Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Sometimes, I hate my brain

A new idea for a story popped into my noggin. Making this, what, the bazillionth time this has happened?

Anyway, here's this idea--let me know if it sounds interesting:

Imagine you come home from some summer camp outing to find your mother and your maternal grandfather sitting at the dining room table, looking very concerned, upset, and scared. Before them on the table is a large manilla envelope that has been opened--the contents piled onto the table before both of your loved family members. Among the pile you can see old photos, some crappy photocopies, and what appears to be the only "new" thing on the table: a letter, neatly typewritten on off white cotton-bound paper.

Grandfather sips his tea carefully, slowly as you walk in the room. Mother sees you, she's clearly been crying recently--but you don't know why. She's trying to hide it, but she's still visibly upset. 

"What's going on? What's wrong?" You ask as you approach the table. 

There is no reply from either. Drawing near you see more clearly some of what lay before them. One is a photograph from clearly long time ago, it's of your grandfather. Clearly younger, much, much younger; in fact, it's from World War II.

And he's wearing an SS uniform.


How would you react to discovering that your loved grandfather is, in fact, not who he had said he was all these years? Now that his secret has been discovered, and he's still a wanted man, how would a teenager deal with the legacy that comes with being the descendant of what might possibly be the last Nazi?

Just an idea.


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