Creative Writing: The Assassin

Shadowy clouds hover over No Man’s Land, they were all fed up with the war, the lives it had already claimed, the unburied dead and the smell, oh my god, the smell. Life in the trenches was unbearable, cold, muddy, vermin and parasites that consume your skin for food. Every man entombed in the trenches dreaded the day they would hear the whistle, the whistle to move forward into No Man’s Land.

The storm clouds were dark, gloomy and grim like a graveyard. They were near the surface of the earth. It was going to rain. They were lingering on. The soldiers’ uniforms were repeatedly buffeted by the howling gale. The sky was as black as a devil’s soul. A large boom echoed across the crimson battlefield as the lighting returned the thunder’s call. Endless calls for help could be heard. Then, the rain started pouring down, filling up the battle field, like a flood, as the constant sound of the rain pounding on the metal could be heard. Heavy boots pressed down on the wet mud, which would not be dry for the next week, due to the trenches. The trenches were six-foot-deep and reeked of dead bodies and human excrement.

“Yes I am dad.” Kevin screaming at the top of his lungs,” Mr.Cromwell needs to go!” While Howie and Kevin argued ,Cromwell was over there eating Kevin’s breakfast, waffles. It was too late, Howie and Kevin turned around ,the waffles were gone.Kevin and Howie went straight over to doggy daycare. Cromwell had stayed 1 hour knowing he wanted to leave.

“Some people say I was lucky to survive, other will say I deserved it for the choice I made. I’m here to say I was lucky, it’s never ok to say your life isn’t worth living even at your worst you can always look forward tomorrow will come and if you put your mind to it you’ll see that anything is possible.” – Stephen McGregor Professional Paralympian

Additionally, Sheers reinforces the preciousness of human life and the violence of war by using language features that include verbs, imagery and metaphors through, “This morning, twenty men buried in one long grave, a broken mosaic of bone linked arm in arm, their skeletons paused mid dance-macabre.” The metaphor of ‘broken mosaic’ highlights the violence and impact of war. ‘Broken’ alone suggests that the soldiers were blown to pieces by the Germans. Sheers however, described these fragmented bones in a respectful was. This was respectfully described as a ‘broken mosaic’ because the 38th Welsh Division soldiers went to fight for their country and unfortunately died because of it. As a reader, we must understand that they sacrificed their lives to fight for their families, friends and country when they went to war in the Battle of Somme. Referencing to ‘broken,’ it also tells us that they families of the soldiers were mentally broken as well. The Battle of Somme tore families apart and broke parent’s hearts. Sheers wants to imply the knowledge to the reader that violence of war impacts many other people including the soldiers themselves. It damaged the families of the 38th Welsh Division soldiers. Although war has ‘broken’ each soldier a sense of brotherhood is shown through the verb ‘linked’ in, ‘linked arm in arm.’ All these soldiers went to fight together and happen to have died together. This shows the strength of mankind and unity through tough times as these men were

Our trenches are deep and at regular intervals along the trench a firing step would be positioned so that the soldiers could stand on it to see over the top of the trench and fire a weapon into "no-man’s land". Some would ‘go over the top’ and sacrifice their life because the trenches were regularly flooded, and we sleep in such inhospitable conditions. Corpses of colleagues once living, scattered around the trench, would pass on diseases as well as bring parasites such as lice, maggots, fleas etc. But even though our life is in ruins, it is better to take your chances in the open than stay barricaded inside. If you’re blown up, you’re blown up. But, its better to die than be like inexperienced new recruits who get amputated legs, shot, and are thrown in a ditch.” A young soldier wrote this extract in his diary hoping that one day it would reach his family. He talked nothing but torture about how the way war life was treating him. The dead were unburied as the shells covered them; the honor they were suppose to receive was all talk; the cigars they had all ran out; and most of all, the feeling of returning home never left a soldiers mind.

Good. I touch the icon and drag it. Oh, it’s following my finger’s movement. Alright, let’s see… I drag it to the slot that indicates my right hand. Immediately, the bokutõ shows up on my hand with a quick white light.

Around him they huddled in the trenches, fearing every moment would be their last. For the very same trenches that had been a sign of victory in every foothold gained had now become their greatest downfall, as every metre closer to enemy lines had now become a metre from their only way home. The ground trembled from the explosions on both sides, the sand flew like waves in their wake. Just as an impressive explosion went off, there was shouting. Everyone was moving with regained rigour.

For several days in succession fragments of a defeated army had passed through the town. They were mere disorganized bands, not disciplined forces. The men wore long, dirty beards and tattered uniforms; they advanced in listless fashion, without a flag, without a leader. All seemed exhausted, worn out, incapable of thought or resolve, marching onward merely by force of habit, and dropping to the ground with fatigue the moment they halted. One saw, in particular, many enlisted men, peaceful citizens, men who lived quietly on their income, bending beneath the weight of their rifles; and little active volunteers, easily frightened but full of enthusiasm, as eager to attack as they were ready to take to flight; and amid these, a sprinkling of red-breeched soldiers, the pitiful remnant of a division cut down in a great battle; somber artillerymen, side by side with nondescript foot-soldiers; and, here and there, the gleaming helmet of a heavy-footed dragoon who had difficulty in keeping up with the quicker pace of the soldiers of the line. Legions of irregulars with high-sounding names "Avengers of Defeat," "Citizens of the Tomb," "Brethren in Death"--passed in their turn, looking like banditti.

It was a long and arduous journey and as I staggered onwards, a harsh cough grazed my already raw throat. There was no way of telling what time it was or how we’d been walking, but my aching legs told me it had been at least an hour. All around me I could hear coughs, sneezes, agonized groans, but my ears rang with the terrible wail of shell and the crack of gunfire: I clenched on to my machine gun tightly. I glanced about wearily as I trudged on; as the minutes passed, so did the nervous tension that had gripped me gradually melted away. Desultory artillery fire continued to wail, but of the enemy there was not a sign; Men supporting each other, some blind, but all drunk with fatigue and all still stumbling forwards to the safety of the trenches.

Against the bitter front lines, men hold onto their rifles like it is the only thing left in their life. Their boots slosh and stick against the broken down earth: mud. Eyes are drained of life, their sockets deepening and sinking into their face as if they were the living dead. Some men get the blessed time of sleep, a holy pull into the deep and sugar coated dreams. Life amongst the trenches is no easy task.

We picked up guns and bullets from the men that we killed. They were spread out and unprepared. We bolted down the street; most didn’t even see us coming. At one point our group of thirty soldiers encountered a few that had taken cover in a nearby neighborhood—not far from where I lived. We exchanged shots for a while before suddenly hearing the sound of rifles as their shots died out. We looked up to see from the windows above, people with hunting rifles, helping our cause. I looked up the street to see my mother and father, with a few windows unbarred, each had a rifle in their hands as well.

Were going to show that because the alligator man looks creepy that he’s going to attack these kids in the pool. The first murder is about to occur. The scene opens with a dark night. It’s very quiet and peaceful in the woods. The camera angle is close up, the water is splashing and the kid’s expressions playful. All along something lurking in the bushes. The father hops in and water splashes up around his body. But there was something else… his skin, was scaly. The children unexpectedly left. Suddenly, he stands and squints. The close up of his face at first shows confusion, but shifts to terror. The low angle shot shifted to the sky and blood glistened off the water. Than a low angle close up of a van parked in high grass and on the side

LUKE is propped up against an imaginary wall with his feet lying out. He has a somewhat bewildered look on his face and his eyes are darting back and forth

his body remains uneasy as she doesn’t loosen her grasp, eyes flickering from it to her. something’s not right maybe she’s EXPECTING to be threatened. waiting for a villain to come and harass her. he wants to ask, but he recalls her previous statement. an uneasy breath is drawn in, feet carrying backward another step. “ it makes my anxiety way worse if you’re actually curious. ” that’s the truth. the agitation melting off of the girl has his heart soaring. it isn’t fear it’s distress. the unknown never treated him kindly. “ late night walks are more of a compensation for … well, everything else that comes with it and sucks. ” confidence in his plot brims as he wipes sweaty palms