creative writing on concentraton camp- what do you think?
i know its not perfect, but bear in mind im 16 and for a school assignment do you reckon this is ok?
I do not know what to feel as I look onto the world not yet tainted by human evil. Trees still and silent stand tall and proud, grass wavers slightly in the gentle blow of the cool breeze. The river slowly trickles a beautiful, rhythmic song and the tranquillity engulfs me. It is but the ugly frame in front that reminds me I am here; separated from the vast expanse of lush, green forestry by a cruel wall of wire. A wall that stands for so much more.
They say that comfort comes to those who wait at mysterious costs but I have been waiting long enough now, we all have. I have nothing left to do but wrestle my thoughts from the tired, blistered that hold me here. I think and I write as the hollow, wrenching hunger slowly tears me apart and drives me nearer and nearer to Insanity. On rare, precious occasions my thoughts can help me drift of like a solitary balloon up and up into the sky for all my deep earnest thinking, is but the intrepid effort of the soul to keep open the independence of her sea: while the wildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to cast her onto the cold, wet shore away from all she longs for.
Taken away in imagination is something I can now appreciate as truly beautiful. Just the thought makes the spirits and hearts rise, away and up with the swift uplifting rush of silent swallows in circled flight and soaring over the world, between those birds, for one brief second I feel the wind against my face. I see the sun and I am happy. Then, the bitter wind of cold, harsh reality pushes me back down and the truth of this god awful place swallows me like an unholy force.
I often doubt that my existence is significant in anyway, each of us seems nothing more than a void in an endless life, a blank page in the written book of dictatorship. We all have just one misfortune in common, one so great that it makes this earth of ours- earth of theirs, an uncomfortable inn to lodge in. This is our race. For we, in the erratic flight of fate, are but the fragile flutter of beauty’s broken wing, left to fight the impossible battle for freedom whilst the rest of the world stands back and laughs.
I am surrounded by weary skeletons, clad in tatters of rags that no longer serve any purpose. Through the passion, longing and fire in my soul it is hard to contemplate that I too am one of these lifeless bodies sitting motionless and so still. We are stripped of ourselves, the characters we once were so full of grace, charm and beauty are gone. Man in the ideal should be so noble and sparkling; we should all be grand and glowing creatures. But stripped of our life, robbed of all dignity we are but empty shells with just the slightest morsel of humanity left.
And the others, why they are so evil that they are nothing more than pure concentrated hell in this sick, dark world. Although we can all generally abide with the ordinary, irrational fears of the world, few can withstand the terrific spiritual terrors which menace you from the concentrating brow of the enraged and mighty guard . As the sound of their sickening laughter torments our bruised, battered ears; we know they are not human. None of us are. Looking around I see the pain that lives in their eyes, the dreams of theirs that have not yet dried up will slowly drown in tears never shed. They will not cry. Instead we escape to our seas of silent fantasy, night after night we sit silently under the pepper of stars that grace the skies above and we wish beautiful wishes in vain and empty hope that we may one day be happy.
It has been over two weeks since Tobin was so brutally taken. My own Childs gasping, choking, agonised screams have not once left me, they plague me – echoing around and round my conscience. I would have died for him one thousand times over that night and re-live his pain for eternity if it would bring him back to me for just the briefest of moments
Mere words cannot describe the enormity of a broken heart; my grief cannot be scraped away like the charred bones of my young boy were. I see his sad, strained smile in the face of each lost child floating by, hear his voice in every cruel passing whisper of wind and I weep. The thought that one day justice may be found are small drops of comfort in my vast, empty well.
Each of my sense are polluted by the stench of rotting flesh, it clings to each hair in my nostril and lingers ominously around every taste bud in my shrunken, starved mouth. Knowing that it is the stench of my sons’ rotting burnt carcass that lingers in the air…. that is so painful. I am too weak to cry. It should have been me.
- Anonymous1 decade agoFavorite Answer
Its one of those rare pieces of writing, which you initially start reading with skepticism and questioning in an undertone. But the beauty of such a writing is that, it effortlessly dissolves away those skepticisms and doubts into admiration, that is nothing short of a soul touching moment(s).
There is ample maturity, not just in the use of language but also in the form of the ideas (and some more aspects, which i cannot delve into given the space/medium).
To fuse my reasons for admiration into one wholesome experience, it would be the manner in which everything about the write up conspires to not leave your soul untouched, without screaming for sympathy.
The only possible drawback (beauty it might be for some), is incase you tried to say a story (its very ambiguous). However, a critique of my point can be, is the consideration that its a diary entry and in that case ambiguity might be a productive tool to engage the reader and allow them to ponder long after having read such a short story (write up/diary/ article/essay), which can probably be achieved by lengthier forms of writing by several other tools that comes at their disposal (many a times) solely through their magnitude in length.
N.B.: (readers might find my answer a little too heavy for a 16 year old. And I willfully agree to the idea. In fact I would have never engaged with a 16 year old child in this language, the way I have done here. I feel changes in generation entail a lot of things, viz., trends, culture, dressing, attitude, liberty, expenses and everything else...This piece of writing made me add another to the list...thats maturity of thought. Keep up the good writing, and even if your teacher fails to admire its beauty, dnt feel lost, you will find a lot more admirers in this community, and keep writing).
Best of Luck
Shisir. You can view my blog at http://delhibylanes.blogspot.com/
- Anonymous1 decade ago
Avery moving story. It kept my attention and made me want to hear the rest of the story. Only one tiny criticism - the language seems to get a little too pompous and flowery for the theme of the story. Otherwise, beautiful writing. Very insightful and empathetic for a 16 year old.
- 6 years ago
Dear Diary. Writing is hard, but only so far as grammar and punctuation and coherence is concerned. To bare your soul and let flow the angst and frustration, the yearning and longings of the soul is easy, just start writing and let it flow. Good, inspiring work. Thanks.
- kelby_lakeLv 61 decade ago
It's nice but at times it feels like a collection of intermittently beautiful phrases.
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- Anonymous1 decade ago
This is so moving, and the style of writing is beautiful.