Post by AshVersion2 on Nov 16, 2006 13:56:58 GMT -5
My English creative writing coursework. I got full marks for it. ;D Based on the painting 'Nighthawks' (Google it), we had to write a short story based around one of the people in the paining. It is set in 1940s America, during WW2.
Your name is Jason MacDonald. You’re a twenty-something working-class loser, an alcoholic sex addict who somehow manages to keep his job at a law firm.
Today is going to change your life.
~
The fire was raging, the smoke filling Jason’s lungs. All he could smell was the charred bodies of the dead men that he worked with at the firm. Choking, he collapsed to his hands and knees, slowly reaching up for the bell-lever. His fingers brushed the rubber, gripped, pulled . . .
Jason awoke with a start, his eyelids snapping open at the sound of his alarm clock. Despite his wakefulness, his heart thudded and his head throbbed even after he silenced the alarm. Sitting up in bed, he allowed his eyes to focus around his bedroom: papers on the smuggling case he was bound to lose; broken liquor bottles in the wastepaper basket by the door; clothes on the floor from last night’s frantic tumble; a goodbye and good luck note next to his alarm clock - the classic shy goodbye. Jason sighed, running his hand through his thick brown hair, massaging his aching head. His eyes rested on the clock, hoping that the gentle tick-tock would calm his brain. If anything it made it worse, as his mind registered, with growing dread, the hard knock of reality.
He was late for work.
Again.
“Mr. MacDonald, if I am to be as frank as possible, I’m not at all surprised by your conduct today.”
Jason bowed his head, trying to look as disappointed in himself as possible, when in truth he cared about his fate as much as he cared about last night’s trophy.
Looking around his boss’ office, Jason could see why Mr. Meikeljohn was as pompous as he was. Any man who had what could only be described as a library for an office was surely an upper-class wannabe.
Mr. Meikeljohn continued, glaring up at Jason from his impeccably organised dark wood desk.
“We here at S, L and M are a comfortably established law firm, known all over Chicago as one of the best - ” Jason began to wonder whether or not he had stumbled across a meeting about press releases “ - and as one of the best, we expect the best. Now, you are no longer the best, and haven’t been since your divorce last year.”
Jason’s head snapped up, his eyes suddenly filled with fire.
“That’s personal! You have no right to put salt in that wound!”
“Mr. MacDonald, this is really not the time or place!”
“Hell, you just gave me an excuse to quit before you fired me anyway!” Jason yelled, slamming his hands on his boss’ desk, “Oh, and by the by - you got ink on your shirt.”
With that, Jason made his grand exit, leaving Mr. Meikeljohn in a state of shock to lick his wounded pride.
10:15pm. Jason slumped himself onto the black metal barstool, drenched with rain, shaking his head like a collie, his eyes feeling the aftermath of the thirty-second flame. His tie was loose, his shirt untucked and his trilby lop-sided. He sat in wait of his drinking buddy, Martin Corcoran, who was over an hour late. Jack Butler, the late-night waiter at Philllies diner, was by now on a first name basis with this man.
But not with the man sitting across from him. The stranger sat upright on the cushioned black chair, his grey trilby pulled down as far as it could go. Very much the well-to-do modern man. Butler remembered him ordering a martini over two hours ago, yet it sat, much like its mysterious purchaser, undrunk.
“Nice hat.”
The new guy was beckoning Jason. Butler watched them in between cleaning glasses, his green eyes following their every move.
“Whadda you want?” Jason demanded, slurring his words slightly as he begrudgingly joined the man at the shiny table.
“Oh, nothing really. Just felt like a chat.” His British accent annoyed Jason slightly, “I’m Gerry, by the way. Gerry Woods.”
Oh God, Jason thought - British AND a complete moron.
“America finally giving the mother country a helping hand on the old war effort then.” Woods rambled on, “Planning on rushing to the front line?”
Jason snorted - the very idea of running to his death for the sake of a flag sickened him.
“Me neither.” Woods replied, sipping his martini for the first time since he bought it, “But maybe a youngster like you should consider it.”
On that strange comment, Gerry Woods stood up, shook Jason’s hand, and left the diner, pulling the collar of his grey trench coat up to give him mild protection from the blanket of rain. Jason lumbered back to the bar.
“What the hell was that about?” inquired Butler
“Haven’t a clue, Jack, haven’t a clue.” was the reply.
At that moment, a pretty young woman with red hair strutted into the bar in expensive-looking stiletto shoes. Jason’s eyes followed her as she strutted to one of the tables. Sitting down, she pouted slightly as she put her crimson bag on the floor, sorting the creases in her British pillar-box dress. It made Jason shiver.
“Hang on, Butler, because I’m about to show you how to serve.”
Jason hurriedly tucked his shirt in and generally tidied himself up before ambling towards the gorgeous new arrival.
“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ all alone on a night like this, eh?” he said, smiling as he sat beside her. She turned to him, her perfectly made up face giving him a quick once-over. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of her red lips. She beckoned him closer with one finger, gently took hold of his collar, whispered . . .
“Scouting.”
Jason had very little time to react as the redhead pulled a baton from her blood bag and smashed it onto his skull. His last thought before passing out was on his drinking buddy Martin, and how he had been over an hour late. All of a sudden, as a black curtain descended over his senses, he understood why - Martin always had a thing for redheads.
~
You have no name to speak of, but still see yourself as Jason MacDonald. You were recruited for the Special Army Unit for Delicate Operations, a.k.a., the Nighthawks, by Lieutenant Vivian Armand, one of the few female lieutenants in the war against the Nazis.
Today is going to change your life.
~
Jason waited nervously outside the Lieutenant’s office. He had worked extra hard to shine his black boots, and his black shirt looked new. He had been the only one chosen out of the whole unit summoned to the office for a lone mission. He knew it would either kill him or glorify him. Either way, it didn’t matter.
As he was summoned inside, Jason had a flashback of the day he quit his job at the law firm, how he had disrespected his boss and moved to swallow his sorrows in a world of sex and booze. He mentally flogged himself for ever being such an adult delinquent.
The office itself was much as he expected: an American flag covered the back wall completely, the walls were lined with books and automatic weapons and the desk was littered with maps and flight plans. The woman behind said desk was Lieutenant Vivian Armand, Jason‘s team leader. Saluting, he waited to be invited to sit.
“Let’s get straight to the point.” Armand barked at the straight backed soldier, “You responded most positively, out of the entire Nighthawk unit, to the fast track training programme. You’re top of the class, a fine physical specimen, and have a head on your shoulders that is more than a blank space. That’s exactly what I need for the next mission.”
Jason tried his utmost hardest not to squirm with pride as Armand handed him a photo. His eyes widened with recognition.
“I believe that you’ve already met Gerry Woods.” confirmed the Lieutenant, “At least, you’ve met his British cover story.”
Armand stood up and walked around her desk, her thick accent - pure West Virginia - was a bullet in his ears..
“His real name is Felix Herrmann, a prominent soldier in Hitler’s SS. We don’t know how he managed to get in, but it’s our job to make sure that he never leaves the country or penetrates the system. Or should I say, YOUR job.”
She leaned into Jason, taking his gun out of the holster that pressed against his thigh and placed it in his hand. He nodded, prompting a small smile from his Lieutenant as she turned to retrieve a document from her desk. Again, he had to fight to keep all forms of his pride in check.
“Our scouts have been on his tail for some time.” Armand informed, handing him the document, “He’ll in a bar tonight right here in Chicago meeting with some of his fellow Jerrys.”
She delicately turned his head towards her, making him look away from the document and straight into her grey eyes, eyes that seemed to pierce Jason’s soul - demanding eyes, irresistible eyes.
“Kill them all. Take no prisoners. Leave no witnesses.”
“Hagel Deutschland und der Führer.”
Jason had never known much in the way of German, but the password given to him was enough to get him pass the first bouncer - a huge man that must have been twice Jason’s body weight in muscle. Opening the iron door, the bouncer summoned him out of the rain. Noise and laughter filter the dank air as Jason walked through the club.
The red lighting of the underground club bounced off of the polished floor tiles of the club. Around him were joyous drunkards with friends in high places, lapping up the spoils of war - those who would do whatever it took to earn some extra cash..
He walked straight through, trying to ignore the lure of the alcohol-dominant bar and the topless girls - a scene that he hadn‘t seen for some time. Another bouncer, even bigger than the last, stopped him at a second iron door that blended into the wall - it seemed wise that Herrmann didn’t want any overly-happy drunkards stumbling across a meeting like this one.
“Herrmann is expecting me.” Jason whispered to the bouncer.
A rookie mistake.
Dodging a right hook that would have put his lights out forever, Jason leapt behind the bar nearby, nearly breaking his neck as he thudded on the concrete floor. Ignoring the pain, he jumped up and dashed to the other end of the room, throwing bottles at the sumo-bouncer, one of which smashed over his face. Blood gushed from his beady eyes as the glass inserted itself into them, a torrent of life‘s wine spoiling the perfectly polished floor. Pulling out his gun and cocking it, Jason aimed it at the bouncers skull, closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger. The crack of the bullet leaving the gun chamber was such as Jason had never heard - he had never fired a gun that didn’t have blanks in it. Breathing heavily, he opened his eyes and saw the slab of meat on the floor, crimson liquid leaking from his bald head.
He barely noticed the silence around him. He had never had so much attention. Looking around, he could see every eye in the club was boring holes into him. The silence was somehow deafening.
“When I leave,” Jason stammered slightly, pointing the gun - his safety net - at those around him, “you can leave.”
Turning away from the silent rabble, he stepped over the corpse and opened the iron door. He ran inside, ducking, expecting to be attacked at all sides. Leaping up, he pushed his gun barrel hard into the side of the nearest man’s head. The only man in the room. Gerry Woods. Felix Herrmann.
Jason’s target turned to him, as cool as a cucumber.
“Bet you never expected me to be alone, eh, Jason?”
This threw Jason off slightly. Surely he would have dropped the act once an American had a gun pressed against his temple?
“When I said that you should consider a post in the Army, I didn’t mean a trained thug.”
“What?” Jason asked slowly, keeping the gun trained on Herrmann.
“Think about it, Jason - why would one of the most secret units in the American army, the Nighthawks, choose a down-and-out drunk for their next mission? Why, during their entire time in the unit, do they never have any contact with the rest of the army? Did you never ask yourself that, Jason?”
Jason’s mind began to whirl. The Nazis words couldn’t have been more true. During the beginning of his training, Jason had wondered why he had been chosen, but as the days wore on, he only thought of the training. Never once had he truly questioned his presence at the unit, and he never dared approach Armand - it was career suicide. Indeed, it had quickly become a career.
He lowered his gun and collapsed into the nearest chair. Bowing his head, he noticed the colour of his shirt for the first time. A black shirt. An SS man’s shirt. Feeling the Englishman come closer, he looked up, fighting the urge to collapse into a foetal position.
“My name IS Gerry Woods. I’m an English agent, MI5, sent to America to help them identify German spies. Vivian Armand, a.k.a., Sofie Fischer, is part of a huge Nazi operation that uses American men who wouldn’t be missed - like yourself - to do Nazi dirty work. After all, what American would suspect themselves?”
Jason looked up at him, barely comprehending the explanation. It made so much sense - yet he didn’t want to believe that the last few months had been a sham. Jumping up, holstering his gun, he ran from the room, through the club and up the stairs into the night air. He ran past Phillies, spotting Jack Butler cleaning glasses out of the corner of his eye. He ran through the streets until his lungs were close to exploding, his boots staining with the muddy puddles. There was only one thing that he could do.
~
Your name is Bradley Jackman. You work at a small law firm in Canada.
Nighthawks
Your name is Jason MacDonald. You’re a twenty-something working-class loser, an alcoholic sex addict who somehow manages to keep his job at a law firm.
Today is going to change your life.
~
The fire was raging, the smoke filling Jason’s lungs. All he could smell was the charred bodies of the dead men that he worked with at the firm. Choking, he collapsed to his hands and knees, slowly reaching up for the bell-lever. His fingers brushed the rubber, gripped, pulled . . .
Jason awoke with a start, his eyelids snapping open at the sound of his alarm clock. Despite his wakefulness, his heart thudded and his head throbbed even after he silenced the alarm. Sitting up in bed, he allowed his eyes to focus around his bedroom: papers on the smuggling case he was bound to lose; broken liquor bottles in the wastepaper basket by the door; clothes on the floor from last night’s frantic tumble; a goodbye and good luck note next to his alarm clock - the classic shy goodbye. Jason sighed, running his hand through his thick brown hair, massaging his aching head. His eyes rested on the clock, hoping that the gentle tick-tock would calm his brain. If anything it made it worse, as his mind registered, with growing dread, the hard knock of reality.
He was late for work.
Again.
“Mr. MacDonald, if I am to be as frank as possible, I’m not at all surprised by your conduct today.”
Jason bowed his head, trying to look as disappointed in himself as possible, when in truth he cared about his fate as much as he cared about last night’s trophy.
Looking around his boss’ office, Jason could see why Mr. Meikeljohn was as pompous as he was. Any man who had what could only be described as a library for an office was surely an upper-class wannabe.
Mr. Meikeljohn continued, glaring up at Jason from his impeccably organised dark wood desk.
“We here at S, L and M are a comfortably established law firm, known all over Chicago as one of the best - ” Jason began to wonder whether or not he had stumbled across a meeting about press releases “ - and as one of the best, we expect the best. Now, you are no longer the best, and haven’t been since your divorce last year.”
Jason’s head snapped up, his eyes suddenly filled with fire.
“That’s personal! You have no right to put salt in that wound!”
“Mr. MacDonald, this is really not the time or place!”
“Hell, you just gave me an excuse to quit before you fired me anyway!” Jason yelled, slamming his hands on his boss’ desk, “Oh, and by the by - you got ink on your shirt.”
With that, Jason made his grand exit, leaving Mr. Meikeljohn in a state of shock to lick his wounded pride.
10:15pm. Jason slumped himself onto the black metal barstool, drenched with rain, shaking his head like a collie, his eyes feeling the aftermath of the thirty-second flame. His tie was loose, his shirt untucked and his trilby lop-sided. He sat in wait of his drinking buddy, Martin Corcoran, who was over an hour late. Jack Butler, the late-night waiter at Philllies diner, was by now on a first name basis with this man.
But not with the man sitting across from him. The stranger sat upright on the cushioned black chair, his grey trilby pulled down as far as it could go. Very much the well-to-do modern man. Butler remembered him ordering a martini over two hours ago, yet it sat, much like its mysterious purchaser, undrunk.
“Nice hat.”
The new guy was beckoning Jason. Butler watched them in between cleaning glasses, his green eyes following their every move.
“Whadda you want?” Jason demanded, slurring his words slightly as he begrudgingly joined the man at the shiny table.
“Oh, nothing really. Just felt like a chat.” His British accent annoyed Jason slightly, “I’m Gerry, by the way. Gerry Woods.”
Oh God, Jason thought - British AND a complete moron.
“America finally giving the mother country a helping hand on the old war effort then.” Woods rambled on, “Planning on rushing to the front line?”
Jason snorted - the very idea of running to his death for the sake of a flag sickened him.
“Me neither.” Woods replied, sipping his martini for the first time since he bought it, “But maybe a youngster like you should consider it.”
On that strange comment, Gerry Woods stood up, shook Jason’s hand, and left the diner, pulling the collar of his grey trench coat up to give him mild protection from the blanket of rain. Jason lumbered back to the bar.
“What the hell was that about?” inquired Butler
“Haven’t a clue, Jack, haven’t a clue.” was the reply.
At that moment, a pretty young woman with red hair strutted into the bar in expensive-looking stiletto shoes. Jason’s eyes followed her as she strutted to one of the tables. Sitting down, she pouted slightly as she put her crimson bag on the floor, sorting the creases in her British pillar-box dress. It made Jason shiver.
“Hang on, Butler, because I’m about to show you how to serve.”
Jason hurriedly tucked his shirt in and generally tidied himself up before ambling towards the gorgeous new arrival.
“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ all alone on a night like this, eh?” he said, smiling as he sat beside her. She turned to him, her perfectly made up face giving him a quick once-over. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of her red lips. She beckoned him closer with one finger, gently took hold of his collar, whispered . . .
“Scouting.”
Jason had very little time to react as the redhead pulled a baton from her blood bag and smashed it onto his skull. His last thought before passing out was on his drinking buddy Martin, and how he had been over an hour late. All of a sudden, as a black curtain descended over his senses, he understood why - Martin always had a thing for redheads.
~
You have no name to speak of, but still see yourself as Jason MacDonald. You were recruited for the Special Army Unit for Delicate Operations, a.k.a., the Nighthawks, by Lieutenant Vivian Armand, one of the few female lieutenants in the war against the Nazis.
Today is going to change your life.
~
Jason waited nervously outside the Lieutenant’s office. He had worked extra hard to shine his black boots, and his black shirt looked new. He had been the only one chosen out of the whole unit summoned to the office for a lone mission. He knew it would either kill him or glorify him. Either way, it didn’t matter.
As he was summoned inside, Jason had a flashback of the day he quit his job at the law firm, how he had disrespected his boss and moved to swallow his sorrows in a world of sex and booze. He mentally flogged himself for ever being such an adult delinquent.
The office itself was much as he expected: an American flag covered the back wall completely, the walls were lined with books and automatic weapons and the desk was littered with maps and flight plans. The woman behind said desk was Lieutenant Vivian Armand, Jason‘s team leader. Saluting, he waited to be invited to sit.
“Let’s get straight to the point.” Armand barked at the straight backed soldier, “You responded most positively, out of the entire Nighthawk unit, to the fast track training programme. You’re top of the class, a fine physical specimen, and have a head on your shoulders that is more than a blank space. That’s exactly what I need for the next mission.”
Jason tried his utmost hardest not to squirm with pride as Armand handed him a photo. His eyes widened with recognition.
“I believe that you’ve already met Gerry Woods.” confirmed the Lieutenant, “At least, you’ve met his British cover story.”
Armand stood up and walked around her desk, her thick accent - pure West Virginia - was a bullet in his ears..
“His real name is Felix Herrmann, a prominent soldier in Hitler’s SS. We don’t know how he managed to get in, but it’s our job to make sure that he never leaves the country or penetrates the system. Or should I say, YOUR job.”
She leaned into Jason, taking his gun out of the holster that pressed against his thigh and placed it in his hand. He nodded, prompting a small smile from his Lieutenant as she turned to retrieve a document from her desk. Again, he had to fight to keep all forms of his pride in check.
“Our scouts have been on his tail for some time.” Armand informed, handing him the document, “He’ll in a bar tonight right here in Chicago meeting with some of his fellow Jerrys.”
She delicately turned his head towards her, making him look away from the document and straight into her grey eyes, eyes that seemed to pierce Jason’s soul - demanding eyes, irresistible eyes.
“Kill them all. Take no prisoners. Leave no witnesses.”
“Hagel Deutschland und der Führer.”
Jason had never known much in the way of German, but the password given to him was enough to get him pass the first bouncer - a huge man that must have been twice Jason’s body weight in muscle. Opening the iron door, the bouncer summoned him out of the rain. Noise and laughter filter the dank air as Jason walked through the club.
The red lighting of the underground club bounced off of the polished floor tiles of the club. Around him were joyous drunkards with friends in high places, lapping up the spoils of war - those who would do whatever it took to earn some extra cash..
He walked straight through, trying to ignore the lure of the alcohol-dominant bar and the topless girls - a scene that he hadn‘t seen for some time. Another bouncer, even bigger than the last, stopped him at a second iron door that blended into the wall - it seemed wise that Herrmann didn’t want any overly-happy drunkards stumbling across a meeting like this one.
“Herrmann is expecting me.” Jason whispered to the bouncer.
A rookie mistake.
Dodging a right hook that would have put his lights out forever, Jason leapt behind the bar nearby, nearly breaking his neck as he thudded on the concrete floor. Ignoring the pain, he jumped up and dashed to the other end of the room, throwing bottles at the sumo-bouncer, one of which smashed over his face. Blood gushed from his beady eyes as the glass inserted itself into them, a torrent of life‘s wine spoiling the perfectly polished floor. Pulling out his gun and cocking it, Jason aimed it at the bouncers skull, closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger. The crack of the bullet leaving the gun chamber was such as Jason had never heard - he had never fired a gun that didn’t have blanks in it. Breathing heavily, he opened his eyes and saw the slab of meat on the floor, crimson liquid leaking from his bald head.
He barely noticed the silence around him. He had never had so much attention. Looking around, he could see every eye in the club was boring holes into him. The silence was somehow deafening.
“When I leave,” Jason stammered slightly, pointing the gun - his safety net - at those around him, “you can leave.”
Turning away from the silent rabble, he stepped over the corpse and opened the iron door. He ran inside, ducking, expecting to be attacked at all sides. Leaping up, he pushed his gun barrel hard into the side of the nearest man’s head. The only man in the room. Gerry Woods. Felix Herrmann.
Jason’s target turned to him, as cool as a cucumber.
“Bet you never expected me to be alone, eh, Jason?”
This threw Jason off slightly. Surely he would have dropped the act once an American had a gun pressed against his temple?
“When I said that you should consider a post in the Army, I didn’t mean a trained thug.”
“What?” Jason asked slowly, keeping the gun trained on Herrmann.
“Think about it, Jason - why would one of the most secret units in the American army, the Nighthawks, choose a down-and-out drunk for their next mission? Why, during their entire time in the unit, do they never have any contact with the rest of the army? Did you never ask yourself that, Jason?”
Jason’s mind began to whirl. The Nazis words couldn’t have been more true. During the beginning of his training, Jason had wondered why he had been chosen, but as the days wore on, he only thought of the training. Never once had he truly questioned his presence at the unit, and he never dared approach Armand - it was career suicide. Indeed, it had quickly become a career.
He lowered his gun and collapsed into the nearest chair. Bowing his head, he noticed the colour of his shirt for the first time. A black shirt. An SS man’s shirt. Feeling the Englishman come closer, he looked up, fighting the urge to collapse into a foetal position.
“My name IS Gerry Woods. I’m an English agent, MI5, sent to America to help them identify German spies. Vivian Armand, a.k.a., Sofie Fischer, is part of a huge Nazi operation that uses American men who wouldn’t be missed - like yourself - to do Nazi dirty work. After all, what American would suspect themselves?”
Jason looked up at him, barely comprehending the explanation. It made so much sense - yet he didn’t want to believe that the last few months had been a sham. Jumping up, holstering his gun, he ran from the room, through the club and up the stairs into the night air. He ran past Phillies, spotting Jack Butler cleaning glasses out of the corner of his eye. He ran through the streets until his lungs were close to exploding, his boots staining with the muddy puddles. There was only one thing that he could do.
~
Your name is Bradley Jackman. You work at a small law firm in Canada.