Afternoons were often quiet peaceful in the rebellion. Today was an expection. This particular afternoon was anything but quiet and peaceful. One of the patrols had been ambushed, nothing new there, ambushes were expected. But this wasn't a regular ambush. I know the patrol routes and just about everyone in the rebellion. Not to mention I orginized todays patrols. The route I had chosen was far away from the city, limiting the possibly of running into guards practicly impossible. But guards were there, royal guards infact, they were tougher and many times more skilled than normal guards. To make things word the patrol were full of inexperienced fighters. Most of the patrol died, and the rest seriously injured. There could be only one way …show more content…
I found Romokisan standing outside, sentries looking around for danger. He was facing the capital, but I couldn't see which building he was looking at. "You know it's dangerous to stand out in the open, right? Even with the sentries." He turned around quickly at the sound of my voice. "I know. But when--" "If." I interruted, and Romokisan corrected himself, "But if I died I'd know that there was someone I could rely on to be the new ruler of Laroo." I chuckled, "You know I'm not interested in ruling Laroo. Your're the best candidate." I went over and stood next to him, admiring the capital. There weren't many cities on Laroo. It was mostly a planet fulled with a variety of enviroments. The main two being barren deserts with now sand, and mountains. However there were little strips of forests near the one river that led to the Lake with No Name. And that is the name of the lake, which I found extremely ironic. The lake was enourmus and the location was unknown. Some say that the Queen, Analied, had been there once with her lover. But I wasn't quite sure if I should trust those rumors, after all how would her lover have found it in the first
If you were a guard, what type of guard would you have become? How sure are you?
The oppression and invasion of the conquerors arouse, instead of crush, the desire of the defeated for freedom. These people, who have lived with the idea of a free rule of democracy, refuse to be chained down under the oppressive rule of the conquerors. It is for this reason that they strike back at their invaders. As said by Mayor Orden to Colonel Lanser of the aggressors, “ ‘The people don’t like to be conquered, sir, and so they will not be. Free men cannot start a war, but once it is started, they can fight on in defeat.
The window was cold to the touch. The glass shimmered as the specks of sunlight danced, and Blake stood, peering out. As God put his head to the window, at once, he felt light shining through his soul. Six years old. Age ceased to define him and time ceased to exist. Silence seeped into every crevice of the room, and slowly, as the awe of the vision engulfed him, he felt the gates slowly open. His thoughts grew fluid, unrestrained, and almost chaotic. An untouched imagination had been liberated, and soon, the world around him transformed into one of magnificence and wonder. His childish naivety cloaked the flaws and turbulence of London, and the imagination became, to Blake, the body of God. The darkness lingering in the corners of London slowly became light. Years passed by, slowly fading into wisps of the past, and the blanket of innocence deteriorated as reality blurred the clarity of childhood.
Zero awoke to find himself standing, it was not something he was familiar with and he searched his memory for any recollection of it happening before. Quickly he discovered that large parts of his memory were missing, gone were the seemingly endless data bases of information. Quickly he sent out feelers trying for a connection of some sort but he drew a blank. It seemed that where ever he was now, had limited connection capacity. Instead he used his visual feed to survey his surrounding, it appeared he was in some kind of desert of discarded parts.
Into The Lush Forest The sun had just kissed the hill, giving warm color to the sky, but I was feeling cold. The excitement in my heart was slowly losing its fire. We were lost and I felt alone, lost in the crowd of trees. A cold crowd perhaps. As the three of us walked slowly through the dense forest, our steps made loud noises - crushing the fallen leaves, and the broken twigs.
“Okay good we can not afford to lose another leader in our tribe it was devastating the last time our leader died!” Beamed Verónica.
The mob rushed into the prison’s courtyard. Some individuals were not as ruthless as others. "...Those who came in first treated the conquered enemy humanely and embraced the staff officers to show there was no ill-feeling..." However, several of the protestors were hurt as they attacked soldiers from the army. "....The people, transformed with rage, threw themselves on the sodiers..." Fierce fighting followed and carried on into the evening. Finally the mob got their hands on some cannons.
In “Ambush,” Tim O’Brien conveys a sense of regret and uncertainty as he attempts to justify his actions of killing an enemy soldier in Vietnam. (MS 7) While serving in the Vietnam War, O’Brien sees an enemy soldier approaching. His military training prompts O’Brien to throw a grenade, killing the soldier instantly. The reoccurring memory of killing the soldier haunts O’Brien for years. Throughout his essay, O’Brien uses the literary elements imagery, tone, and irony to portray his sense of regret and uncertainty. (MS 2)
interpret this as the day being fair in victory but foul in the lives that were lost and how the
“Are you sure I can’t just transfer schools?”. A question I had asked a billion times over. “100%. I promise you, you will be okay”. My mom rubbed my back as my head dropped onto the cold kitchen counter. I didn’t want to hear that I would be okay. I wanted them to let me have my way. “You’re in your last year what difference would it make”. My brother joined the conversation as if someone had asked. I rolled my eyes, letting him know his opinion was being recognized and very neatly filed in the trash bin in my brain. I made my way to my bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, burying my face into the pillow. My parents were right, I could handle it. I just didn’t want to.
At this moment I realize it is only Beth, the red coats and I on this small street. I look away as the silk ribbon from my sun hat dips over my eyes. My brow crinkles as I become aware that she is so close to these soldiers while I carry rebellion in my own hands. But Beth comes over without a bit of anxiety. Then she tells me their little deal, unaware I heard her the first time. I look at the man, probably pushing 18. Tired and worn, but should not be given his age. I smile and do what Beth’s father would
INT. BEV'S HOME-DAY Bev lies in bed wincing and groaning. She is clearly playing it up. Dorothy stands over her, her hand on Bev's forehead. DOROTHY
Time ticks by slowly as I tap the worn eraser of my pencil on my notepad. Only three more hours to go. One hour each. Each hour consists of three sets of twenty minutes. If I can just make it through nine sets of twenty minutes, I will be alright.
For my first piece of original writing I intend to create a piece primarily written for entertainment however, I also want to portray an interest into historical and political persuasions. I aim to write this piece for an audience of teenagers to young adult who are aged from around fifteen to twenty-five and are male, I also wish to identify with those interested in political thrillers within this age range. The genre of which shall be a short fiction story consisting chiefly of narrative and written in the third person. I picture this piece as being one of a collection of short stories concerned with the political-thriller fiction sub-genre. Despite being a fiction text I aim to tie in real world non-fiction.
The piercing blare of the alarm clock was enough to wake the dead. Nicholas jolts out of his slumber, his face inches away from the source of the noise. Groggily, he lifts a hand to smack the snooze button, but in doing so misses, the clock tumbling off the nightstand. It clatters to the hardwood floor, skidding a few feet before it is stopped by its own power cord. That it was still intact after its fall was a testament to the sadism of the person who'd created it.