DaknisM
September 28th, 2010, 04:34 PM
So I had to write a short story for English class, and i think it is pretty good, though Im not even half way done. Can you please give me some tips and pointers on how I can possibly make it better. It is called "The Island"
Private Mike Ramsey, a marine sniper , waited patiently for the plane to fly over the objective point. His squad, all six of them, nervously waited for the umpteenth time they had to jump out of this crotchety old blue airplane. With the squad of six men, with the exception of Linda, the only female in the squad, the airplane was already cramped. That means that Mike, clutching his beloved Barrett M82A1M with its custom made 39in. barrel, in a single hand, was forced to stand up, holding on to the side of the airplane with one hand.
He looked at Private Eric Feiszli, his spotter and long since child hood friend, and blinked twice. That was the sign for “Hold on to my chute, I’m going to check my gun”. Eric shot his arm out immediately, grabbing the leather bag that held his purple and silver parachute with red letters that read “Strike From a Distance” with a skull and rifles sewn behind it.
As he pulled out his screw driver and started to unscrew the small screws to dislodge his barrel, he looked into the distance, not needing to look at what he was doing. From the beginning of boot camp he had learned how to field strip his gun, in the dark, with his eyes closed. Thinking back, it seemed like the 7 years since then had been a lifetime. So much time on ranges, judging the distance between the bulls eyes set across the wide expanse of prairie, the countless hours of waiting he had done with his spotter, all the recoil from the countless targets he had hit, training and in real missions.
But he shook his head and cleared his mind. If he wanted to keep a straight head, he had to clear his mind. There is nothing worse than trying to concentrate on his crosshairs then when are thinking about things. “Don’t think. Just shoot”, quoted from his old, now retired, boot camp sergeant. Mike chuckled to himself as he subconsciously handed his barrel to Dante, the demolitionist, as he opened the action and started to wipe it down with a rag. You can never have your gun be to clean.
As he focused on getting his mind cleared, he saw clouds gathering over the Chile. That can’t be good he thought to himself. We had only 72 hours execute this plan, and going around the storm to circle back into Argentina will take too much time. He heard the Pilots voice in his headpiece, sounding straind and worried. That couldn’t be a good sign. As the pilot started talking, Mike started to put his Barrett back together.
“Uhm, hang on to your seats marines. We are going to be experiencing some, uh, turbulence.”
“Hoorah!” Yelled out Lt. Colonel Steven Munro, the squad leader, in his heavy British accent.
And with that, Mike heard the headpiece click off. So they were going to do it. They were going right through a hellacious looking storm. He took the only cover he could, by sitting down and scooting up through the belly of the plane. He ran into Eric’s legs and clutched a pole under his seat, with almost half of his 67in. guns barrel hanging out of the plane.
He turned on his headset and the captain a question, having to yell through the thunder that boomed a split second after a blinding flash of lightining struck near their plane.
“SIR! WHATS THE ETA TO OBJECTIVE POINT!”
“In this storm, I’m guessing about one hours, 15 minutes. Repeat, O N E hours, F I F—
Then Mike felt the plane jolt as another flash light his vision. He lost his grip on the pole and began to slide. He felt his Chute pack tighten and looked up in relief as Eric held on with a look of determination in his gaze. Mike hooked his boot on the open door and tried to push himself up. As he slowly inched upward, watching the fear-stricken look of his squad mates, he grabbed the pole trying to reassure himself. Then what happened next would change his life. He felt terror as plane jolted once more, this time forcing most of his body out the side. He felt hope as Eric tried to pull him up, but he too slipped and they both fell out the airplane in flailing limbs.
As he fell, he caught Eric’s eyes and looked at him. He gave him a pound on the chest with his free hand, their very own handshake since they were only four years old, and pushed him away, knowing that they had to open their shoots right away at this altitude.
He watched as Eric shot up through the air, caught by his parachute, so he float safely down. As safe as you can in a storm anyway.
He did the same and felt the familiar gut wrenching sensation in his stomach. He turned on his headset as the rain battered his face.
“ERIC! REPEAT, ERIC, ARE YOU THERE!”
“I’m here Mike!” He yelled back. Mike felt relief hit him like train. He got past his emotions in seconds, practicing from years of training, and responded back.
“Do you see any land?” Mike yelled, trying to sound calm.
“Right below us, thank God.”
Mike looked down and sighed as he saw an island. But the relief didn’t last long as he saw Eric get blown to the far side, caught in a current just a few yards above his own parachute.
“I’ll see ya ground side!” Eric yelled into the headset.
Mike looked down just in time to straddle his sniper in his hands, the barrel pointing completely vertical, as too not get anything stuck in it, He covered his face with his free hand leaves and branches whacked into his body. He saw ground right as a his body hit with a sickening THUMP.
Private Mike Ramsey, a marine sniper , waited patiently for the plane to fly over the objective point. His squad, all six of them, nervously waited for the umpteenth time they had to jump out of this crotchety old blue airplane. With the squad of six men, with the exception of Linda, the only female in the squad, the airplane was already cramped. That means that Mike, clutching his beloved Barrett M82A1M with its custom made 39in. barrel, in a single hand, was forced to stand up, holding on to the side of the airplane with one hand.
He looked at Private Eric Feiszli, his spotter and long since child hood friend, and blinked twice. That was the sign for “Hold on to my chute, I’m going to check my gun”. Eric shot his arm out immediately, grabbing the leather bag that held his purple and silver parachute with red letters that read “Strike From a Distance” with a skull and rifles sewn behind it.
As he pulled out his screw driver and started to unscrew the small screws to dislodge his barrel, he looked into the distance, not needing to look at what he was doing. From the beginning of boot camp he had learned how to field strip his gun, in the dark, with his eyes closed. Thinking back, it seemed like the 7 years since then had been a lifetime. So much time on ranges, judging the distance between the bulls eyes set across the wide expanse of prairie, the countless hours of waiting he had done with his spotter, all the recoil from the countless targets he had hit, training and in real missions.
But he shook his head and cleared his mind. If he wanted to keep a straight head, he had to clear his mind. There is nothing worse than trying to concentrate on his crosshairs then when are thinking about things. “Don’t think. Just shoot”, quoted from his old, now retired, boot camp sergeant. Mike chuckled to himself as he subconsciously handed his barrel to Dante, the demolitionist, as he opened the action and started to wipe it down with a rag. You can never have your gun be to clean.
As he focused on getting his mind cleared, he saw clouds gathering over the Chile. That can’t be good he thought to himself. We had only 72 hours execute this plan, and going around the storm to circle back into Argentina will take too much time. He heard the Pilots voice in his headpiece, sounding straind and worried. That couldn’t be a good sign. As the pilot started talking, Mike started to put his Barrett back together.
“Uhm, hang on to your seats marines. We are going to be experiencing some, uh, turbulence.”
“Hoorah!” Yelled out Lt. Colonel Steven Munro, the squad leader, in his heavy British accent.
And with that, Mike heard the headpiece click off. So they were going to do it. They were going right through a hellacious looking storm. He took the only cover he could, by sitting down and scooting up through the belly of the plane. He ran into Eric’s legs and clutched a pole under his seat, with almost half of his 67in. guns barrel hanging out of the plane.
He turned on his headset and the captain a question, having to yell through the thunder that boomed a split second after a blinding flash of lightining struck near their plane.
“SIR! WHATS THE ETA TO OBJECTIVE POINT!”
“In this storm, I’m guessing about one hours, 15 minutes. Repeat, O N E hours, F I F—
Then Mike felt the plane jolt as another flash light his vision. He lost his grip on the pole and began to slide. He felt his Chute pack tighten and looked up in relief as Eric held on with a look of determination in his gaze. Mike hooked his boot on the open door and tried to push himself up. As he slowly inched upward, watching the fear-stricken look of his squad mates, he grabbed the pole trying to reassure himself. Then what happened next would change his life. He felt terror as plane jolted once more, this time forcing most of his body out the side. He felt hope as Eric tried to pull him up, but he too slipped and they both fell out the airplane in flailing limbs.
As he fell, he caught Eric’s eyes and looked at him. He gave him a pound on the chest with his free hand, their very own handshake since they were only four years old, and pushed him away, knowing that they had to open their shoots right away at this altitude.
He watched as Eric shot up through the air, caught by his parachute, so he float safely down. As safe as you can in a storm anyway.
He did the same and felt the familiar gut wrenching sensation in his stomach. He turned on his headset as the rain battered his face.
“ERIC! REPEAT, ERIC, ARE YOU THERE!”
“I’m here Mike!” He yelled back. Mike felt relief hit him like train. He got past his emotions in seconds, practicing from years of training, and responded back.
“Do you see any land?” Mike yelled, trying to sound calm.
“Right below us, thank God.”
Mike looked down and sighed as he saw an island. But the relief didn’t last long as he saw Eric get blown to the far side, caught in a current just a few yards above his own parachute.
“I’ll see ya ground side!” Eric yelled into the headset.
Mike looked down just in time to straddle his sniper in his hands, the barrel pointing completely vertical, as too not get anything stuck in it, He covered his face with his free hand leaves and branches whacked into his body. He saw ground right as a his body hit with a sickening THUMP.