The Great Gatsby Ch.4 Winner

This week I set my 5th year class the challenge of filling in the narrative bridge just after this video clip within chapter 4 of The Great Gatsby. I encouraged them to try and write in the style of Fitzgerald. There was a great response to the Wedgies poll so thanks to all that voted. Here is the winning entry.

Winning Entry

I turned toward Mr. Gatsby, but he was no longer there. Not nearly phased by Gatsby’s sudden materialisation, Tom Buchanan snatched a clouded lowball glass and filled it waist high. Held suspended, six inches above eye level, he admired its invoked contents. Tom’s hand held host to a bona fide tear, racing from the sturdy and tenacious basal. In that moment, Tom’s eye engulfed the abuttals of the soft crystal.

The blue of the iris was discoloured by the amber scotch, the morbid pupil enlarged by the gratuitous etching, it’s epiphytic glint blinded me instantaneously. I peered in. I saw Tom. I saw Gatsby. I saw, what is the recherché façade that evokes every vulnerability in the insurmountable conscience of both of the city’s largest mountains. I saw Tom pick the delicate flower, affix it’s stem to the round pick ribbon of his bowler hat,content it would remain strategically in place as he cantered through life at a whim. I saw Gatsby pick the fragile flower, placing it close to his heart and pounding, roughly, at a whirl winded pace. I saw a wilting flower, repressed and malnourished in life’s promise.

Should the flower fade asunder, both hearts detonate and the repair, irrevocable. I saw the wide-eyed opportunist and the narrow-minded, societal doyen, evoke on the same self enduring journey. I saw the stubbornness that blinded flaws and consistent indiscretions in the pursuit of a mere ideal, bounding, as though the destination was an ineffable revelation of incalculable serenity. I saw desire; desire to preclude the delicate flower from wilting. Such desire alluded to no surrender, no graceful abdication. I saw the patent assurance of perpetuated unwillingness to incur defeat. Imploring a sense of impenetrable conscience I once worried that the unrelenting battle between such mountains would be of dire consequence or would simply never die.

In that single moment, I learned more of the valiant Jay Gatsby and the robust Tom Buchanan than I could yearn to ever understand. In one man I saw two men, these impalpable, tantamount qualities that construed such disparate breeds of gentleman. Tom Buchanan held the cold glass to his unrelenting lips. The tear drop hit the floor with a deafening din. Disregarding the glass on waiter’s tray, he offered me a cigar. My eyes followed the glass until the etchings were no longer distinct and the fallible mystery drifted from my mind.