Grade 7

Writer's Guild

"I Can Make A Difference By…"

Persperation builds on my brow, and I feel the moist morning air creep up on me and prepare to choke me as it has done the last forty days or so. At least I think it was forty days. It could've been fifty. My body's complaining, again. I get up from my dirty sleeping bag, put on my uniform, and check to see if my mass murderer is ready for its grisly job. As always, it sits mockingly by the corner of my tent, grinning, smiling, laughing.

"What do you want!?" I ask, disgruntled at the weapon's joy. But I know the answer to this question. I am feeble, frail, puny, scrawny, weedy, pathetic, fragile, weak, and I've run out of adjectives to describe my current position.

The only decider of my fate and that of many like me is the president, an ocean away. Due to his choice, I sit in my tent, red sand pelting my back as I write this entry in my notebook. I have no power in this crusade.

There are those who can make a difference. Why didn't they? Why don't they make a difference and stop it now?