1) It was based off the Modern era of literature. In other words, men had this concept to be real men (big boys don't cry). War World I was ravaging the Earth. During this time, legendary writer Ernest Hemingway dubbed the Hemingway Code in which men were supposed to portray "Grace under Pressure".
2) I did not say I was a good writer. Feel free to critique it; but keep in mind, I don't do this often.
3) I like writing, it's becoming more of a hobby for me. So, if you have any loves or hates, leave a comment for me. I'd love, love to know what you thought of my first-time works. Gracias.
I won't give you the introduction paper because I basically summed it up already (refer to #1, if needed.) But, I will grant you the last few lines of the introduction, just so you won't be completely lost.
Readers, enjoy and comment.
Incorporating the Modern conventions of masculinity, the Hemingway Code, and common speech, I have decided to have a twin son, John Wilson, Jr., attempt to prove his masculinity to his disappointed father by joining the war and fighting for his country. He struggles with his lack of masculinity and has a constant reminder from his twin brother, Mark. John Wilson, Jr. finds himself in the middle of a traumatic situation, during the war, in which he must exhibit Hemingway’s pure “grace under pressure”.
A large crowd gathered around the opening of a wide, green field. He could hear the cheers as he stepped onto the pier. The sun blinded his eyes, causing him to raise his hands up in an attempt to block out the imposing light. A few blinks later, he saw him. The man was leaning up against an old wooden post, cigarette hanging limply between his cracked lips. A petite woman nervously clung to her worn purse, her free hand toying with her cross necklace. The man straightened as he saw the two boys—no, men—make their way towards him. John Wilson, Jr., or fondly known as Junior by his timid mother, reached his father, John Senior, first. The man grimaced, his version of a smile, but extended his hand. His leathery voiced croaked, “I’m pr-”
“Sign right here, son,” a gruff voice brought him back to reality.
Junior blinked back from his daydream. He looked down at the gnarled hand holding a pen. Below that was a stack of papers that required his signature. It was seen by many as a death sentence, but to Junior it was an opportunity that he did not dare to miss.
“Y-yes, sir,” his meek voice replied. Shakily, his hand grasped the pen and the tip rested right by the designated spot. X marks the spot. This is it, he thought, this is the only chance. His hand wrote out John Wilson, Jr., successfully signing his life over to the United States Army.
A slap on the back made the signing even more official, as Junior’s twin brother, Mark, stood smiling at him. “We made it, Junior. Let’s get going,” he said as he easily threw a heavy bag over his shoulder. Junior struggled to pick up his own bag and silently followed his boisterous twin.
After he turned in the papers, Junior and Mark were shuffled along the lines and waited for their first station assignment. The hours turned to days. The days faded into weeks. Soon, Junior and Mark found themselves stationed in a small town in France. The constant cloud coverage always ensured a somber mood, although the weather was not the sole reason for the solemn feel that settled deep into the soldiers’ bones. They had been there for two months, digging trench after trench. Cold, wet dirt covered them from head to toe, ensuring sickness. Though the soldier’s did their best with changing into dry socks, trench foot seemed to linger around them, waiting for the opportune moment to creep in.
The sounds of whistling became background noise as Mark and Junior stayed at their posts, continuing their digging. Their fingernails were always caked with fresh dirt, their faces constantly marked with blood of others. Junior often kept to himself while Mark became the leader of their group. They had made friends, some survived while others became extra sandbags along the edges of the trench.
Every once and a while, a stray bullet would manage to slip its way between the sandbags and settled into the trench’s wall. Each time that occurred, Junior flinched. One particular time, a bullet skimmed the top of Mark’s head and Junior let out a yelp. Mark’s head jerked towards him so fast, Junior wondered if Mark experienced whiplash. Mark’s mouth curled into a sneer, much like their father’s, and out slipped the words Junior constantly heard from his disappointed father: “Man up.”
Junior remembered the first time those two words were uttered. He and Mark were playing with their father’s carpentry tools. Mark had picked up the hammer and had Junior hold the nail on a two by four. Mark lifted the heavy tool over his head and brought it straight down on Junior’s finger. Tears cascaded down Junior’s face as his father walked into the shed. John merely glanced at his timid son before muttering, “Man up”. After that, those two words became Junior’s motto. Unfortunately, he was never able to follow it. He considered his genetic makeup, much like his mother’s, who was a meek woman, a problem of huge proportions. His twin brother, Mark, inherited his father’s attitude, athleticism, and height. Meanwhile, Junior received his mother’s shortness, meekness, and stutter. All of Junior’s traits, which his father found endearing in a woman, were shortcomings in a man. Junior tried to make up for it with strong determination, but he was always met with his father’s shaking head and a heavy sigh.
“I’m w-worried about J-junior, John,” his mother quietly mentioned one night while Junior had snuck down to get a glass of water.
“Hmph. He’ll have to man up if he’ll get anywhere in life, Madeline,” John’s gruff voice carried into the kitchen, “Joining the Army will make him grow a backbone, for once.”
Junior’s head slumped as he quietly went back upstairs. The next morning he woke up to his and Mark’s 19th birthday. He didn’t say a word as he and an exuberant Mark went to the Recruitment Office and signed their lives away to the war.
Another whistling of a stray bullet forced Junior to return to the present once more. He blinked his eyes as blood once again sprayed his face. Junior mechanically swiped his face with his ratty handkerchief and saw George Hawkins, one of Junior’s few friends, motionless on the ground. Tears threatened to make an appearance and Junior had to blink more than usual to keep them from making a debut. Mark muttered a quiet prayer, shrugged, and then looked at Junior expectantly.
Junior struggled to keep his composure as he took the dog tags off his dead friend and hoisted him into the sandbag position. Mark shook his head in disappointment, mimicking their hard father.
“This is war, Junior, what else do you expect? Mother to come save you from the hardship of it? She’s not here. Grow a damn backbone for once. People die. It’s part of the damn natural world. Man up!” Mark’s voice grew louder. His eyes narrowed as he saw that Junior continued struggling with his emotions. Anger coursed through his sinewy veins.
The next thing Mark knew he had Junior pinned up against a trench wall. The smell of rotting flesh, blood, feces and urine stirred up around them. He threw Junior’s head into the wall as angry words overflowed his mouth, stringing along disappointment and resentment towards Junior’s meekness. His head buzzed and blocked out anything but his own words and Junior’s quaking body.
Suddenly, the tables turned. Junior’s eyes grew wide and his mouth gaped open in a big O. Mark felt Junior’s hand turn into steel binds and suddenly the meekness Mark despised dissipated into thin air. What Mark had failed to hear was the shrilling of chlorine gas being hurled in their direction. Junior’s adrenaline-spiked strength sent Mark sailing. Landing with a hard thud, it took Mark a few seconds to understand the situation. Junior’s body slammed into Mark’s as Junior valiantly tried to cover and shove his twin brother into safety. Mark’s instincts took over and he tried to roll himself over Junior, failing miserably. Junior had dug his feet into the grime covered dirt, locking himself on top of Mark, forcing him to belly crawl to safety.
After a few hundred yards, Mark felt his brother’s grip slowly slacken. Uncertainty crept into Mark’s stomach as he turned around to see his twin’s face take on a bluish sheen. Mark’s mind raced as he hauled his suffocating brother further into safety. He fluidly snapped a gas mask onto Junior’s face then did the same for himself. Oxygen flowed into his airways as he watched Junior fight for more.
Mark could only watch as his twin drew ragged breaths. His throat closed up, tricking Mark into thinking he was dying as well. His eyes watered and he fought to blink them back. Junior slowly took off his gas mask and stared Mark down. He motioned for Mark to come closer.
As his twin leaned forward, Junior drew his last single breath and whispered, “Man up.”
With those two words, Mark went straight as a board. He nodded his head once and calmly closed his other half’s eyes. Taking off Junior’s dog tags, Mark silently prayed, stood and walked away from his dead twin.
Months later, Mark stepped off the ship that escorted him back to the States. The sun sent rays that felt like daggers into his light eyes. His hand went to his brow, fighting off blinding light. A few blinks and Mark spotted him. His rugged father had his arm wrapped around his mother’s shaking shoulders. An unlit cigarette rolled back and forth between his lips. Mark saw the tough exterior crack for a second and he made his way through the crowd. His mother’s sobs racked her small body and his father’s lips drew into a thin, white line.
As he reached his parents, his father extended a calloused hand. Mark reached up around his neck and slipped off the dog tags, which had become part of his own uniform. He placed them into his father’s hand and looked him straight in the eyes.
“He manned up,” Mark said.
He looked at his open palm and saw his dead son’s name. He nodded once and looked up. Mark was the only one to see the only single tear escape from John Wilson, Sr.’s eyes.
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