Creative Writing: All Quiet On The Western Front

By March 1915 the influx of refugees from Belgium was almost at an end and Epworth played host to a social reunion consisting of games, dancing, and songs to bring together all those who had been housed in the Isle. Part of the entertainment featured songs from Mrs. W. Hirst and Mrs. R. Stephenson and a pianoforte solo by Mrs. Breeze. The month saw farmers becoming increasingly rueful; the fine weather created ideal growing conditions but a shortage of men and horse hampered progress. Indeed, there was concern that horses in the Isle were being ‘worked to death in order to make up for the lack of numbers.’ Members of the Belton VTC celebrated the opening of their new rifle range where Mr. G. H. Newborn exhorted them to use it well to learn

Both local newspapers began to signal, albeit discretely, that war could be approaching its end. Reports spoke in guarded terms about German difficulties and in the ‘Letters to the Editor’ columns, there were encouraging words, leaving readers in no doubt that a resolution was close. Talk in shops and at church services built on the speculation. When news of the imminent German surrender reached soldiers in the front line it was greeted with silence. ‘We did not cheer,’ one soldier recalled. ‘We just stood, stunned and bewildered.’ He continued: ‘On the stroke of 11a.m. the CO raised his hand and told us that the war was over. Then we cheered, with our tin hats on and our rifles held aloft. For old hands like me, it was funny realising that the day we had waited so long for had come at

Jimin wakes up to the sound of explosions and fire. A thousand and some men meet their demise each day, and Jimin prays at night he’s not one of them. The war rages around him, and he gets off the make-shift bed to get changed into his gear to help out. He caps the patterned helmet and looks at himself in the mirror. His reflection stares back, sad and weary, a youth gone wrong. He smears camouflage onto his face, high on his cheekbones until there is nothing left of him but an empty vessel of war.

Then he cursed as though he learned it from a manual for sergeants, and his curses merged with the metal slapping air sound of a prop turbine. Dad heard the Bunge’s voice sputter. It sounded as if he stored his anger deep inside him. In order for him to access it, he had to pump it out, using every muscle in his stomach, back, and neck. Sarge cursed, rocking with the effort until his voice became a high-pitched hum.

Finger agitatedly on the trigger, Robert rolls his rosary from finger to finger. As the thunderous winds vertically hit the fixed wings of the helicopter the soldier’s unease escalates. Swiftly the aircraft approached the drop zone and the glimpse of the dense Vietnamese jungles became clearer to the soldier. The fear of death increases the flow of adrenaline in the soldier as he rappels down the rope alongside the two veteran comrades. Touching down, the damp earth swallows the soldier’s boots. The aroma of smoke smashes the oxygen in the air, heading from the jungle.

On August 21, 2015, a suspected terrorist walked shirtless out of a bathroom on a train traveling to France. He was carrying an AK-47, a pistol, a box cutter, and lots of ammunition and he quickly began firing at the people on the train, wounding several. The incident soon had the look of a horrible mass shooting in which there would be dozens of casualties, but then, three American friends and a British man attacked the gunman. They tackled him to the ground but the gunman got out a knife and began slashing at the men, wounding one of them. However, the hero’s on the train choked him into unconsciousness. The total time elapsed was less than 90 seconds.

The youthful spring breeze drifted through the cracks in the bunkhouse and, as the sun rose, so did the men. They moved sluggishly, muscles and backs aching as they pulled themselves off their beds, still worn out from the labour of the day before. The day was hot but the small gusts of morning air were crisp and fresh, moving gently among the sycamore leaves.

It was February 23, 1939 Austria a young adult was taken away from his home and his casual day to day life. The second world war. Was taking place. We were swarmed into the streets and being taken out. People in confusion as to why these German soldiers are constantly yelling at us

My heart skips a beat. All I can think of is Ben when he crumpled on the ground, his arm sliced by the soldier’s sword. I rush over, pushing Perta, and the others out of the way, my breath caught in my throat in relief to see that Melok’s fine. He sits up, his face red, but his breathing fine. He even takes Perta's hand and stands up to talk.

The man in the picture is heavily concentrated on whatever is in front of him at the moment. It is difficult to tell if he is concentrated on what is actually in front of him or he is desperately trying to distract himself from his problems in the first place. I can see the anguish in his face as he puts his arm down on the ledge of the building. The man is wearing a thick leather coat, it seems like it is the middle of winter. He is trying to protect himself from the cool scopes deep down and the chills all throughout his body. He looks like he needs to have a couple moments to himself and try to get his mind cleared by moving to the roof of the building, and try to get a different atmosphere. He looks like he just want to be alone.

Jim’s eyes clouded as he stared at the old, bloodstained fatigues. He wanted to forget his pain and yet wanted so badly to recapture every movement. He put the jacket back into its wooden box and returned it back into the top shelf of his wardrobe where he kept all his few but cherished possessions. He then sat in his chair and closed his eyes, his mind wandering off, returning back into his distant yet distinct memories. His love, his life came rushing back in old fragmented memories, he could almost see them so clearly as if they had happened yesterday, not 56 years ago. The segments of thoughts whirring around in his mind turned so lively, full of pain, torment, love and affection, as to make him live the life he had tried so hard to forget.

The world turned to into a battle zone, the death toll was around five billion. The war lasted for ten years.”She lays pictures on the table. They're yellowed and worn. Their depiction’s showing horrid things: women, children, and men hiding under debris, and the remnants of buildings, their eyes wide with fear. Colossal building reduced to rubble and ash. Deep trenches dividing the land, men with huge guns by their sides. Worst of all, the amount of dead bodies strewn over the imploding streets, like glitter thrown in the air. How could people do that, and feel justified? “The aftermath was disastrous.” She says, “ Cities that were once thriving, cultural centers, were now piles of glass, brick, cement, and crumbling ruins. The land that was

“I miss Luffy…” Shanks sighs heavily as he finishes his sake cup and turns to Ace.

Georgia sat on a log contently eating her banana, sandwiched between her friends Hazel and Jimmy. She had met both of them the first day at camp, three days ago, and they hit it off immediately. She had been going to this camp for four years and she had never made as good friends as she had this year. All three of them were waiting to here who would be on which team for annual game of capture-the-flag.

He wanted to see her tomorrow so much so that he had to choke the words down: Nothing, I’m not doing anything. He was doing something. He couldn’t forget… what was he doing? Work. Four seconds and a zipper to forget, another four seconds and pulling it up with a usually-satisfying hum to remember. Jack was still quiet, more distracted by what he could possibly say than thinking any more about the fact he was helping her get dressed and not the other way around.