Creative Writing Subject: Spring (BB1)

My Own Creative Writing

Soldier's March

(I just started writing it and it worked for me. Purely fictional. I may add more later.)

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                It started with a drum. Soldiers were passing by, their feet marching in a steady rhythm, hands beating on their shields and drums. Their faces were blank and unyielding, though their eyes were proud. Straight backed, cleanly shaved, their uniforms were sharp and crisp, and they stood tall as they walked. I hid behind a shopkeeper, clutching at her dress as I peered out amazed as they walked by.

                I had never seen the King’s soldiers before.

                They passed by quickly. Their drumming of feet and hands still echoing on in their wake, and ran began to fall. Everything else had been silent, in honor of the King’s soldiers. Everyone, even the littlest of children, knew that when the King sent his soldiers to march on Raugsbard, they did not return.

                So the rain fell, and the soldiers marched, and we were silent.

                After the noise of their thrumming feet diminished, the whispering began. Like the rain, it began in small torrents. It came quietly at first, the rumors and the gossip about the war and the King’s soldiers, but then cascaded louder and colder and harder from their mouths, encouraged by their fear.

                I was a child, one that did not yet understand the words that spread from their lips just yet, nor of the politics of the kingdom. All I had been concerned with was finding a dry place to sleep that night, and, if I was lucky, some food to fill my stomach.

                Most of the people that crowded this street knew me, a little street urchin. No good, and unwanted, I fought with the stray dogs for scraps. Those people would watch and laugh. But at least I was fed.

                The cold rain pelleted my head and I shivered, realizing then that I still clutched this stranger’s clothes. Instantly I unclenched my tiny fists and wrapped them around myself instead, shivering from the rain. The woman turned to look at me.

                The crowd, who had ignored the small trickling of water at first, now seemed to vanish to get out of the rain as it began to fall heavier. Like them I searched for a dry shelter to hide away at, at least until the rain stopped. I spotted a small hanger over the doorway of a home, a little nook with just enough room for me to stand in and wait. I walked towards it. The woman watched me go.

                The rain fell, and the soldier’s marched.