Personal Narrative: My First Vietnam War

As I rose from bed, I could hear my wife starting to make breakfast. Today was going to be quite a day, mainly due to a fast coming winter and the need to harvest the squash and corn was increasing each day. I proceeded to change into my work attire and brown maroon felt hat I had bought myself last week. I walked out of my room and went into the main room where I had my breakfast every morning. I walked over to the table and sat in a hand carved chair made by the finest carpenter in Saybrook where my porridge awaited me. After sitting down at the table with my two sons and wife, I blessed our porridge and had my younger son read a Bible verse. Reading the Bible is a crucial part of being a Puritan since if one could not read the Bible they

It was a blistering day, but I was short on time so I unfortunately had to rush and work without thinking beforehand this is a poor choice as I would soon learn and I walked right into their arms. The date is June 3rd, 1963 and it was all a trap, but I guess that’s war for you nothing but destruction.

As I drove downtown to visit Carol and Lee, I looked for a back way back in which would mean that I wouldn’t be seen. I wandered around for a while, eventually finding their house situated a few hundred yards from a McDonald on Bragg Boulevard and saw an alleyway behind the restaurant. I went to McDonald, where I waited a while before exiting into the back alley to see if I was followed. When I was convinced that it was all clear, I leaped over the fence into Carol’s backyard and up to the door.

We narrowly made it out of the airport. Hank almost got taken down because he got distracted. These infrasound weapons were devastating, but had a major drawback, one that almost cost my best friend his life.

A jagged pain arcs across my chest as I take in a breath. My legs grind up one after the other, barely moving but still pushing me forward. The runners ahead of me continue to press on, legs becoming a blur as they widen the gap. Eyes glancing up for a split-second, I find a primitive strength rising up within me, something that says No. You are not done yet. Throwing my arms higher and feeling my body ache even more, I set my gaze on a tree that lines the top of the hill, and I gradually increase the length of my strides, slowly but surely catching up with the group that was about to leave me behind. As we pound around the corner and begin to coast downhill, I release a small sigh of relief, despite my exhausted lungs. I may have won a battle, but the war continues, and we continue to

I was just a mere eight years old the day of the battle, but I remember it like it was just yesterday. My family of three lived in Franklin, Tennessee, not far from the Carter family, whom we were quite close with. On November 21,1864 Union soldiers began to roll in.1 The soldiers dug trenches not too far in front of the Carter’s home. Their house and the Carnton plantation got the worst of it. 30,000 Union soldiers entrenched taking up over two miles,2 with no regard for our little town.

“James, JAMES!” My mom screamed. I stared at my alarm clock, 8:15 I thought about it, And ran downstairs and hid in the stairwell under the basement. They've come for me again, my mom has hidden all the boys in my family for 10 years. Every year the interdimensional travel police come looking for boys on the summer solstice to recruit for the war of the multiverse.The war for the ownership of Earth 1. I am from the original earth. But we had to leave. Earth is known a battlefield of the war. One day I would like to see my home. My family believes the war is pointless, mostly because everybody just wants control over Earth 1. As I walked out of the crawlspace and see the soldiers and walk towards them, their armor is shining a black and frightening

I wish that there was a cure for the war, and I wish that time could freeze and no more innocent people could be suffering or put in anymore graveyards.

I was awoken with a thunderous bang that made the ground tremble and the house shake. Things were falling off shelves, crashing and shattering onto the floor. I dived under a table until the shaking stopped. Slowly and carefully, I peeked out the window and watched as the soldiers broke their way into each and every house, gathering up everyone who didn't go to the Commemoration Day Show. I ran for my hunting gun and considered my options, run or fight. I decided to run and strap my gun across my back but quickly realised I was surrounded. I formulated a plan as I rushed up the stairs to my brother's bedroom. As I reached his room, my front door was burst open and the soldiers' carefully entered my house. I locked the door behind me and for

“Fall back!” I shouted. My cries were in vain, however, as men dropped like flies to the floor. The ones who did survive were trying desperately to defend themselves, but with no knowledge of where the shots were coming from, their attempts failed to do any

There was more than a touch of unpleasantness contained within that safe. Across the room, however, was my real arsenal: a two-tiered bookcase made of pressed particleboard that I'd picked up at a garage sale for five dollars. Crammed in it and disguised by a simple holographic misrepresentation which caused the volumes on the shelves to appear as a complete run of the Ace Science Fiction Specials from the 1960s, was in fact such a collection of ancient tomes of mind- blasting lore as to give the cognoscenti of such things many sleepless nights: The Book of Eibon, Cultes des Goules, De Vermis Mysteriis, The Eltdown Shards, The People of the Monolith, The Pnakotic Manuscripts, the Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan, Unaussprechlichen Kulten, and the dreaded Al-azif itself, know also as the Necronomicon. Should the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse show up, even wearing Armani and Kevlar while driving SUVs and brandishing Russian assault rifles, I was ready for them. While finishing the assemblage of the gun, I glanced up long enough to make sure that whoever had entered a little less than four minutes ago wasn't, say, a Mi-Go intent on booking me for a missing-persons case--with me as the star. I'd registered earlier the sound of my client--or so I hoped-- standing and moving desultorily about the outer office. There being no indication of impatience in the light steps, I merely raised my gaze, intending nothing more than a cursory glance and a word or two of reassurance before completing my work. Instead I stared, motionless, like a hare transfixed by the glittering gaze of a

Eighteen-year-old George Horton wakes up like every other day that school year to the iterative alarm clock going off at 6 a.m. He walks to the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror saying, "This is the last school. This is my last year then I'm free. Only two more months in this hell hole". He goes on to wash his dark Hershey-like skin, and heads to school. George is a senior at his third high school after being kicked out for fights, drugs, and just about anything that would label a student as a "bad apple". He enters his first block class half asleep from being up all night. Mr. Bruckmann acknowledges George as he raises his hand and asks "May I use the restroom?"

The monument that I visited is the war monument in the middle of the round about on Liberty and 4th Street. This monument was erected by the American Legion California Post No. 377 on May 30th of 1937. This monument was then restored and dedicated in 1989 and 1990. This monument thanks those who served in all wars and commemorates a few who passed away.

The temple back then was filled with book shelves, candle lights on every table. The temple had windows all over the building with paintings of a hero vanquishing evil. Then a mysterious man, yet somewhat felt familiar to Riku walked towards him.

We arrived there in time. I was amazed to see for the first time the moving door upon the entrance. I