Justin Bieber Imagines (Completed)

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Sorry, it's not an update. :(

I was wondering if you may be able to look over my creative writing task, it would mean a lot to me :)

It's about the First World War on the Western Front.

Thank you!

October 4th 1915

Dearest Mother,

Yesterday I received your letter informing me of the things occurring at home. I'm very pleased to know the family is doing well, and that little George has finally gotten over his pneumonia. What a fright that was. We were almost certain we were going to loose him. If only I was there to see his face when he finally left that hospital. He must've been thrilled. No longer confined to a bed. Knowing that things are well at home makes the time here much easier. Much, much easier.

The war isn't what I thought it would be, at all. We left on the promise of adventure but arrived in hell. Not a day goes by that is somewhat bearable. From the deep, thick mud that devours boots and bodies, to the long exhausting days without sleep, to the constant wait for a gruesome inevitable death, makes it difficult for me to remember why I joined. There are no positives to war.

On the lonely nights, I often think back to home. Just the simple things. The magpie's harkening in the morning, alerting us that its time for day. The constant smell of bread filling the whole house. Watching the horses gallop in the back paddock whilst the sun goes down. They help to drown out the constant crackling of gunshots, the metallic smell of blood and the sight of injured soldiers groaning and writhing in pain.

I got the shock of my life the other day. The lads and I were just sitting, playing cards and joking around, when all of a sudden boom, boom, boom, the Huns. They were attacking us from all sides, we weren't prepared. We got our rifles out and began defending. We couldn't get at them so we decided to retreat. I reached down for my helmet but it was blown out of my hand as soon as I picked it up. I swear I jumped 10 feet off the ground. What a shocker that was. My good mate Will was also there. He said I looked as pale as a ghost afterwards.

Speaking of Will, do you remember the Bakers? They lived a couple streets away from us. Their kids went to the same school as John and I. It's that Will, William Baker. Crazy, it's such a small world we live in. He and I've become great mates. Funny that, I never used to talk to him much but now he's my greatest companion. Guess it's because he's from home. Someone to relate to. We often talk of the things from home. Watching the local football teams compete in Sunday matches. Old Miss Smith down at the town library. Just those little things that we used to do that we took for granted. Entertainment doesn't exist here in the trenches. If we're not shooting at the German's we're waiting. Waiting, waiting, there is no sleep to be had among the lice crawling through my clothes, the sounds of distant gunfire and groans from injured men. Men. That's what we are now. Men. The posters that used to mock us, saying we weren't men unless we went to war. I'd rather stay an innocent young boy than what is deemed as a man.

I'm currently writing this in amongst a few fellow soldiers who are scribbling furiously into their notebooks, desperately trying to write to their loved ones before they go over the top. The stories of the soldiers returning from raiding parties. They say it was a blood bath out there and the stench of crimson was the only thing they were able to concentrate on as it was so powerful. These brave men have been tested in the fires of war and came out with honour. It makes me wonder when it is I'll go out there. I can hear the gunshots. Calling me, tormenting me, wanting my blood. Every explosion causes me to shudder. The reality that one of them will plough through my skin sooner or later. Watching men tople over into death, contemplating if I will be next.

Since I've been here the only thing I've done is shoot from over the trenches. I'm petrified of going over the top or even worse — venturing into no man's land. Nothing as dangerous as some of these other men have faced. Those that did return, came back as different people. Smiles etched by youthful vitality and ambition mutilated, vacant expressions of men faced with mortality taking their place.

Oh mother I'm plagued by fear, fear of my turn to go over the top and not return. You know I'm not the best athlete.

I won't make 50 yards.

Mother, pray for me. I'd love to hear from you soon.

Love,

Arthur.

Does it sound okay?

Love you

xx