Tuesday, 3 December 2019
Monday, 2 December 2019
Monday, 4 November 2019
Wednesday, 30 October 2019
Tuesday, 24 September 2019
This is a narrative we had to write after this book to flesh out its details!
Peter was playing in the town playground with his friends. He was in a small town in Vienna, the capital of Austria, in Europe. The date was 1944, 5/28/12, a date that would change Peter's life forever. His mother was cooking up his favorite meal, chicken soup and lentils.
Peter's father hollered for him to come inside for tea. Like an obedient son, he walked into the building and had his routine intake of nutrients. After that, he traversed his rickety stairwell up to his bedroom, and collapsed on his bed, asleep.
Peter woke up, but not to the smell of dinner, as he thought. He woke up to the sound of a loud buzzing, like a wasp, but it was no wasp at all. He looked outside his bedroom window and saw the silhouette of a B-57 bomber, its bomb bay lined with enough bombs to fill up a quarter of a block, like the ones he saw in his father's newspapers.
Quickly he ran down his stairs, the wood ricketing from each step, until he almost crashed into the dining table. He saw his father and mother, jamming their belongings into giant suitcases. Quickly, Peter's father opened a secret hatch in the stairwell, revealing a small metal crate. Peter saw and asked: "What is that? And what's inside?" Peter's father picked up the crate, walked up to Peter and said: This box contains a book, but the book is important. The book is the story of our people. It is rare than rubies, more splendid than silver and greater than gold. Peter's didn't know what it meant, but he nodded anyway.
As the bombs raged, Peter's mother went into the nearby grocery where she worked, to retrieve some food, when all of a sudden a loud *BOOM* shouted, and a crater of dust and concrete appeared. The loud explosive bombs crashed everywhere, splitting buildings and digging roads into their graves. Out of the corner of his eye in the dining room window, Peter saw the graveyard explode, the bones of the previous generations tumbling everywhere.
Two skulls landed right in front of him, yet in different sizes. They were that of an adult and a child's skull The child's skull was staring at the bigger one, that was staring at Peter. Another shell landed nearby, not close enough for the shrapnel to hit, but enough for its shockwave to rustle loose objects. The bigger skull was buried in the snow, as the child's skull's jaw dropped, like a bad omen. Peter, spooked, walked away from the window, in terror.
Just as he took his final step back on the creaking floor, a final shell ripped through the roof into the room, like a hot knife going through warm butter. It shook the whole world, and Peter was sent through the glass window, as if an invisible hand had grabbed him and shot put him as far as he could go. Peter came to, in the debris of wood and asphalt road where a crater had dug itself. Looking at the asphalt, he saw the corpse of a man...or more accurately, what was left of one.
The only chunk left was half a torso, its ribcage showing and the organs being forcibly imploded, all blanketed by a thick layer of blood and viscera. Finally, the shelling ended, but that was not the end of the nightmare.
Huge vehicles with six wheels came in, looting the perimeter. Peter ran the other way, bumping into his father, that was with a long line of people. The Allies had ordered the villagers to leave the village, so Peter and his father set off, with the rest of the crowd.
Behind them, the Allies set off incendiary grenades that shattered thermite all over the remains of the buildings, its fiery grip roasting the concrete and wood into ashes. Peter noticed that mother was missing, so he asked his father, while the pack stopped to take a breather. Peter's dad replied with a tremble in his voice. "She's gone, son. She's gone." His father didn't reveal how she died, but Peter wanted to know. Both their faces instantly went as pale as the snow they trudged on. After some nagging, Peter's father finally revealed how she died.
As she was running home with her goods, a shell landed in front of her, shocking her in place. Another shell hit a nearby building, which collapsed right on top of her, then immediately caught fire and went up in flames. After those really traumatizing and terrifying tales, they went and set up camp for the night.
By camp, it's not like your traditional tent and campfire. It was more like a bunch of humans that are trying to copy the behaviour of cold penguins, only this time they're sleeping and piling up into a mountain. Peter saw his father's arm turn a bit blue and so, he questioned him about it. But Peter's father brushed it off and replied that he's just a little cold and requires some sleep. Peter nodded, and laid out a short piece of yellow cloth that apparently was his 'sleeping bag'.
Peter got some rest, shortly after. The next day, the congregation of villagers packed up and trudged through the white snow, its icy grip sometimes swallowing whole feet. They blitzed by blizzards, moseyed over mountains and curved through challenging crevasses. Over time, Peter's father's arm turned blue yet again, but barely anyone noticed.
This mistake would not be without consequences though, as one day Peter's father was too weak to walk, so he stumbled and collapsed on the snow. The whole crowd stopped to look, as Peter tried to help the old man out, but it was too late. The arm had contracted frostbite, and without proper treatment, it spread to other parts of the body, turning him into a literal ice block.
Peter's father, knowing he couldn't go any further, offered Peter his special box and said: 'Son, take this. Promise you will keep it safe." "I promise"Peter replied, and soon, Peter's father closed his eyes and breathed his last breath. Five hours later, they laid Peter's father's corpse into the snow. They didn't have resources to spare to build a proper coffin, so they just dug a shallow icy grave.
Peter's father didn't have the strength nor the will to dig his own father's grave, which is okay because that's quite morbid. Peter's expression looked very woebegone, which is probably because his father is dead and the village is burying him. Peter went to his father's grave and paid his respects, and everyone else in the village gathered around and also declared tribute to Peter's father. Just as the final person left their respects, the Allies jumped from the nearby hills and attacked, ambushing the unsuspecting villagers.
They threw a grenade in the middle of the crowd, blasting away everyone and the shockwave covering Peter's father's corpse in snow. Just as sudden as the soldiers, a blizzard came and shielded the villagers from the soldier's rifles, but they still managed to nick a couple people's legs. In the snowstorm, one of the soldiers tripped and their rifle flew right into the place Peter's father's grave is. Peter ran off, in a frenzy with his special little treasure box until he found shelter in a small tree. A day went by and Peter found a remnant of the villagers. About 6/8 of them were gone, presumed dead or enslaved. He followed the remaining survivors until they stopped at a small quaint town. By then, Peter's arms grew tired of carrying a cast-iron 2-inch high and long box, so he went to a nearby tree....I think it's a linden tree..yeah that's right. He clawed at the snow with his box, until a three-inch hole emerged in the bleach-white snow.
He jammed his special possession in, then proceeded to envelop the crate in snow, guaranteeing that nobody else would find it. He then rejoined the group, and went off. Eight years have passed, the war has ended and Peter went to England to take a cruise to New York on a giant-four funnel ship called the RMS Titanic? I think that was what it was called.
Either way, he won his tickets in some gambling, and found some space in the Third Class Section. After two more stops, the Titanic set course for New York, where Peter hoped to start a new life. As it was going, Peter felt a large shockwave and was ordered to escape on one of the lifeboats. He scurried on and saw the big aquatic behemoth crumble and shatter into the freezing sea. Soon after, he was found by a New York Ship, the Carpathia and got his trip to New York. He then found a job at some big business and took over after the previous boss died from natural causes, boosting the business' cash flow back in the positive. Twelve years passed and Peter is now in the prime of his life, at 32. To pay his respects, he took another ship back to Austria to see his father's grave, or at least the general area of the site. Peter took the way back the same way he remembered how he left his village. The land was lush and green, the winter being over and spring flourishing all around.
He saw a small mound of dirt, topped with a submachine gun, vines growing all around it. Peter assumed it was his father's grave, and he paid his respects, picking a nearby sunflower and laying it down carefully on the dirt pile. He then went to find his box again, remembering the linden tree and using it as a landmark. He found the exact one, leaves fluttering and a little girl using the swings under the tree. Peter asked the little girl if she wanted to see a special treasure he was going to dig up, and the girl obliged and ceased her game and followed Peter to the side of the linden tree.
He dug up the box with a small trowel and the girl asked: "Will we see rubies, silver or gold?" Peter opened the box. "Oh," the girl replied. "It's only a book." "This is a book about our people, about us." Peter replied. It is rarer than rubies, more splendid than silver and greater than gold, Peter said, mirroring what his father said to him. He read the book to the little girl and then the girl left and told her family. Peter was satisfied and took the book back to New York, where he left the book to rest at the New York Public Library.
"It will rest there, and generation will read it for many years to come." Peter thought.
"And that's the story," Peter said to his children. Quite an eventful one, I think. I believe it will be a woeful tale, a tale that will be passed down. Don't worry little ones, the future may be nigh, but I'll be right there with you, every step of the way.
Peter's father hollered for him to come inside for tea. Like an obedient son, he walked into the building and had his routine intake of nutrients. After that, he traversed his rickety stairwell up to his bedroom, and collapsed on his bed, asleep.
Peter woke up, but not to the smell of dinner, as he thought. He woke up to the sound of a loud buzzing, like a wasp, but it was no wasp at all. He looked outside his bedroom window and saw the silhouette of a B-57 bomber, its bomb bay lined with enough bombs to fill up a quarter of a block, like the ones he saw in his father's newspapers.
Quickly he ran down his stairs, the wood ricketing from each step, until he almost crashed into the dining table. He saw his father and mother, jamming their belongings into giant suitcases. Quickly, Peter's father opened a secret hatch in the stairwell, revealing a small metal crate. Peter saw and asked: "What is that? And what's inside?" Peter's father picked up the crate, walked up to Peter and said: This box contains a book, but the book is important. The book is the story of our people. It is rare than rubies, more splendid than silver and greater than gold. Peter's didn't know what it meant, but he nodded anyway.
As the bombs raged, Peter's mother went into the nearby grocery where she worked, to retrieve some food, when all of a sudden a loud *BOOM* shouted, and a crater of dust and concrete appeared. The loud explosive bombs crashed everywhere, splitting buildings and digging roads into their graves. Out of the corner of his eye in the dining room window, Peter saw the graveyard explode, the bones of the previous generations tumbling everywhere.
Two skulls landed right in front of him, yet in different sizes. They were that of an adult and a child's skull The child's skull was staring at the bigger one, that was staring at Peter. Another shell landed nearby, not close enough for the shrapnel to hit, but enough for its shockwave to rustle loose objects. The bigger skull was buried in the snow, as the child's skull's jaw dropped, like a bad omen. Peter, spooked, walked away from the window, in terror.
Just as he took his final step back on the creaking floor, a final shell ripped through the roof into the room, like a hot knife going through warm butter. It shook the whole world, and Peter was sent through the glass window, as if an invisible hand had grabbed him and shot put him as far as he could go. Peter came to, in the debris of wood and asphalt road where a crater had dug itself. Looking at the asphalt, he saw the corpse of a man...or more accurately, what was left of one.
The only chunk left was half a torso, its ribcage showing and the organs being forcibly imploded, all blanketed by a thick layer of blood and viscera. Finally, the shelling ended, but that was not the end of the nightmare.
Huge vehicles with six wheels came in, looting the perimeter. Peter ran the other way, bumping into his father, that was with a long line of people. The Allies had ordered the villagers to leave the village, so Peter and his father set off, with the rest of the crowd.
Behind them, the Allies set off incendiary grenades that shattered thermite all over the remains of the buildings, its fiery grip roasting the concrete and wood into ashes. Peter noticed that mother was missing, so he asked his father, while the pack stopped to take a breather. Peter's dad replied with a tremble in his voice. "She's gone, son. She's gone." His father didn't reveal how she died, but Peter wanted to know. Both their faces instantly went as pale as the snow they trudged on. After some nagging, Peter's father finally revealed how she died.
As she was running home with her goods, a shell landed in front of her, shocking her in place. Another shell hit a nearby building, which collapsed right on top of her, then immediately caught fire and went up in flames. After those really traumatizing and terrifying tales, they went and set up camp for the night.
By camp, it's not like your traditional tent and campfire. It was more like a bunch of humans that are trying to copy the behaviour of cold penguins, only this time they're sleeping and piling up into a mountain. Peter saw his father's arm turn a bit blue and so, he questioned him about it. But Peter's father brushed it off and replied that he's just a little cold and requires some sleep. Peter nodded, and laid out a short piece of yellow cloth that apparently was his 'sleeping bag'.
Peter got some rest, shortly after. The next day, the congregation of villagers packed up and trudged through the white snow, its icy grip sometimes swallowing whole feet. They blitzed by blizzards, moseyed over mountains and curved through challenging crevasses. Over time, Peter's father's arm turned blue yet again, but barely anyone noticed.
This mistake would not be without consequences though, as one day Peter's father was too weak to walk, so he stumbled and collapsed on the snow. The whole crowd stopped to look, as Peter tried to help the old man out, but it was too late. The arm had contracted frostbite, and without proper treatment, it spread to other parts of the body, turning him into a literal ice block.
Peter's father, knowing he couldn't go any further, offered Peter his special box and said: 'Son, take this. Promise you will keep it safe." "I promise"Peter replied, and soon, Peter's father closed his eyes and breathed his last breath. Five hours later, they laid Peter's father's corpse into the snow. They didn't have resources to spare to build a proper coffin, so they just dug a shallow icy grave.
Peter's father didn't have the strength nor the will to dig his own father's grave, which is okay because that's quite morbid. Peter's expression looked very woebegone, which is probably because his father is dead and the village is burying him. Peter went to his father's grave and paid his respects, and everyone else in the village gathered around and also declared tribute to Peter's father. Just as the final person left their respects, the Allies jumped from the nearby hills and attacked, ambushing the unsuspecting villagers.
They threw a grenade in the middle of the crowd, blasting away everyone and the shockwave covering Peter's father's corpse in snow. Just as sudden as the soldiers, a blizzard came and shielded the villagers from the soldier's rifles, but they still managed to nick a couple people's legs. In the snowstorm, one of the soldiers tripped and their rifle flew right into the place Peter's father's grave is. Peter ran off, in a frenzy with his special little treasure box until he found shelter in a small tree. A day went by and Peter found a remnant of the villagers. About 6/8 of them were gone, presumed dead or enslaved. He followed the remaining survivors until they stopped at a small quaint town. By then, Peter's arms grew tired of carrying a cast-iron 2-inch high and long box, so he went to a nearby tree....I think it's a linden tree..yeah that's right. He clawed at the snow with his box, until a three-inch hole emerged in the bleach-white snow.
He jammed his special possession in, then proceeded to envelop the crate in snow, guaranteeing that nobody else would find it. He then rejoined the group, and went off. Eight years have passed, the war has ended and Peter went to England to take a cruise to New York on a giant-four funnel ship called the RMS Titanic? I think that was what it was called.
Either way, he won his tickets in some gambling, and found some space in the Third Class Section. After two more stops, the Titanic set course for New York, where Peter hoped to start a new life. As it was going, Peter felt a large shockwave and was ordered to escape on one of the lifeboats. He scurried on and saw the big aquatic behemoth crumble and shatter into the freezing sea. Soon after, he was found by a New York Ship, the Carpathia and got his trip to New York. He then found a job at some big business and took over after the previous boss died from natural causes, boosting the business' cash flow back in the positive. Twelve years passed and Peter is now in the prime of his life, at 32. To pay his respects, he took another ship back to Austria to see his father's grave, or at least the general area of the site. Peter took the way back the same way he remembered how he left his village. The land was lush and green, the winter being over and spring flourishing all around.
He saw a small mound of dirt, topped with a submachine gun, vines growing all around it. Peter assumed it was his father's grave, and he paid his respects, picking a nearby sunflower and laying it down carefully on the dirt pile. He then went to find his box again, remembering the linden tree and using it as a landmark. He found the exact one, leaves fluttering and a little girl using the swings under the tree. Peter asked the little girl if she wanted to see a special treasure he was going to dig up, and the girl obliged and ceased her game and followed Peter to the side of the linden tree.
He dug up the box with a small trowel and the girl asked: "Will we see rubies, silver or gold?" Peter opened the box. "Oh," the girl replied. "It's only a book." "This is a book about our people, about us." Peter replied. It is rarer than rubies, more splendid than silver and greater than gold, Peter said, mirroring what his father said to him. He read the book to the little girl and then the girl left and told her family. Peter was satisfied and took the book back to New York, where he left the book to rest at the New York Public Library.
"It will rest there, and generation will read it for many years to come." Peter thought.
"And that's the story," Peter said to his children. Quite an eventful one, I think. I believe it will be a woeful tale, a tale that will be passed down. Don't worry little ones, the future may be nigh, but I'll be right there with you, every step of the way.
Monday, 16 September 2019
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