Here, by the way, is a sample of my writing. It is a first draft. I havn't done much to it. Please post your opinions.
Whit ran across the
battlefield, dodging bayonets and bullets and guns. No one asked what a
fourteen-year-old girl in a torn nurse's uniform was doing put there; they were
preoccupied with driving lead balls into the enemy soldiers. In the fury
somehow she made it to Charles, who was slumped unconscious against the cliff.
She gathered her brother's body in her arms and held him, feeling for a
heartbeat.
It was there,
thumping against his chest.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The sounds of the
raging battle roared on, uncaring, unmerciful: cries of help, begging to spare
a life, prayers and desperate bargains shouted to their Maker, a gunshot, a
cannon's scream.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Please live,
Charles, Whit pleaded with all her might. Please. You are all I have left.
The cry of a dying
man. Shouts and gunshots, always gunshots, pressed in from all sides. The air
was thick with lead. The sun itself had cloaked itself with the grey, grey
clouds in protection and protest, but still the people fought.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Please, please,
Charles, my brother, my friend. Live, live, live!
Thump.
Thump. Th-
And then there was
silence. The vibration from Charles ceased in Whit's arms and the world came
spiraling down into darkness, and when she saw that the battle was still being
fought she wanted to curse the armies, curse war for taking the last thing that
she had left and being so ignorant, for not acknowledging that her universe had
come crashing down. But all she did was cry.
She was too tired to
do anything else, and too grieved to do anything else.
Take me, too, Whit
wanted to yell through her tears. If you have to take Charles then take me too!
But she did not die and nothing happened.
Globs of salty water
poured off of her cheeks and onto Charles' body, and phlegm dripped down from
her nose, staining her once-crisp shirt.
A memory surfaced.
They were five and eight, Whit of course younger. They were climbing trees,
oblivious to the coming war. Brother and sister, seeing who could go the
highest. Whit falling off of a high bough and hitting the ground with such
force that it felt like her eyes were being knocked out of her head. And
Charles came down from his tree and carrying her all the way home, his arms
around her the way her arms were around him now, comforting and strong, even at
eight years.
Then Whit heard
something.
Thump…
Thump…Thump…
It was a heartbeat.
It started slowly at
first, then got louder and clearer and stronger, until it sounded as wick and
alive as Whit's herself.
Charles stirred.
The battle still
went on.
His eyelids began to
twitch, and then they fluttered open, the brown irises staring into Whit's, and
he sat up.
He sat up.
