Writing 1

Walking out onto the dark green turf, eying the enemy. Feeling the rough texture of the ground. The smell of rubber engulfs you and the tempature of half freezing chills you to the bone. Walking to the assignes postion you get your mental focus together. Your stance is of that of a bull ready to charge at your target. As the colorless overlooker strolls onto the arena your wait, heart pounding, legs flexing for the sound. The simple sound that starts a battle over the weapon. Your enemy stands confident in their colors and in vainity. As the sound blows the battle commences, sudden rush of adrenaline rushes your legs and your thoughts race. Like a simphony of brush strokes and spinning colors, your team weaves the black and white weapon in and out of the enemy.
Panic rushes the enemy at the sight of your team and they retreat to defend their precious goal. Thoughts racing, legs moving, the voice of your teammate echos in the stadium, the pass comes at high speed and in the last second your shut down by the fowl smelling keeper of their goal. Acting instinctivly, your legs dig into the turf, running backwards to try and retrive what was lost. At this moment perspertation is layering your skin to make an oder and the taste of salt touches your lips and your body tempature is increacing. Then your leader beckens you to the safety. Another teammate takes your place. As you sit you think. Thoughts about the most powerful enemy and how to defete them pounds into your head. You throut burns with the longing for liquid. As you reach into your torn, oder stained bag you grab the liquid of revival. The taste is that of cold ice, colorless in form and the liquid slips down your parched neck.
The battle carries on and the stadium seems to get colder as the time runs out. Each side is straining for energy and the color of their face is drained as the final bell rang.