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The Man Who Makes Yellow Stars This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

I slapped the paper down onto the table. My mother started.

“Look,” I said to her. My voice was brisk, tense. Scared. A photo of a man dominated most of the page. His short, dark, hair and a stern, clipped expression seemed accusing.

Squeezed under the portrait was a promise. A promise to cleanse the gene pool and create a “master race”. A race that didn’t include me.

And now, he just might have the power to do it.

“Oh, God.” I could see the fear in my mother’s eyes, mimicking my own. Because she knew what it meant. These posters, these glaring eyes on every on every light post and street corner.

Because of him, I couldn’t run. I couldn’t hide. He was everywhere. He was with the all-to-common soldiers on the streets. He was on the yellow stars, sewn into our clothes. Even in the eyes of my one-time friends. The eyes he infected with hatred. The eyes I never hoped to see healed.

Still, he glared at me with unwavering orbs of hatred.
Those eyes, though I hadn’t quite realized it yet, did not belong to a man. They belonged to a monster.





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