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Trenches, similar to the french word I think. wonder if its from the same part of the language. Probably isn’t after all, a trench is a long dip in the ground, and a tranche is a subcategory or a niche isn’t it. God knows. Figuratively and literally. Assuming you believe in a higher power of course. Incidentally, a higher power would have made trenches especially if he was like the Greek god of trenches, or Roman god. they probably both had trench gods.
By The Zombie Chimp on 01.03.2014
The trenches were heavy with mud and men. Rats scrummaged for food between the bodies of the sleeping and the awake and weary. It was a quiet place, and apart from the fighting, men didn’t move around often – not to be seen, of course.
By shazza on 01.03.2014
It’s dark and dirty down here; no one can see you and if they could they wouldn’t care because they are stuck in a pit of their own. Your loneliness is but a small part of the greater discord around you. No one cares.
By Kristine on 01.03.2014
where we played as kids
more like creeks that pooled stagnant water
war games and bike jumps
more trouble than we could count
moss and water, mud and muck
By mtnslamgrass on 01.03.2014
I seemed to have gotten off in the wrong trench. I couldn’t even here the other squirrels chattering. I just kept going and going. And then it fluttered into my mind. I used to be in love with them, fellow corn nibblers, cuddly cousins. Hello! Hello out and over there!
By Jeff Goodman URL on 01.03.2014
Ace gunned the motor, and the wheels of the Jeep dug deep trenches in the mud, splattering the patient faces of the waiting soldiers. “Nice try,” said the sergeant. “Now get the hell out of there and let someone else have a chance.”
By mrsmig on 01.03.2014
trenches you are down in a ditch and trying to get out. you are working hard to get out of a difficult problem. usually your life will depend on it. Or it
By frances on 01.03.2014
Cold, wet, muddy. You can hear the gunshots above your head. Cannons firing constant. Fear all around. Feelings of loss and doubt if you will make it.
By Francis Magnolia on 01.03.2014
we dug most of the day. it was surprising how much work it took and we still couldn’t stand up without our heads visible above the line. our backs ached from the work and the stooping. we had to bend down. they were drawing a bead on us almost from the start.
By Lee on 01.03.2014
and we used to dig them, remember. even deeper than those who had dug before us. you glared at the sun, as proud as ever, even prouder than me even though i was the emperor.
“you know, there are other trenches, in the sea,” i used to say and you laughed and said we were going to bombed by whales and sharks and eels and all the other marine creatures you could name.
By shuji on 01.03.2014
The trenches were filled with blood. That’s all that Trent could think of as he slipped through this dream, stumbling over fallen corpses and mangled limbs detached from their owners by a careless flick of a sword. Maybe he had done some of this damage, too. He didn’t know why he felt such detachedness from the world now, as he had seen war before. All of it had damaged him so deeply before, so why not now? Maybe now seeing trenches of blood didn’t hurt, because there were already so many carved into his heart that he was used to it.
By Elsie Shu URL on 01.03.2014
Trenches are a hole that is dug in the ground.
By John on 01.03.2014
one minute is soooo long to wait.
By Single Word on 01.03.2014
i have no idea what this means. um…. idk
By deja on 01.03.2014
They hadn’t thought what it would really be like, when they said: “I’ll be fighting in the trenches with the boys. We’ll be heroes!”
What they ended up with was foot rot, crotch rot, lice and mustard gas blisters that would scar them for decades beyond the end of our little war. What we all wound up with, plain and simple, were scars. But I did see some heroes in that department. Big, whopping, end-all-be-all hero scars. Scars you could pin a medal on.
By Shea on 01.03.2014
There were no trenches on Alternia. There was never any need for them. They were a war-mongering species, yes, but they weren’t needed for a race that fought with teeth and claws, sickles and swords. Maybe if there were trenches deep enough to keep the other trolls from crossing, everything would be different, everything would be sane, with no blood spilled. But there was blood, bright and red, lacing the ground. Standing on the ground was an insane troll, crying purple tears for the Moirail he killed. If there were trenches, maybe it wouldn’t have ended like that.
There were no trenches on Alternia.
By Solluxander Captor on 01.03.2014
My heart wouldn’t stop pounding. I was moving, running, sweating, yelling, but my mind was standing still. And the smell, the smell was too much. It smelled like fear, and death, and sickness. I will never fully be without this place. It is forever ingrained in me.
By Casey on 01.03.2014
he sat in the trenches the bombs all around him
he wished he were in a trench he had dug to plant trees at home instead
that would be beautiful he thought,
and so much happier
he wondered how he would ever get out of here
By rachgrr on 01.03.2014
I was in them yesterday- same place. Same ending- will have to wait to see what happens when I make the choice.
By Vanilla Lemonade on 01.03.2014
Time was out of hand, the eternal sands of it spilled from a gash in the sky. Every fit Earthling dug trenches through the torrents of time, scooping it into bags, piling those bags up and up, like levees around their cities, but their valiant efforts were not enough. NASA called to duty astronauts well versed in the New Age principles of time and fired them off to the heavens to repair the gash. The astronauts’ first report came through on the radio, “The gash is condition that must be accepted as it is. All in the Universe is OK as it is,” and NASA realized it had made a deadly mistake.
By Miss Alister URL on 01.03.2014
Trenches and wars;
tears and whispers in the dark.
Hold on your life, just for a few minutes, right?
You should stop breathing for a while:
there would be no tomorrow, any sunrise,
any comrade’s smile.
You are here and don’t know why.
So close your eyes, now,
close your fists and lips too
and think deeply, imagine, dream.
The moon kiss your forehead
and the ground warms your tired back.
Do not cry, sweetheart;
hold your memories tightly,
never let them go.
Pick a pencil, a piece of paper and write,
write and write again.
Write with desperation, with bleeding knuckles.
Do not give up;
dark will not last forever, sweetheart.
By gargouillis on 01.03.2014
a division of Identity Crisis, Inc.