Sparkatale

I will do this paragraph by paragraph, first one: I think it will sound better: 'My grandfather once told me the story of a man,  a man I see everyday but do not understand. '
'The jewish, gypsy’s, homosexuals, or disabled were just garbage to them, in the perfect world they wished to create there would be no place for them.'

Second:  I listened to my grandfather tell the tale, to this man (?) a human life is nothing. He had spent two years in a camp that ripped all emotions from him. I understand life in the camp was tough, but why do people treat him so special now?  People give him things for free, they hold doors for him to walk in to buildings first, they act like he is so special.  Lots of people lived in the camps, why treat this man different? I went to home (?) to get ready for bed still trying to rationalize the special treatment for such a man.  I relaxed from some time on the Playstation before stumbeling to bed falling into a deep sleep.  I woke to one of the worst smells I had ever smelled, to cries and moans of betrayal, and the pain, I woke to the world of the holocaust.
 

Third:

Letting my eyes focus I slowly look around, from the wooden base of the top bunks urine stain, and slowly over to the right. I stifle a gasp, the person on the next bed had not survived the night and his sightless eyes startled me. I could not help the thought of him being lucky from slipping into my mind. Turning my gaze away I look over to my left, watching the figure in the other bed, the chest rose and fell with his breaths, he was alive and sleeping. How did I get here and what the hell happened to me?

  Fourth: I try to shake myself awake, pinching my skin which over night has turned a sickly gray and is stretched tight over my bones. The pain is intolerable, never in my life have I been so hungry. I try to move, to scoot to the edge of the bed. My bones are grinding, rubbing against one another, no tissue to keep them from touching. I hear loud footsteps, someone is coming.  They grab my feet and yank me from the cot.  I fall to the dirt ground the impact breaks my left shoulder, I attempt to cry out but I cannot make much of a sound. They kick me as I struggle to stand, all around me the others on the cots are torn from slumber, stumbling to their feet or crumpling to the ground unable to stand.  We are marched outside every step nauseating, it is so bitterly cold and my shoes are retched excuses for protection from the elements.

Fifth and Sixth:  On what was once the lawn we are lined up for role call.  I wear a badge, it identifies me as a man I do not know.  How did I get here, why oh why am I here?  How can anyone go through this?  Oh god please, I have to wake up now please. I did not wake. We are marched off to help with the piles, the mounds of corpses.  Hundreds upon hundreds of naked men, just dumped there when they died.  As I approached the first, I see a face staring out not with the sightless gaze I had met when I woke, with terror.  The man, oh my god. I am in the camp with my grandfathers friend.  He is just a small boy hiding among the rotting piles of humanity.  Even though he is a child, I know it to be him, the look in his eyes today, I see on this child’s face.  I understand, let me wake, he went through hell, I understand why he acts the way he does, please let me wake.

Seven:    We are forced to walk on and to a brick building.  The guards open the doors we are sent in. Inside the dead are stacked in a pyramid a large mass of bodies in vearing states of decay.  They order us to drag the bodies to the corpse hills.  With my shoulder hanging useless at my side, I cannot drag the dead.  The guards pull me aside, respite I hope.  They take me around the building to a line of people.  I wait in this line for hours, freezing in the cold wind, no coat or hat, hardly moving an inch.  The line begins to move forward we are checked off as we pass the SS guards.  Some of the guards spit on us as we move by, their hatered easy to read on their faces.

Eight:     Inside other guards wait for our arrival, they make us remove our clothing, our shoes.  A hundred breathing skin covered skeletons are forced into a shower room.  Warm water is sprayed down on us, oh thank god heat, a warm shower it feels so good. The happiness at being warm for the first time in a very long time however does not last.  Naked, we are marched into a room.  Oh hell, I have been in this room, it was full of bodies, I could not carry them, so now I am to become one of them.  Panic sets in, I am a boy trapped in a man’s body, I am not even supposed to be here.  The door slams shut behind us very little light filters into the room.  From above we hear foot steps walking across. The people are milling about terror on everyones faces.  No one knows what is to happen next.  There are trap doors in the blue stained ceilings the doors open and pills are dropped.  As they fall the gas begins to fill the room.  My lungs stop working when the gas hits.  I gasp for air I feel like a fish thrown up on the bank of a pond.  I cannot breathe, everyone is scrambling one over the other trying to reach air.  All attempts to breathe are futile. I am stepping on faces, children, I hear the bones of the bodies break as I clammer for air.

I can not say I liked your story, who could like something like that? What I can say about it is that you gave a great look into a tiny part of what it would have been like in one of those hell holes. Thank you for writing this.

I wrote The Badge in a college creative writing class.  It was a short story based on a passage from a famous short story Nathan Englander's, "Free Fruit for young Widows". 

I had to do some research on the way things were done in the camps, the more I read the more I knew how I was going to write it.  To attempt to connect todays youth with one of the darkest times in history and get them to understand, 

Thank you for reading it, I know it can be intense and you found some errors I missed!  I appreciate the feed back.

You could expand this and use more detals regarding smell, pain, sounds to make this story to come to life. But I'm not sure I want it more real.

This story comes close to home to me, my great grandma lived in germany during the war and her sister was killed by a right in front of her during a bomb raid.

I think some things don't need to be too realistic and storys like this are one of them,