My Book of Random

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Alas, this is a little short story, set in three parts. The idea just kind of came to me, when I read something similar. This is a little darker than what I'm used to writing, but I felt I needed to expand my writing knowledge. This will be interesting, writing something like this. Here's a rough draft of the first part. Nothing is final yet, but I'm thinking of publishing all three final parts into a separate book. What do you guys think about that? I also would like suggestions for titles, because I'm not the best when it comes to those things.

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1776; American Revolutionary War

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The first time they met, Drew first had his back pressed to one of the many trees in the forest, the bright sun shining on his face. He was exhausted. And lost.

Lost was one of the bigger problems at hand.

But right now, Drew just wanted to enjoy the feeling of freedom, as he had before all of this. Leaning down to examine a butterfly that had landed near his feet, he couldn't help but wonder during his seventeen years of life, if he'd ever been as free as this butterfly. No one telling it what to do. It could do what it wanted. It could fly to wherever it wanted, or it could just lay there and enjoy its surroundings.

Drew stared at the orange and gray insect, wondering why everything seemed so calm. This was war, right? How could it be so quiet... so peaceful? Then again, he had only been in the army for a couple weeks, thus he had not been as experienced as the other men he had met, with their wounds, their scars, and their frankly terrifying stories.

The butterfly flew away, and he sat down on the soft grass, still leaning against the rough bark of the tree. His jacket, pack, and rifle were nearby, and he welcomed the light breeze blowing over his hair, cooling him off.

He needed to get back to his regiment soon; to be honest he didn't even remember how he'd gotten so lost in the first place, or when he wandered so far from the rest of the group.

In the trees, a mourning dove cooed a soft, short song. And it should. It was named a mourning dove for a reason, and there was no better time to sing its mourning song then wartime.

In the distance, Drew could see a patch of water. He had plenty already, though his quirky curiosity of what he would call a "mysterious water patch" got the best of him. He carried his discarded things and moved over there, half-alert for danger.

The patch of water had in fact only been a mere part of what was a very large lake. Drew couldn't help but smile as he examined the sparkling blue water, and he sat down on a log, putting his things next to him. Eyeing his stuff, he found it amusing as well, how little he and many of the other soldiers were given.

He splashed a little bit of the cold water onto his face, and let out a small, quiet laugh. What was he doing, goofing off like this?

If this is war, it's not so bad. He let his hands drop besides him, the sun reflecting off the lake and giving it the impression of being a giant sapphire.

Everything was quiet.

Drew felt the intruder's presence before actually seeing them; a faint rustling of leaves, the slight and sudden shift of the wind.

He inched his hand towards his rifle, removing his jacket. Once he grabbed hold of it, he stood up and turned around.

A British soldier stood before him, his coat a flash of fire against the cool colors of the forest around them. His light brown hair paled to a dark blonde in the sun. He held up a rifle of his own...and it was pointed at Drew. "Lower your weapon, rebel," he demanded. Drew bristled at the new threat.