A few of my faithful followers might remember my story Lexie - you can find it in the "Book Reviews and Stories" tab if you haven't read it. Basically, it's about a genetically modified teenager who can turn into a wolf and how she breaks out of prison and stuff. Well, a couple of months ago I started writing it into a book! It's called Wolfbane and it's basically the same idea as Lexie, except it continues past where she breaks out :D I'm on Chapter 7 at the mo, with 14151 words! I'm really looking forward to publishing it (hopefully!) and I hope that you guys will support me throughout. I'll keep you updated with the progress!
I wrote this story earlier this afternoon as an English descriptive essay (No copying!!) but I thought that it was worthy for my blog as well. I just edited it to my English teachers instructions. I hope you enjoy it!
BATTLEFIELD – CAN YOU SURVIVE?
You’re sitting in the trench, staring at your rough, chapped hands. Your gun rests on your lap, the metal curves of its barrel pressing into your thigh. Grime coats your clothes and helmet, mud mixed with the blood and sweat of your fellow soldiers. A large clump of dirt rests in your pocket, slowly staining the picture of your wife and children a dark brown. The trench is filled with people screaming and yelping and the air around is filled with the deafening sound of screeching shells. You know what’s coming next. Your hands tighten around your gun and you clench your jaw. The ground gives an almighty shake and then stops. You relax and breathe deeply through your nose.
To your left, Davey mimics you. He’s tall and strong with a flat nose and steely grey eyes. Everyone in the squad thought he would last the longest, but the constant battering mashed his brains. He sits and stares, whispering nursery rhymes now, rocking back and forth on his heels. You turn around and yawning, peer at the other soldiers in the trench. The men’s muddy-green uniform blends effortlessly into the trench walls and you’re tired eyes take a moment to pick them out. You can name all of the soldiers but a few – Smith, Thompson, White, Walker, Shake, Taylor, Clarke and Flash. They’re deadly silent, their mouths firmly shut with fear and exhaustion. You stretch your neck further out and you notice the Captain screaming orders at them. You immediately straighten up and grasp your gun. His voice echoes through the trench.
“Men, we need to attack. Now....Get up!” The soldiers all wearily stand up, their eyes red and bloodshot with lack of sleep. Davey stays on the ground, oblivious to everything around him. The soldiers slowly start to file out of the trench. Their eyes are lighting up like beacons in a storm – adrenaline is starting to course through their bodies. It’s happening to you to. Suddenly, everything becomes clearer; the dull grey of the sky brightens and the trenches seem less small and dirty and more cosy. Your hands clench and unclench, wrapping around your gun. Your heart is beating ten times faster than it should and you suddenly feel anger coursing through your veins. You glance up and quickly move forward through the trench, catching up with the other men. The squad is bending low now, their knees almost brushing the dirt. You change stance, copying them. You’re the youngest in the squad, young enough to be some of the men’s sons. It doesn’t matter – the war is beginning to get desperate and the army need all the men they can get.
You’re approaching the end of the trench, the point nearest to the Germans. The Captain shouts instructions, but you ignore him. You know the drill already – run and shoot and most importantly, don’t get killed. You hear the patter of footsteps as your friends sprint onto the battlefield and without a moment’s hesitation you run after them.
The first thing you notice is the symphony of noise that erupts all around you. Rapid gunfire fills your ears, mixed with the primitive battle cries from both sides. Dirty crimson marks litter the ground, remnants of an earlier battle. Already the smell of blood and vomit is filling your nostrils, a pungent aroma that makes you want to be sick. You run and dodge the bullets and shells, holding your gun to your chest until you can find cover. You hear Flash shouting through the bedlam and then, you watch a figure fall, red mist spilling onto the ground. You tear your eyes away from the corpse and keep running. You can just make out Taylor in front of you, kneeling on one knee and shooting at the Germans. Without any cover, he falls in an instant. You glance at him and sigh quietly with relief. The bullet only hit his leg – he isn’t going to die. You hurriedly squat next to him and peel the ammo away from his chest. He isn’t going to use it, not until his leg heals. Taylor whimpers and you touch his chest with your finger, silently apologising for his pain. He gives a brief nod and turns away, silently searching the distance for a medic. You turn away from him and standing up, run towards the danger.
You are running faster and faster, dodging the bullets and screaming men that lie all around you. White and Shake are in front of you; Clarke behind you. Your sharp eyes spot a worn out metal barrel ahead and you sprint towards it. It’s not a prime position, but it’ll do. You crouch behind it and raise your gun. Your bent legs act like a spring and you jump up, firing at the Germans. One by one, you watch as the shadowy figures fall in front of you, pierced by bullets. Shrapnel from the shells ricochets off the barrel, making it shake and quiver. You duck down again and watch in horror as flames engulf White. He was standing to your left, shooting from behind a cloud of smoke. He didn’t hear the familiar whistle of the shell as it flew through the air, a deadly bird. He didn’t see it swoop and glide towards the cold, hard earth. Consumed by a morbid curiosity, you watch as he burns. Vomit rises in your throat, a wave of horrific nausea as you watch his flesh blacken and peel away from the bone. You can’t stop staring. When you finally pull your eyes away, it’s too late. A German soldier is running towards you, his gun pointed at your chest. Beads of sweat burst onto your forehead as you fumble with your gun, it’s jammed, it won’t fire...
The German hovers over you, a malicious smile plastered onto his face. His ice-blue eyes mock you as he slowly presses the gun to your head. He mouths something, but you don’t hear, all you see is his finger on the trigger, teasing it backwards, further and further back until finally, the barrel clicks. BAM!
GAME OVER. TRY AGAIN?
I'll see you guys later :P Remember to comment!