Just A Kid
- Reads 25
- Votes 6
- Parts 1
Complete Tue, Aug 2, 2016<5 mins
I wrote this when I went on a school trip to Belgium. We went to Tyncot Cemetery where thousands of fallen soilders are buried. This cemetery, is also the resting place of the youngest soilder ever to be killed in WW2. He was just 14. He lied about being 18 in order to join. I sat by this boys grave for hours and this poem just came to me. Of course I do not know anything about his life but this is what I imagine his story to be.
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It is 1914, and Henry Anderson is watching the world descend into war. Like many young men at the time, he is fascinated by the idea of warfare and glory. Henry enlists in the military against his parents' wishes and throws himself into the life of a British soldier in Flanders. But it is far from what he expects: Henry's fantasies of righteous battle fade into the grim reality of gruesome death and shell-shock. He and his fellow soldier Jacob must help each other survive the cruel trenches, but it is no longer certain that either of them will return to England alive. Told in journal entries and letters from Henry's sister Elizabeth, this reveals the realities and horrors of World War I, on the battlefield and in the homefront. I wrote this for a history project while studying WWI and got way too involved in it, so here you are. WARNINGS: gun/bomb/gas-related violence, war descriptions, graphic death, suicide attempt. I will mark specific chapters with warnings and give summaries of those chapters on the following one. These may not be complete, so if a chapter is not marked and should be, please comment to let me know. Written in 2019 (age 15).Complete
amnesia
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I was the first. I arrived in the Glade, and there was nothing and... no one. I remembered nothing about who I was, who my parents were, what happened. A few days I remembered my name, and that's it. That's all that ever came back. There were four walls surrounding me with only one exit. I wanted to go through, so I did, in hopes of finding my way out. What I found lurking on the other side was not an exit but something much worse. I found my way back, and I spent the next month fending for myself. Food, water, a temporary shelter. After a month, someone else arrived, and this person arrived with supplies. Every month a new person was sent up. Every arrival was the same as mine. They couldn't remember anything. I was the first one here, and that means that I call the shots, I make the rules, and I run the place.
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