I had to write a short story for my Religious Studies class, explaining what the word ‘conflict’ means to me, and I’ve decided to post it here! I hope you enjoy it!
I’m hiding. Cramped up in a cupboard, the only thing I can see is the faint outline of my hands out in front of me. I can hear explosions, some far away, and some much closer. Fear runs through my veins but I can’t move, not unless I want to be killed. So many people have already lost their lives fighting for their country, and I don’t want to be one of them. It’s not that I’m a coward, but I must my parents and they are the ones who told me to hide.
“We must all be brave,” my mother had said as we all ran through the filthy streets in the middle of the night.
My eyes widen as I hear a door open and bang against a wall. People. Intruders. The enemy. I peer out of a small hole and see a figure looming over my parents. A gun shot rings out. Once. Twice. And then silence. Staring at the bodies of my parents, I realise that my mother was right; I must be brave. I must survive the conflict.
I hope everyone thinks it’s okay! Please comment with feedback; I would really appreciate it!