When as a child I looked at war memorialsd that dotted the English countryside, the villages, the towns, dedicated to "our glorious dead," I used to think: "They are not glorious, they are just dead." Some bore my family name. They would have wanted a peraceful life, to father children and watch them grow. I am the child of one who got away. This story reminds the reader not to remain silent in the face of injustice or any other happening that causes outrage; in a free society you have the right to express yourself, not to be censored. Be aware of how you can be silenced.--The Author
An email has been sent out with instructions for resetting your password.