Adv Eng: AOS Discovery Creative

[Conkerclub1]

Hey,
Would anyone be able to have a look at my discovery creative?
At the moment, I think it's a bit too long and the ending needs a bit of work. Anyone have any suggestions on how to do that?

The stimuli was a picture of someone looking at the responder, and the quote "Discovery may not be easy, but it is often rewarding."



A man sat alone in his house, asleep at his desk from the late night previous. The peaceful scene was interrupted by a sudden noise that jolted him awake. A quick glance at his surroundings revealed there was no danger here, only the drab mustard yellow and lime green 70s Australia décor. A lingering smell of cigarette smoke smothered the usual pleasantries that fill a house. Clear of the fear that had filled him for a moment, he arose from his chair to further investigate the environment he found himself in. The sound of a bird chirping and leaves rustling were found to be the source of this rude awakening, even though quietened by his hearing aids. His firm, wrinkled hand reached for his beloved stick that lay against the wall next to him. He had found himself asleep on a chair, next to the desk where he assumed he had been hard at work the night before. The lonely house was void of the happy laughter that previously filled his home, bringing no smile to his face now. Light that entered from the nearby cracked window illuminated scribbled paper that was carelessly strewn over the aged wooden desk.
His harsh, sunken eyes were drawn to investigate the photograph hung up on a corkboard behind the desk; he had no recollection of putting it there. Racking his memory for this small detail, he could not locate its origin, yet somehow still recognised it. He coughed and wheezed as he picked up the image for inspection, grasping onto the desk so as to not topple over. The print was faded and worn at the edges from repeated thumbing. A figure could be seen holding a metal object. Cutting across the centre of the photo could be seen large sleepers from what seemed to be a railway, along which a small freight carriage hooked up to and old steam engine seen in the distance. Rolling hills of dense jungle and soft wisps of cloud framed the scene of breath-taking beauty; the deep orange and pink hues of a sunset were seen to embrace the border of this still image.
The remarkable print brought a smile to his face, but only for a second, as if poking at some long-lost memory. He looked out the cracked window opposite the desk in his living room to view some children wandering along the footpath outside his house.
“As long as they don’t trample my grass,” He thought to himself. The bright, fair morning did nothing to cheer him up.
He came back to look more closely at the photo up on the corkboard, noticing something that he had not seen before. His eyes opened in awe as he read the words hastily scrawled across the corner of the photograph. “Vietnam.”

—

“Tiến lên!”
A shriek whipped him into focus.

He was plunged into a world of fear hearing the foreign battle cry. The sudden sound of distant gunshots woke him to the danger he found himself in. He searched for the holster of his gun, tucking it under his arm and then found the trigger. The dense jungle and with that, the humidity, made him feel claustrophobic and uneasy in this time of desperation. Already in front of him he could see the advancing enemies across the clearing. The adrenaline fueled shouts of men could not overpower the eruptive explosions that oozed blood from his ears. The Battle for Long Tan had not been an easy one and whilst he hoped it was coming to an end, his circumstances proved otherwise.

He quickly realised the significance of the situation as he picked up the rifle slung over his shoulder and rose to his feet. The mud that smothered the floor of the tunnels collected in big clumps on his worn out black boots. It was a struggle to get up from where he was at that moment, finding no strength in his own two legs. He glanced upwards briefly and noticed standing there in front of him was a man. A foreign man. He was frozen still, too petrified to move. In the enemy’s hand was a weapon that he recognised all too well. Numerous briefings detailing the SRS rifle standard to the Viet Cong arsenal had taught him to fear the beast who wields it. Death was pointed straight at his heart. There was nothing he could do, no hope for him now. The sound of a bullet expelled from the barrel of a gun was blotted out by the screams of men around him.

There was no change for a brief moment. No pain in his chest. Was he in heaven? There was no way of knowing. The ringing began. Oh what a piercing ringing it was, one that ripped his head apart. The darkness that dominated his vision slowly began to colourise and create objects in his view. Dirt, he saw, and feet too. He began to piece together where he was. A trench? Slowly the world came back into focus and he regained what little consciousness he could recover. The ringing suddenly stopped and darkness dissipated. The feet he had seen were his own, and the trench was where he stood. The small bible he kept in his left jacket pocket was not yet required. He was not dead. Over all the screaming and gunshots he could hear a triumphant shout as the enemy fell to the floor of the Cu Chi tunnel.
An unfamiliar figure stood above him on the edge of the trench. By some unknown reason his life had been spared that day. Who was this mysterious man? He climbed up out of the muddy tunnel entrance and searched his surroundings. There was no man to be seen. He then reached for the little book in his pocket and made a silent prayer of gratitude.
—

He awoke once again to find himself sprawled on the floor next to his familiar desk. Reaching out for his walking stick that lay beside him, he set himself back upright on the chair. It was a common occurrence for him now - the reason he had the walking stick in the first place. It was a feeling he had become accustomed to.

Rising from the chair, he decided it was finally time to make that one dreaded call. The call that would leave him cooped up in a retirement home for the rest of his living years. Although the war had left him with permanent scars, it was in the past – left where it should be.
“So be it,” he thought, with a smile on his face. And all that can now be heard is the faint whistling of birds and susurration of golden brown leaves.


ps. this forum is really cool