The Tattooist of Auschwitz, a novel written by Heather Morris, tells the humbling tale of Lale Sokolov, a Slovakian Jew, who was imprisoned in a concentration camp during World War II. The novel is an international bestseller, and after reading Lale Sokolov’s story, I feel compelled to honor this book. Based on Sokolov’s real life ...

Considerable moonlight reaches even the darkest alleys and lights them up with a silvery haze. Throngs of people in raincoats take cabs or buses through serpentine streets to escape the storm. There is no knowing how long it will last. An hour. Two. More. Daylight is a funny thing here in London. It overextends its ...

Travel is the voyage through time, an unmasking of places, people, and histories. In the rubble of civilizations exists story upon story, age in the chips of marble and the pores of brick. Touch them long enough, and the buildings shall speak of art, music, movements, and fight. Travel is the sip of pineapple, rum, ...

Derrick, Kally, and Taylor rumbled down the road in Taylor’s truck, dubbed Perseus. With every sharp twist and curve of the mountainous backroad, Derrick wished their destination would appear, or the vehicle would put itself out of its misery and break down. He glanced over at Kally, who was stuck between them and clutching her ...

Those were the days when neighbors took pride in knowing each other by first and last names Kids, pets included. O, those were the days… Those were the days when neighbors exchanged tomatoes, potatoes, and onions Milk included. O, those were the days… Those were the days when neighbors drove their cars, trucks, and trolleys ...

Shakespeare once wrote, What’s in a name? We can never be certain because we don’t choose our names. They destine us to become something and to act particularly. To embody an identity that we have yet to accept. Some of us grow into our titles. Others of us change them, manipulate them. Redefine our very ...

A Haiku About History History she lives Golden threads of times unchanged It binds humankind.

Daddy O Dad, you spoiled me. You said nothing when I ran the red light. Your patience was unbearable. I wanted to jolt you and ask, “How do you stay a saint in the midst of strain?”

The late afternoon sun barely warmed the crisp fall air as Cord walked me home. I pulled my jacket closer to my chest to ward off a chill as we crossed Camp Meade Road. Cord, oblivious to the cooler temperature, suggested we take the long route to my house. “You want to go down Benton ...

The interesting thing about urban legends is that no one knows how they get started. Yet, somehow they are born and bring fascinating history with them. I watched this television show, Mysteries Unknown, for the first time today; they featured a relatively unknown urban legend, “The Black Aggie.” If you ever decide to visit Washington, D.C., ...