World War One

Essay by james-johnHigh School, 12th gradeA+, February 2014

download word file, 2 pages 0.0

Tuesday 14th February 2011

Helping hands

Characters: I and Peter and the Mountain

A mountain is a perilous environment. I will always remember the grumble of the ice sheet above us. I brushed the snow from my goggles and peered through the drifting whiteness. Somewhere high above me, up there in the veil of snow, something was happening. Anxiety fluttered through me. The snow was thickening, pebbles pattered around me. A fine crack like lighting streaked across the icy ground.

My gaze drifted towards Peter, the more experienced climber. He tried to reassure me with an outstretched hand. Somehow it didn't work. I was on the edge, fearing what the next few seconds had in store. My skin was crawling. Heat rushed down my spine. My breath came in shallow gasps. I knew. Somehow, by instinct, I just knew. Knew came to me like a lover's kiss, brushing my cheek, searching for my lips, teasing, but cruel, not tender.

The stones, pebbles, debris was coming faster now, skipping, hopping, dancing over the ice. Ribbons of snow were curling round Peter and I like tentacles. Suddenly Peter wasn't reassuring me.


His voice cracked through the wind. It was urgent. Hard. I will never forget that harked command. The wind wailed and sobbed, carrying away his voice.

Then there it was, the vast tsunami of ice, rock, uprooted trees. I heard the thunderous roar, felt it hammering through my spine, threatening to tear me open like a fig. It was as if it's icy fingers wanted to gouge into me, rip tear, destroy, I ran fled from my like, my boots pounding over the shifting, rolling earth, skidding, out of control, tumbling better skelter through the screaming whiteness. I was coughing, spluttering, clawing through the storms. The whiteness yawned,