I had to write a story in Language Arts. Tell me what you think. I think its pretty good for a child who hasn't even graduated middle school yet.
"Get up dear, get up!" My mom had run into my room and grabbed me out of bed before I was even awake. As my senses came to, I could see the flashes of light outside my window, accompanied by the explosions. The silent night, no longer silent, had turned into a nightmare. Only being 7, I didn't understand what was happening. I was living in war-torn London during the Second World War. My family sought refuge in our neighbor's bomb-shelter. This was becoming a daily routine. At that time, only one thing was on my mind: how to survive.
The next day, my mother finally made the tough decision my brother and me hoped would never have to be made. I, along with my brother James, was going to be sent out into the country to live with me uncle. He was only 4 at the time, so I had to take good care of him. As I walked into the train station, my single paper back of clothing in hand, I took a good look around. There were many other families doing the same thing we were. Kids and parents alike, as they hugged their final hug for a long time, were crying throughout the station. A sudden ROAR caught my attention. I had to cover my ears to block the deafening noise. I had seen a train before, but never this close. The train screeched to a halt. As the door opened, the only people who would ever be brave enough to return to London during the nightly raids, walked out. I still member the look on those soldiers faces. They were mournful and angry at the same time. I could tell they had been through a lot. A lot more than I would ever hope to see. After I hugged my mom goodbye, I helped my brother into the train. I was obscured in the crowd of others, and never saw my mother again before I left.
The train was scheduled to leave at 5:00 PM. This way, we would be clear of London before the bombing started. As the train started moving, I prayed for my mom, at home alone. I also prayed for my dad, fighting of somewhere I never heard of. Would I ever see them again? My train of thought was interrupted by the conductor telling me that this was my stop. I woke my brother up from him nap and disembarked from the train. After a short ten minute walk, I arrived at my uncle's house. I stood in front of the house with my brother, just staring at that house. Little did I know I would spend the next 10 years in that house, and the rest of my life in that small town in the Yorkshire Dales.
Even today, in the year 2007, I still see that image of me standing there, just staring at that ancient, red brick house. I still live in that town, along with my brother. We are both grown up now, with wives and children. My uncle has long since passed away. While we was arrive, he told me that my dad had died fighting in the mountains in Italy. My mom? Well, I don't know what happened to her. Hopefully one day I'll return to London, and look for her, if she lived through these years. Every time I see a little boy, walking down the street with his younger brother, oblivious of events outside our little town, the memory of what occurred during my childhood comes back to mind. As I grew older and wiser, I learned the cost of war. Not only in lives wasted, but also the price the innocent have to pay.
