, one would stop, stoop, dig for a while and resume walking. There was no such device for me. I hunted for beach glass: pieces of broken bottles in browns, greens and clear. Some used it for art. I used the broken glass, worn smooth by sand, sea and time, for my act. Walking parallel to the ocean, I scanned the beach for a glint from the clear shards, or a flash of color from the beer bottle bits. A five gallon plastic pail was in my hand, in foolish hopes that it might fill up on a good day. I could normally hope for about twenty pieces.

Today, the territory I chose was by the old amusement pier where, in summer you could hear the screams of kiddies and teens on rides, the calls of the barkers at the stalls and side show, straining their voices to overcome the music. In season, it blared from the speakers placed strategically at intervals along the wide wooden deck that made its ambitious stretch out over strand and sea. I cut my teeth there with my act many summers ago.

The open beach was offering little promise, so I approached the pier. There were wires stretching across the pilings and a large sign: “NO TRESSPASSING.” Years ago, the local authorities decided that nothing good happened under the pier, and put up the wires and sign. A wooden fence might have been more aesthetic, but that would cost money. Next to the sign an old pair of shoes with the soles half torn away, hung over the wire by dirty laces. I stared briefly at them and slipped under.

There were better pickings in the striated light and shadows beneath. Engrossed in my search, a call from a scratchy male voice startled me.

“Are you seeking too?” the voice called.

I turned to look. A disheveled old man sat on the sand, his back against a piling. Beside him was a propane lantern. His feet were bare.

“Yes,” I said.

“What are you looking for?”

“Beach glass.”

“Interesting,” the pauper said. “Would you like some help?”

“Well, I can’t pay you, and it’s not that easy. There can’t be any sharp edges. The pieces must be worn completely smooth,” I told him.

“I may be poor, but I’m not an idiot. I’m very good at seeking; but seeking and finding are two different things.”

Reluctantly, I agreed. I knew he would ask for money if he found anything; probably so he could buy booze. He picked up his lantern and a large brown paper bag. We divided up the beach beneath the pier. He began to fill the bag. It shouldn’t be that easy, I thought. His bag must be filling with sharps.

After two hours he came over and handed me a half bag. There must have been fifty pieces. Each passed inspection and into my bucket they went. The old man had become a helpmeet. I wanted to pay him. Reaching into my pocket and pulling out a twenty dollar bill, I offered it to him. To my surprise, he refused.

“I really don’t want anything young man, but you must tell me: what do you do with this glass?”

“I am a side show performer who walks on broken glass,” I explained.

“Oh, then perhaps you can give me your shoes,” he said. “Mine are hanging on the wire over there, completely destroyed.”

“Uh, well -- the audience just thinks it’s sharp glass. I walk on beach glass.”

“Then I must continue my search,” he said.

“For what, new shoes?”

“No,” he said, “an honest man.”

garza's entry:

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1534974

My entry.

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1535521

A Runners Luck

649 words

The shoes hanging on a wire were what started it for Scarlett. There they were swaying lazily in the breeze, two laces tying them to the wire, the others in a neat bow.

Scarlett knew that finding the right footwear for her sport wasn’t easy. It was imperative they gave the right ankle support, essential that the sole of the shoe was thin enough to feel the impact of landing which discourages injury and of course comfort was of the upmost importance.

The shoes were the soul of a Traceur.

She had scoured the internet for hours and hours each day to get just the right pair. Eventually she picked a one sole pair that resembled sleek high-top wetsuit shoes in black and white.

They were in preparation for the first competition she was running. Until then she refused to wear them. Her training group teased her without mercy for her superstition.

“It’ll be me laughing in the end” she repeated over and over again in answer.

Scarlett was fast, faster than most in fact, but her strength was somewhat lacking. Luckily for her Parkour was divided into male and female competitions which narrowed down the field of competition.

The day had arrived and Scarlett was dressed for the occasion. A light-weight blue sweater and long black running trousers. Now for the finishing touch. Sitting in the changing room alone as the last runner waiting for her name to be called she pulled the shoe box from her bag. Lifting the lid her heart began to flutter. They were her good luck charm. The smell of new leather met her senses and she gleefully unwrapped the laces and slipped her dainty feet into the plush material. Tightening the laces she heard her name being called from outside.

Stepping out into the bright sunlight she shielded her eyes as she looked at the course. An open field lay before her with a line of obstacles. A brick wall, a mini assault course arrangement of lead pipes, a stack of five blocks gradually gaining height with each one,, a sprint and lastly a thin but very long balance rail. Short but sweet.

Scarlett knew how the point system worked, she could go full pelt and win points for the fastest time or she could take a bit of extra time out to do some tricks which gained extra points.

The starting gun was fired, the crowd cheering and the judges sat stoically on there green-clothed table. Scarlett leapt into a sprint to tackle the first object. Scaling the wall she took a firm grip on the top edge swinging herself over, heart pounding. No time to think. On to the lead piping structure. She weaved in and out, up and down, swung from one to the next before balancing on the top at the end and quickly back flipped off the structure her red hair flying around her face. She jumped two footed from one stack to the other exerting such pressure on her muscles. The last stack she leapt off and twisted in the air landing with the finesse of a gymnast. She sprinted full out to the rail and decided to do something risky for the last obstacle. Running lightly to the midway point, she pushed her body forward to steadily but speedily walk on her hands right to the end of the rail flipping herself right way up onto the ground. The finish.

And then it was all over. The course had been run.

Looking straight to the results board, ten of longest seconds in her life went by until her name appeared. And there it was, at the top. She’d won. Her training group ran towards her and scooped her up in triumph.

That night she hung her shoes on a wire just like the ones that had inspired her. Maybe one day they’d inspire someone else.

My entry:

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1536692

Kung Shoe
by
Bazz Cargo


“Ka-pow, crash, thud...” kyle had been ambushed by invisible, black-clad Ninjas again. This time on Lanyard street, on his way to school. Fortunately he'd had his football boots to hand. They had been essential to help fend off the volley of shurikens. He was spinning and kicking, punching and blocking like mad. The Ninjas flew in all directions, bouncing off the trees the had been hiding behind. Two attacked him from opposite sides so he tossed his boots into the air. Hands free he dealt with them swiftly and held out his hand to catch his returning boots. Only they didn't return.


Kyle looked up. The boots swung on the overhead cable. How was he going to explain that to his team-mates?


While Kyle was distracted, the invisible, black-clad ninjas started to close in...

Shoes
Exactly 650 words.

The kid had a long stick and was using it to prod a telephone line some fifteen feet up. I was about to yell at him, certain he was up to no good, when I realized that there were a pair of shoes hanging from the wire. He looked to be about twelve; his feet were bare and dirty and he had bruises on his face. I assumed that some bully had tossed them up there in an act of cruelty.

“Hey there.” I called out with a friendly smile. “Need some help?” He looked at me, startled. For a moment I thought he was going to bolt, but apparently my non-threatening demeanor assured him I meant no harm.

“Yeah.. I guess.” He reluctantly passed the stick over to me and I took over trying to jiggle them off.

“How’d they get up there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh?” I paused and looked at him, not surprised when he wouldn’t meet my gaze. “Aren’t they yours?”

“No.” An awkward silence ensued. I managed to flip one shoe over, lessening the entanglement.

“You should be wearing shoes out here, there’s a lot of broken glass on the ground.” He was quiet again. When I looked at him this time it dawned on me that he may not have a pair to wear. His downcast look seemed to confirm this. My heart sank. I felt terrible for what I had said, for his plight, for his shoelessness. I began to wonder if he even had food to eat or a place to sleep, but I was too afraid to ask. I didn’t really want to know the answer. We stood in silence for awhile, the sun setting on us and the dangling footwear. Finally I managed to knock them off.

They hit the ground with a soft thud, bouncing into the street. The kid looked at me as if he were asking permission. I nodded my head towards the shoes and he snatched them up as if he were scared someone was going to nab them first. I watched as he looked them over, noticed his frown when he saw the size and the hole in the heel of the left sole with a great deal of anguish.

“You could patch it up and fill them with some extra cloth or something so they fit better.” I suggested. He sighed, looking at me with sad brown eyes and slumped shoulders. Then he said something that broke apart my insides.

“Nah… They weren’t for me. It’s my brother’s eighth birthday today. I wanted to surprise him and mom with a pair of sneakers. These would be way too big.” Heartbroken for him, I watched him turn and walk away. I wanted to chase after him, give him all my money and then drag him to the nearest shoe store. I imagined how happy it would make him and his little brother and his mom, by God I wanted to help. My hand couldn’t dive into my pockets quick enough. I pulled out my ID, a nickel, and a debit card and….. nothing else. I tried my other front pocket, then both of my back pockets. It was all in vain. There was no cash to give to him in there; there was no ATM nearby, no stores within walking distance from which I could buy him sneakers but still, I had to do something.

I looked up from my things to call him back. I didn’t care if I had to run all the way home to get my car and break the speed limit to make it to the store before it closed. I would get his brother that present, and him a present too.

“Hey!” My voice echoed down an empty street. The kid was nowhere to be seen. I stood alone in the approaching twilight, and hung my head in shame.

Wonder Wo

I walk beside Wonder Wo, and smile as she cuts me off. She says it's because of her bad eye that she wanders into my side, but I know it's because she's lost in thought, reminiscing about the days when she lived with her step-sister Johanna.

We live in foster care together now, and have lived in more dives than I care to remember. I don't like to talk about the places I've been--I'd rather leave those thoughts in the dark, where I buried them; one bad memory resting in a plot beside the next.

I look up, seeing the same pair of shoes we pass under every day, swaying on the wire. They just dangle there, watching the city, holding a million secrets, fading from the sun.

It's become our ritual: stopping under them, making up stories of how they got there.

Wonder Wo picks at her nails as I twist my mouth and conjure up a tale.

“A cheerleader got them for her birthday, but she didn't like the colour,” I say, fingering my lips. “So, she had her squad form a pyramid and she stood on top, hanging them there just to piss off her parents. Because they live,” I twirl in a semicircle and point to the mansion on the corner. “Riiiight there. So they have to see them every day, like we do. But they don't really care, do they Wonder Wo? Because they have a bazillion dollars!” I say with a smile.

“Yeah they do! And they likely bought her a new pair of Gucci shoes.” She frowns, looking down at her bargain store flip-flops. “Do you think you'll ever start calling me Tiffany? We're getting too old for you to keep calling me Wonder Wo."

“No way! You're last name is Mann. You were born to be Wonder Wo.” I grin back at her, still thinking it clever, eight years later.

Wonder Wo sighs, then shrugs off her backpack.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

“Nothing! Just wait here. I'll only be a minute.” She winks at me, then takes a run at the hydro pole. She jumps up, wraps her arms around it in a bear hug, and begins to shimmy up, like she is Wonder Woman.

“Get DOWN!” I yell at her. I can see her washed-out pink shorts giving her a wedgie as she climbs up and over my head.

“Almost there,” she groans, getting closer to the top.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I don't want to watch her burn to a crisp. “Please, Wonder Wo. Will you come down?” When that doesn't work, I try to reason with her. “I'll save up money and buy you a new pair.”

When I open my eyes she's already reaching out and grabbing the wire.

I wait to hear the sizzle and pop of my best friend frying. Instead, she laughs and yells, “They're telephone wires!”

I cringe as she hangs on, sliding across with a slow, steady pace. The wire sags, and she sways through the sunbeams. Her legs dangle and turn to silhouettes at my feet. I watch them kick along the sidewalk.

My heart pounds as I swallow, feeling a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit. I can't do anything but watch from below. One of her flip-flops slips loose from her foot and whacks against my face. I instantly cry out, “OW! You whore,” grumbling as I rub my nose.

She looks down, and that's when it happens.

It's hard to describe how I feel, watching my only friend tumble from the bright sky. I hold my stomach, tasting sour vomit on my tongue. Her arms and legs flail in slow motion. It's dizzying, like we're both falling, knotted together. The shoes fly through the air, flipping and twisting, the worn laces holding on tight.

The Liberator of the Oppressed
650 words
by Rubisco


Bobby Harper woke up and stared at the motivational poster on his ceiling above his bed. CARPE DIEM was printed in big inspirational letters underneath a picture of Albert Einstein sticking out his tongue. Bobby, as usual, was inspired. He sprung out of bed like a gymnast.

"Watch out day, here I come!" yelled Bobby. It didn't matter how loud he was when he woke as his parents were usually at the prestigious law firm they ran together. His parents pretty much had a lassiez faire approach to parenting, and Bobby found it completed his carpe diem philosophy well.

Bobby put on his designer clothes and pristine baseball cap, neither of which had ever touched a drop of sweat. Bobby took one glance in the full-length mirror in his bedroom and gave himself a thumbs up and a wink. He strutted out of his house and took in an obnoxious portion of air through his nostrils.

"Well, who should I help out today?" said Bobby to no one in particular. Since his parents made an exorbitant amount of money, Bobby never had to do anything. So Bobby felt like it was his job to help out the world.

He reflected how yesterday he volunteered at the soup kitchen. He picked out all of the meat out of the soup prior to serving. "Only healthy veggies for these fine folk," he muttered to himself as he dropped the meat in the trash.

The day before he went through his neighborhood with a watering can and watered all the plants. For some reason some of his neighbors yelled at him for "watering the weeds", whatever that meant.

Today Bobby strolled over to the neighborhood park and sat down on a bench. He kicked off his shoes and socks and wiggled his toes in the grass. It felt so natural, so pure, so refreshing. So refreshing, Bobby realized, why did he even wear shoes at all?

He noticed a pair of sneakers hanging from a nearby power line. His body reacted before his brain even realized what was happening.

"Carpe diem!" yelled Bobby as he swung his shoes up at the power line. They hooked the wire and made a graceful loop, freeing Bobby forever from their tyranny.

Bobby walked around barefoot. He could feel every bump, every squish, every sharp protuberance. It was amazing. Bobby suddenly knew what his good deed of the day would be.

"I want to share this amazing discovery with everyone!" shouted Bobby again to no one. He hopped on his bicycle with a duffel bag and started on his quest.

The easy targets were bowling alleys and the public pools. Bobby would slip in unnoticed, collect everybody's shoes, stuff them in his duffel bag, ride them back to the power line, and toss them up out of everybody's reach.

"They'll have to walk barefoot now! All thanks to me!" exclaimed Bobby. Out he would go again, to yoga studios, to sport team practices, anyplace where people took their shoes off.

"Carpe Diem!" he always yelled as he made his getaway. Back to the power line he would go. By the end of the day, the entire power line was full of shoes, the wire sagging greatly from the weight. Bobby looked up at his day's work and smiled. He posted a sign on the power pole with the words "You're Welcome!". He sighed and went home and stared at his poster, knowing full well he was living a full life indeed.

The next day, his parents read about the "Barefoot Bandit" in the newspaper, who police believed had caused the power outage and house fires in their neighborhood after the live wire snapped when some birds nested in the shoes.

Bobby woke up, oblivious to the warrant for his arrest, and prepared to seize the day again.

A Warm Welcome
625 words

The limousine was running smoothly down the road. He was jet-lagged after a trip across the ocean. But his wife, Samantha, still looked fresh as ever. She was working on her laptop. He smiled at his luck. After all, how many clerks get to marry their millionaire boss whose beauty can even tempt the saints. Though he had another wife waiting for him in the village but that was besides the point. He was rich and happy here.Even sex was better here. His wife would have a fit of blushes if he tried half the things Samantha had made him do. But no, now he would not think about his wife at home. She was his past and Samantha his present.

“Honey, I will have to leave you alone for some time. There is a crisis at the company. You know how incompetent the managers are there. You won’t mind, would you?” She said closing her laptop.

“Of course, I will mind. I will miss you and your kisses. I was hoping for a special welcome in the bedroom. But go ahead and do your work. I will amuse myself with your mysterious house which I am yet to see. I will explore every nook of the it. May be you will have to search teams to find where I am.” Her house had been a mystery to him. He had never seen it, though not for the lack of trying. She had always refused his request, meeting him in hotels or his rented rooms.

Samantha laughed, pulling him down for a kiss. “Oh yes, the house. Your toy. Go ahead and explore but be sure not to run after the maids. I will have to kill you otherwise.” His laugh was muffled against her lips.

He got off the car and waved Samantha. Before he could admire the lawns and the house, a voice greeted him. “Welcome Sir. A very warm welcome to the Desire house. Please come inside. I will take you to your rooms to freshen up. I am Maria, the housekeeper here.”
She waited but he did not reply. Her black mini skirt riding to her thigh was distracting. His eyes were captured by her beauty. He had thought Samantha was beautiful but this was the vision-a true glimpse of heaven. Mutely, he followed her inside the house to his designated rooms.

“Here you are, Sir. Your rooms. You can call me from the intercom for anything you need.” He was still staring at her. The room was nothing before her. Luxury was nothing before her. His hands wanted to take her in his arms and have his way with him here and now. But he did not dare.
To distract himself he turned towards the window and frowned. He had expected the rooms to have a better view. But there was just a road which was not used and a wire with many shoes hanging on it.

“Hey listen.” He asked her retreating back. “Is this the best room?”

She turned and smiled "This is the room designated for husbands.”

He did not understand “Designated for whose husbands?”

She replied “Samantha Ma'am’s”

“Ahh the beauty without brains.” He thought to himself. Chuckling, he asked her “ And whose shoes are there on the wire?”

She replied cheerfully ”Her husbands’ of course. It is their room.”

He asked her again “You mean to say all those shoes on the wire are mine ?”

She eyed him pityingly , “Not yours sir. But the husbands who had been before you. There had been seven. All sleeping in the grave. They cheated on ma’am. She does not like that. You are the eighth. Hope your shoes remain in the rack only. Welcome again sir.”

The word count was a trial.

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1539297

650 on the button.

“Mom! I just need two hundred and ten more dollars!” He was bouncing his six foot, four inch frame around with such urgency that it looked like he was doing a tap dance on the kitchen linoleum.

“Please, Mom. NOW! Hurry! They’re gonna be gone!”

“I already told you no.” I plugged my ear buds in as quickly as I could to the throes of one my favorite Rush songs to help block his “the reason I need” rhetoric presented in at least one hundred and fifty decibels above ear bleed.

“BUT MOM, THEY’RE ON SALE! AIR JORDAN GOLD!”

“SHUT UP NOW, HONEY,” I yelled sweetly over Neil Pearts genius drumming.

“PLEASE. MOM. STOP GOOFIN’AROUND! I NEED THE MONEY! I’LL PAY YOU BACK!”

“HUH? WHAD YOU SAY?” I knew I was making it worse, but sometimes I just loved bugging him the way he bugs me. His tap dance suddenly morphed into something resembling a giant baby stomping on the linoleum. It’s tough to be fifteen. Poor baby.

“THIS SUCKS,” he screams.

He kept whining, -you never do this- you always do that …blah, blah. My frivolous teasing wasn’t satisfying anymore. I’d had enough.

“I’ve told you over and over. It is absolutely ridiculous to pay that much money for tennis shoes! Forget it!”

“THEY’RE NOT TENNIS SHOES. THEY’RE AIR JORDAN GOLD’S.”

He flopped around a bit; then I saw that ugly little light bulb switch on in his head and that crafty look that revealed some clever and artful way, by using just a little skill, that he could most certainly get his way.

”Well, there is always Dad.”

Tommy has been warned about this sort of heresy. My house rules and parenting skills should not be compromised or overthrown by a sneaky play appealing to my ex- husband’s hopes and dreams that his only son will end up as the most revered sports figure that could ever bless the world.

“Don’t you dare call your dad." I threatened in a guttural tone, aggravated with Tommy’s guile, as well as Rush’s incessant howling. I yanked out the ear buds. “I told you NO.”

“FINE! GAAH!” He stalked out of the kitchen into his fabulous, well-equipped, fun-packed for prestige, bedroom.

“YOU NEVER LET ME HAVE ANYTHING!”

That’s the problem; because he’s always been so cute and beguiling, he gets everything he wants. When he was a baby I‘d push him down the aisles in a shopping cart. He would see all the goodies, and stretch his arms out, leaning toward them with all his might. “Have it. Haave it.”

We did this; I’m trying to undo it. It’s like trying to unravel fifteen years of dark curly hair, big blue eyes and the most exasperating, loving kid ever, whose mother now wants him to wear burlap and use Kleenex boxes for shoes ...and be happy about it; a pig bladder for a ball rounds out the picture.

Tommy got the Air Jordan Gold’s. A pleading call to his dad, which regaled their intrinsic value. “There‘re engineered to give higher jumping power, more lift. I mean, really Dad, they’re worth it. Call me Tommy Slamdunk. Whoo!”

Don’t be mad at the kid my ex said. He needs them.

I was mad and feeling vengeful and betrayed. The next morning while he was at school, I tied the laces together of his skateboarding high-tops, his Alpine hiking boots, his baseball cleats, the soccer shoes, the ski boots, football cleats, a Kings jersey and a gray Nike hoodie. I tossed shoes over the telephone lines and threw some stuff in the front yard trees. My work looked thorough and mean-spirited. Random birds flew right on by. Tommy combusted when he saw it.

“WHY’D YOU DO THAT?”

“Oh, that’, I said, ‘I just wanna watch you test out the jump power of those three hundred dollar tennis shoes, honey.”

A Streetcar 'neath the Wire

Scott Derry

23 June 1941 03:57 AM
Northwest of East Prussia, near Soviet Lithuania


“Wehrmachtskommandantur, this is General Erich Hoepner of the 4th Panzer Group.”

“Copy, General Hoepner. This is Commander von Leeb.”

“Sir, we are ready to engage the northwestern front attack of Operation Barbarossa. Any final commands?”

“None, general. Proceed as planned - Take no prisoners, eliminate all targets.”

“Erklart, commander. Fur das Reich. Hoepner, out.”

* * *

23 June 1941 07:24 AM
Raseiniai, Soviet Lithuania


Nine-year-old Nikita was playing just outside their hut in one of the small farms of Raseiniai with her favorite doll, hand-sewn by her own Motina. The doll looked rugged and beat, since it was already old, but Nikita treasured it for it was the only toy her parents could afford to give her.

Life hadn’t been easy for them. Purges were held almost every week by the NKVD – Soviet’s SS – and they were lucky to have escaped such brutal tortures and killings. Just two weeks ago, one of Nikita’s friends, Andriy, was shot in the head by a single bullet together with his family. Andriy was ten.

While playing with her doll, Nikita heard an unusual, mechanical, rattling sound. It looked as if today was another purge day. Nikita moved to tie her worn shoes, but decided it would take too much time. She quickly ran to her Motina, who was some yards away in the fields. She was tending to their crops.

“Motina, motina!” Yelled Nikita as she ran to her mother.

“What is the problem, little one?”

“I could hear tanks! They’re coming! We need to run! We need to hide!”

Nikita could see her mother’s eyes grew wide at the sound of tanks. Her mother quickly grabbed her by the arms and both raced towards their hut. While they did, Nikita saw the laundry basket on the ground still full of clothes needed to be hung and dried. She guessed they could be done later, when the purges were over.

Once inside, she and her mother quickly went to a small spot in the corner. Nikita’s mother knelt and felt the ground with her hands, as if reaching for something. There it was, the hidden door latch that lead to the underground bunker Nikita’s father made roughly a year ago. Motina quickly opened it and both rushed inside.

Once they were both in, Nikita’s mother closed the latch shut, and both waited. Nikita could still remember roughly six months ago during one of those purges. The whole family hadn’t anticipated it, and was caught off-guard. Usually, they heard of news from nearby farms and villages. Not that night. They rushed towards the bunker, but the Soviet NKVD was close on their tail. Nikita’s father had to stall the soldiers so his family could quickly hide.

He was found in the fields the next morning dead with his eyes gouged out.

Grrrrr…

The sound seems too loud for a couple of tanks. This wasn’t the NKVD… This was obviously something else. Nikita saw her mother smile while looking at the bunker hatch door.

“What is it, mother?”

“I’ve heard it from our neighbors. The Germans were said to be coming, get Stalin out of his post, free us from him!”

Nikita smiled. “No more purges?”

“No more.”

“Then let’s go welcome them!”

Nikita’s mother nodded. Both of them rushed out of the bunker and out their hut. Sure enough, they saw multitudes of tanks with German insignias running through the dirt road of Raseiniai. Nikita’s mother waved at them.

Suddenly, one of the tanks stopped and aimed its shooter toward them. Before both could react, the tank fired. The shot blew everything within the area apart – the hut, the laundry basket, some of the crops, the frail bodies of Nikita and her mother.

The clotheslines, intriguingly so, remained.

Hung on them was one of Nikita’s shoes.