write a short story on your own imagination
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Answer:
Create a Conflict. Have you ever read a book that doesn't begin until you're a few pages in? ...
Transform a Story. ...
Update a Classic Story. ...
Create a Bunch of People. ...
Write Something From Your Memory. ...
Try the Plot Generator. ...
Get Inspired by a Prompt. ...
Write a Prequel to an Article.
Answer:
Can you feel it son? Can you hear the cries for a new nation? For a new leader? For one who will lift us beyond the reaches of this planet and this soil, beyond the stars and the farms, to glory my child. That is what I want, to see us be lifted to glory like our days of old. Son? Can you hear me?”
“Yes da, I am here”, the young boy said, tears welling in his eyes. It had been almost 10 months since the civil war broke out, some say it is a coup but most say it is justice long due.
Disease had struck his village nearly a year ago and by now most of the houses had been vacated or were filled with bodies. Their stores were nearly depleted and winter had come, occasionally trying to keep the rats and other creatures of the sort away, the boy was living on the edge of fear.
Government “officials” had been ‘inspecting’ nearby villages for traces of rebellious activity, in other words they merely entered, stole, and slaughtered without cause. Their day had not come, and will most likely never either, foolishly they awaited the return of their family, the war was predicted to occur months before it had happened and during that time his family had marked their village as a rendezvous point.
Till now not a living corpse, nor a sign of a dead one had shown up. Either they were taken prisoners or were prisoners of their own fear.
Nonetheless the boy prepared himself in the arts of axe handling and using firearms. He prayed he need naught use these skills but as usual he doubted upon whether luck would favour them. Peering out of the window he saw the grave of his mother and her unborn daughter, his unborn sister. The cold claims some, but disease claims all.
His dad’s fever simply wouldn’t break and by now the boy feared for his fathers life. How would he survive without the essential guidance?
Night time came oft faster than day time, and with night came the storm of metal.
Sometimes he could catch small glimpses, but all other nights he could hear the chaos.
A nearby town was captured by the rebels, and the familiar glow of orange on the horizon would reduce his morale, orange meant fire, and fire meant death.
The boy’s routine repeated itself, everyday wake up, prepare father’s medicines, prepare a meal, practice and keep an eye out for intruders.
But today was different, today a rider showed up on the horizon.
Taking up his arms the boy stood ready in his little outpost, he aimed, and waited. The beard…It was his uncle, finally, some family.
But wait, the coat of arms…He was a “official”
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