Essay on Creative Writing: My First Battle as an Ancient Warrior

The forest had gone.... and the Witch looked much younger. Audette opened her eyes and had found herself upon a brow of white lilies. The shape of the shrouded old woman seemed changed. Having turned around, and opened her mantle to the tearing gusts, Meliza revealed to the young lady two streams of shinging blackness and smooth white flesh. Audette stopped in her tracks.

From here the tone of unease and apprehension often felt before a great battle is set. This is not a haircut. It is a preparation for war.

Dawn broke through the tops of the trees; the fine rays of sunlight, glimmering off the needle-shaped leaves as they swayed in the soft winter winds. No more than a day ago the snowstorms had ceased. The blizzards had frozen men alive in their tracks, or as they slept through the night, life had drifted from their stone cold bodies. But now all was calm. Nothing stirred but the delicate snow falling upon the fields, capping the tall soldier pines and burying the glaze-eyed, petrified figures. The remaining troops were dwindling by the days. Too war-torn and starved to produce the usual racket that could be heard among the cohort. The only sound they ever seemed to make, was the constant cantankerous whining for a fire; or else the moans as

“After defeating the Cyclops Polyphemus, my men grew exhausted. They grew thirsty from rowing under the beating hot sun. Sweat dripped down their heads and the ship’s deck grew moist from the mix of the salty, seawater and sweat. We stopped by on a nearby island.

O’brien used dramatic and vivid language that would catch the reader's’ attention. Imagery was the most used. He made sure to point out the “fluid symmetries of troops on the move, the harmonies of sound and shape and proportion.” These descriptions made what he had to say more interesting for the people to develop with their own imagination.

I tune my ears to listen for the click of the pen as I force my fingers to work, my ears buzz tuning out the sound of guns shooting into the distance. My sweaty fingertips nervously grip the pen as I watch the scary scene unveil before my eyes. The sound of swords piercing skin was too unbearable. My eyes widen as I see many men lying on the floor with pools of blood surrounding them. Their ghastly faces burning in my brain as I try to look away. The men in blue collide with the men in plain clothes, then more plainclothes come charging up to the hill where the men in blue were. Two men from each side stand in the front of their people, each proudly holding a flag. The confederate flag and the union flag were shown with pride as the men holding the flags were taken down by their opponents.

I remember the smell, the sounds, the taste of blood. I remember seeing my comrades fall beside me, the sting of the cuts. The numbness as I fell alongside them, the sadness, the tears. The price of war, I believe my father said that to me before he died. I remember being lifted and carried, I remember a laugh. Then I felt my mind slowly becoming numb, and soon my mind was consumed by the darkness. Like a wildfire it spread from the farthest of places, destroying everything in its’ path. It was over, the war was lost, hope gone; at least until today….

By daylight they took sniper fire, at night, they were mortared. It was just the endless march, village to village, without purpose, nothing won or lost. The war was entirely a matter of posture and carriage; the hump was everything, a kind of inertia, a kind of

After saying goodnight to Simon and Magnus, Clary quickly shut the door to the library. The hallway was silent and still as the ocean tide, she had heard Lilian call for her just as her best friends in the world told her their goodbyes for the night. Magnus had conjured up a portal which would take him and Simon back to the village where they lived. Simon lived in a simple but modest house, on the outskirts of town, on a farm with his Mother and older sister. Magnus however, resided in a small, comfortable loft just above the local clothing store.

Awakened from hellish reverie, from the sounds and the feelings of blood and of fury, blanketed in the shadow of a forgotten struggle - the warriors on the battlefield stop.

After John harnessed the team to the wagon, he, Charity, and Charles loaded Uriah into it. She and Charles then headed to town with him. She left John and Martha Jane to watch over the younger children, with strict orders that they had all better be on their best behavior until her return. John was nearly twelve; she figured he ought to be capable of watching the little ones.

Swords crashed against shields like a field of doors slamming shut in the wind. Arrows whistled through the air; a murder of tiny crows swarming above us vulnerable soldiers. The grunts of men impaled by hafts and sliced open by steel join the cacophony of a battle raging into dusk. Wet warmness would splash across me in response to the dying cries of my comrades as one after another of those we battle would push our shields apart and break the line. The ground was wet and sloppy, dried earth had been turned to slush by a rain that did not fall from the sky. The ground was rendered difficult to manoeuvre through, encumbered by the lifeless figures of soldiers now without the allegiance that lead them to a face in the dirt.

Blind to the truth of what really happens. It’s times like this where I am forever grateful for the experience I have already been faced with gruesome events. Yet that hateful feeling of dread continues to tower over me each and every day. It’s challenging to recall what it was like for me the first I set foot on the battle field, as it seems like a lifetime ago. I suppose that I have lived a lifetime in these trenches. I wish that with every enemy I shoot it shall not say with me. A constant reminder of our sacrifices, I’m on edge as it feels like a continuous want for death. Bewildered as to when it will strike again shaken by the fact that it could be me carried away, or left in the barbarous

A bitter coldness whips around your face in the harshness of the battered war. A snap of wind turning your already paled and dirt splattered face a frozen, cold red. Battered men bid to live on to the next battle.Vital blood that once was contained in a soldier’s body, now lingers, dryly splattered across your dull green colored uniform. Smiles of your once alive brother drills itself into your head. Their memory hitches onto your brain like a remora catching a ride with a shark.

causes the poem to flow, and thus lightens up the dark and serious issue of war. The lines "But ranged as infantry, And staring face to face, I shot at him as he at me, And killed him in his place." are easy to read; however, their meaning is extremely