Wooden Handle Creative Writing
The wooden Handle was cold, as I swung the axe down. Ok maybe it's just a hatchet, well actually it's just a stick with a sharp rock. But it's mine and wielding it, the waterlogged stick fills me with pride . No it doesn’t make me a warrior or a superhuman but it proves I’m not just one of the other kids sitting around waiting. Waiting for what. I’ll never know. The wet wood freezes my already chilled hands. But I hold on tighter, and swing harder. My calluses and blisters burn. But not as much as this wood will tonight. The sun quickly started setting into the horizon. The last log felt like a race with sun, it excited me. My arms were heavy legs weak but splitting that wood was an easy task. With wood chips flying, through the air. I take