Creative Writing: No Mans Land
Assignment B: imaginative writing “No Mans Land”
A cold wind blew across the barren landscape. shrapnel and rifle magazines were discarded among the wreckage. The survivors of the onslaught looked more dead than alive, their pale green-grey flesh almost rotting. Blisters bubbled like lava, their crimson spots cracked and flaking.
The atmosphere was cold and distant. Not a sound could be heard, not even the morning bird song. No mans land was like a corpse. Not a sign of life could be found, not even a blade of grass. A cold wing shrieked and whistled through the barren land, sounding almost as if it was the ghost of the dead soldiers. Littered across crater and ditches were the desecrated bodies of the once energetic and lively comrades. …show more content…
It was ironic that only two months ago I had been enjoying supper with my wife in this idealistic landscape. But now I was residing in living conditions that could be compared to areas of Africa that have no clean water or clean …show more content…
I threw open the door; it slammed against the wall and splinters of wood flew out like shrapnel from a grenade. I charged through the trench. The floor was barely deserving of its name, a couple of discarded floorboards floating on a sea of sweat and mud. The walls were shaking, the rigid corrugated iron sheets fighting to stay in place. I climbed up the wall and poked my head over the top. our forces were being mowed down by machine guns, toppling like bowling pins. The craters had become quicksand, a thick soup of blood and dirt.
Craters were dotted around like scabs on an injured body. The once vibrant grass, thick and luscious, was now replaced with a corpse strewn wasteland. The dirt had been soaked with blood to the point that not even weeds could find refuge there; it was completely devoid of life, save those in the trenches. Piles of corpses provided cover for the slaughterhouse of the battlefield. I ran to the group of weary-looking soldiers, once vibrant and colourful people turned into puppets. Their uniforms were tattered and faded, the fabric coarse like sand paper, causing blisters and bruises all over. Out of the corner of my eye i saw a spherical object; it was a grenade, I yelled 'get down' at the top of my lungs. It felt like burning oil had been poured into my lungs. I jumped onto the grenade and felt agonising pain like lava being poured on every inch of my body. Then
A cold wind blew across the barren landscape. shrapnel and rifle magazines were discarded among the wreckage. The survivors of the onslaught looked more dead than alive, their pale green-grey flesh almost rotting. Blisters bubbled like lava, their crimson spots cracked and flaking.
The atmosphere was cold and distant. Not a sound could be heard, not even the morning bird song. No mans land was like a corpse. Not a sign of life could be found, not even a blade of grass. A cold wing shrieked and whistled through the barren land, sounding almost as if it was the ghost of the dead soldiers. Littered across crater and ditches were the desecrated bodies of the once energetic and lively comrades. …show more content…
It was ironic that only two months ago I had been enjoying supper with my wife in this idealistic landscape. But now I was residing in living conditions that could be compared to areas of Africa that have no clean water or clean …show more content…
I threw open the door; it slammed against the wall and splinters of wood flew out like shrapnel from a grenade. I charged through the trench. The floor was barely deserving of its name, a couple of discarded floorboards floating on a sea of sweat and mud. The walls were shaking, the rigid corrugated iron sheets fighting to stay in place. I climbed up the wall and poked my head over the top. our forces were being mowed down by machine guns, toppling like bowling pins. The craters had become quicksand, a thick soup of blood and dirt.
Craters were dotted around like scabs on an injured body. The once vibrant grass, thick and luscious, was now replaced with a corpse strewn wasteland. The dirt had been soaked with blood to the point that not even weeds could find refuge there; it was completely devoid of life, save those in the trenches. Piles of corpses provided cover for the slaughterhouse of the battlefield. I ran to the group of weary-looking soldiers, once vibrant and colourful people turned into puppets. Their uniforms were tattered and faded, the fabric coarse like sand paper, causing blisters and bruises all over. Out of the corner of my eye i saw a spherical object; it was a grenade, I yelled 'get down' at the top of my lungs. It felt like burning oil had been poured into my lungs. I jumped onto the grenade and felt agonising pain like lava being poured on every inch of my body. Then