My VJ Day - WritingForums.com - Writing Forums, Writing Challenges, Critiques and Help for Writers

Rachel381 · 03-18-2008, 04:17 PM

I chose a photograph and took on the role as one of its characters. I chose Alfred Eisenstaedt’s, "VJ-Day" and took on the role as the nurse. This is the story of her VJ-Day.

My VJ-Day

It is an ordinary day, a day unlike any other; well, it is for me, at least. It is early, approximately eight o’clock on a distinctively gray and foggy morning in New York City. The hustle and bustle in the city is at a maximum, for troops are returning home from the war. Times Square seems to be the popular reunion location for the troops and their families, for all I am observing is an endless sea of blue-colored suits, with white hats bobbing up and down in the crowd. There is a swarm of cheerful women, anxious children awaiting the arrival of their fathers, proud elderly citizens excited to see the soldiers, and appreciative strangers standing on street corners with wide smiles filling their faces. For most, this is a miraculous day.

But for me, it is an ordinary day. I haven’t been one to keep up with the war, mostly because it saddens me when I read about the increasing death tolls, overwhelming destruction, and permanent heartache that it has brought throughout the world. I realize I should be more in touch with the situation at hand, especially since it directly affects my country, but I can’t help but want to shut it out. Perhaps I get this neglectful trait from my father, he being a veteran himself. When I was young, he constantly reiterated that "war is for dummies, people who can’t use intelligence to effectively come to a positive resolution." His strong beliefs about war stick with me as I grow into a young woman and instinctively, my attitude towards the war’s end, is of little importance.

It is 8:00 am and I have thirty minutes before I have to arrive at the hospital for work. I am a newly-hired nurse at a highly publicized modern hospital where I have worked for the past three months. Since it is the most desired hospital to work at in the city, it is very important that I remain punctual. But I am worried that I will be late due to the overwhelming crowds of people surrounding my street: Broadway. "Why do you choose to work at a hospital that is so far away?" I ask myself. Beth Israel Medical Center is located on the lower west side, which translates into a 15 minute train ride without congestion. Not to mention the ten minute walk from the train station to the hospital itself.

I am looking intently, trying to locate the subway station at Times Square. It is not visible at the moment, and I am moving rapidly trying to maneuver myself in between the people around me. They all look at me like I am an acting outlandishly. "Why isn’t she acting happy? What is her rush?" they think to themselves. I ignore their questioning expressions and continue forward. I am making progress and finally abandon the sea of endless blue coats and mobs of eager people. There is an opening in the road and I am finally able to breathe. As I inhale slowly, the crisp, open air feels refreshing as it is entering into my lungs. I cut through the middle of Times Square, where I stop dead in my tracks and see heaven’s gates. There it is: the large, yellow subway sign reading, "Times Square Station" is beaming ahead of me; it is calling my name. I’ve reached my destination, at last.

I am walking earnestly with my eye on the prize, when suddenly I feel a strong tug on my right hand. I precipitously see a man’s muscular arm wrapping around my slender waist. The man is in a navy blue uniform with a starched, white hat; he is a Sailor. He is pulling me into his body abruptly, where he is bending my fragile frame sideways and cradling my head gently with his arm. He doesn’t look at me, only aims for my lips with a specific purpose. His mouth is dry yet tender. I can feel his chapped lips as he is pressing his mouth harder against mine. As he continues kissing me, I hear a multitude of people gasping out loud and laughing lightly. There is a vast amount of clapping taking place with whistles following behind them. I don’t know why, but I do not try to pull away from his embrace. Although the sailor is a stranger, I feel content in his presence. I realize that he isn’t kissing me because he’s a crazy or love struck, but rather because he is so overwhelmed with happiness from being able to return home the war, alive. I feel the joy emanating off of him and instantly become happy to be a part of this event.

For once in my life, I am able to stray away from my own bias opinion on war. I recognize the effect that this event has on our young men and I begin to appreciate what they do for our country. I celebrate with the rest of the world, the caliber of heroism that each servicemen displays. It is amazing how self-involved one can be, until reality literally grabs a hold of them and shows them what they are truly meant to see.

hypercool4life · 03-21-2008, 06:09 PM

A heartwarming story, but very hard to make interesting. It read a bit like a news bulletin.