Creative Writing: The Bitterroot Valley Of Montana

The driver, Cecilia Blair, of vehicle 1 was traveling north through the intersection of N. State St. and Flint St. when she had a collision with vehicle 2. The driver, Jacqueline Muir, of vehicle 2 was heading west on Flint St. when she was struck by vehicle 1.

Right now I’m in these trenches writing a heart-filled letter for y’all. But these unbearable conditions have been unsettling to me. Everytime I want to get away from the gruesome war, I think about you. The shots of the machine guns, getting exposed to mustard gas, and having to see my fellow soldiers having to deal with trench foot, all makes me feel hopeless of me staying alive. All day and night, we had to be on the lookout. Planes from the sky makes us vulnerable for air attacks. All aside from all of those problems, the one main goal is to one day find my horse Joey. Maybe both of us will somehow meet me once again during or after the war. I’m very sorry to you guys if I don’t make it home alive, but I’m going to make a big promise, never in a day or night, will I forget about you guys.

Hi Mom! Hope you're doing well. I'm sorry that I haven't been writing to you in a while, things have just been pretty hectic here. None of us have been getting any sleep around here because we are all stuck in these trenches and are always on guard. Every morning, we'd get up and look around. We always have to stay in the trenches unless our "leader" yelled "Over the top", which means the call to attack.

only for an hour or two but 1 day a green light gas came threw

(G) This war is starting to really affect my men. (C) I understand George but, I cannot give you my men. (G) Yes General I know you can’t and I will not force you. I just ask that you think about it not for me, but for the people. (C) As you wish George, I will think about it but do not get your hopes up. (G) Thank you General and I will not. (C) Your welcome George. How is your wife doing? I haven’t spoken with her in a while. (G) Thank you for asking she is doing just fine I will let her know you asked. (C) So George, what is your next attack plan? (G) I am not fully sure there General, it is as if the British can read my mind. They are always alert on the attacks. I was planning a surprise attack but I am not so sure if I should go on with it now.

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

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.

I write to you today from a hospital bed in France. I know that may sound bad, but truly I am one of the lucky ones. I have lost so many friends in this past battle. I am sure you have probably heard news of this back home in England already. The first day of the battle on the Somme was a dark day indeed. I have heard it word here that it could have been one of the bloodiest battles to date. I do not even know how to begin describing the war, but I have to describe it to someone. I would never want to tell my parents of these horrors I am facing; it would be far too much for them to bear. You are my closest friend back home, and I know if it were not for your health issues, you would be here fighting too, so I feel I can tell you about all this. I know I volunteered for this, but I never in a million years could have predicted what war would truly be like. Looking back on it though, we are truly lucky that Britain is a country that relies on volunteer

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

I heard it. Beneath the ground, behind the walls I heard it. Echoing screams of sorrow, visions of the dead, a wildfire of disease, a contagious Earth. The scattered debris of humanity’s tallest skyscrapers crumbled in heaps of stone. The splintered glass of humanity’s greatest architectural feats laid scattered in on the roads. The canvas of humanity’s greatest artworks scraped beyond recognition and laid defeated. This was our future. Nothing could’ve prevented it.

A blue house, red shutters, and a white picket fence with a border collie. Three kids are running around in the front lawn up on a hilltop. That is what the American dream is right? The American dream is truly in the eye of the beholder. One might think that the American dream is an apartment in downtown Los Angeles, but others might want the smell of fresh cut grass in a small suburb. It’s whatever the person who is working for it wants it to be. As we can see in the play, all of the main characters might be striving for an American dream, but none of them are striving for their same American dream.

The weather is cold, hundreds of tiny small bumps rush to the surface of my skin. Lining it, acting as a thin, sensitive coat of armor. A strong and lengthy gust of wind blows past every second or so, leaving as quickly as it came. Never ceasing to attempt and carry away what it can from the earth. In the distance, thousands of pure white beasts spread their wings long and wide, floating in the sky. The air blows through their radiant wings acting nothing more than their personal personal pick me up. One by one of the gallant herd they take off, simply lifting their webbed feet off the rugged, grey slants of rock in which they call home. From this point, many more enter the sky, looking like the purest of pearls in

I HAVE NOW BEEN WALKING FOR TWO DAYS. The ridge of Burden Valley is just a glimmer in the distance as I follow the Dean Town road towards the West. I have decided to trust Mr Loomis and walk west where he said there were birds but I have had no such luck yet and am starting to worry that this was a bad idea. At first the idea of leaving Burden Valley to find life outside had excited me but now I have begun walking, reality has set in. My legs are sore from walking all day and my hands have become raw from the handles of the wagon. There is nothing out here to bring joy, nothing but dead trees and dusty paddocks. Many times I have already considered going back but I have continued and know there is no way I could return now and face Mr Loomis. I have walked all day and it is

We then hopped back on our bikes and took the short ride over to Maybelle’s Diner which overlooked the village square. Once inside, a pretty waitress not much older than me walked up to us in her pink and white striped uniform, straight out of the 1950’s. She handed us a couple of menus while telling us her name and asking what we would like to drink. I had asked for a sweet tea, and my mama got a diet Coke (Pepsi). Then, the waitress walked off leaving us there to study our menus even though I had already known just what it was I wanted to have, chicken wings. I had always heard my whole life that if you should ever find yourself up near the Buffalo area, you had to try the wings. So, I reckoned Mt. Harrison was about as close to Buffalo

I was standing there, in my new bathing suite and I was coming in the house from a nice long swim. I was waiting by the back door on stone tile to go through the garage, through the front door. My mother’s words went over and over in my head, like a beating drum. “Wait until I come back to walk across the garage floor.” The grass shook in the breeze, not able to walk forward away like I seemed to be. My mom had not come back and I was pacing the ground. Little drops of water hit the ground from my swim suit like rain dripping on sidewalks. Then it hit me at full power. My mom was probably catering to my little brother again. I know he was only three months old but, I am important too, right. I stopped myself because I was doubting that I was important. I knew then what I need to do. I needed to put all my pride into me and cross the floor, but was stopping