Post by James Morris on Oct 29, 2008 18:11:08 GMT
Whether you are accepted as a civilian or not is yet to be determined. None the less you still need to add a writing sample to this app, no matter how unfitting it may seem. All apps have to have a writing sample.
-JT
Account E-Mail: Evacuee39@hotmail.com
Name: James Morris
Nationality: British
Character History:
James William Morris was born on 12th July 1929, to the family of a dock worker in the East end of London. He was the last of three boy and two girls. James grew up in a small terraced house in the shadow of the docks, an area of extreme poverty. Over crowding in the area was common, and his school was over capacity by fifty students, nearly 50% more than it was designed to take. Life was hard, and James rarely ate well; most of his meals were nothing more than chips from a small shop down the road, or lumps of break from the local baker. His father was a usual drunkard, spending most of his wages at the pub, and often coming home stumbling. He was violent, and would often take his anger out on his wife and children, who did little to defend themselves against the brute. The mother turned to religion in an attempt to escape, becoming near fanatical in her beliefs.
When James was eight, one night his father didn’t return from the pub. A week later they found out he had got into a fight, been hit badly in the stomach and stumbled out into an alley, before throwing up and drowning in a mixture of his own blood and vomit. The entire street marched at the funeral, even though he was far from a liked man. It was a cheap affair, and two months later, few remembered him. The Morris family began to draw on national allowances, but they had less money than ever. The mother’s beliefs became far more extreme and she forced the children to follow her rituals. They did, grudgingly, but she influenced known of them.
In the first week of September 1939, James was evacuated with the rest of his school mates, but was split up from his brother and sisters. He was sent to a small village in the midlands, where he stayed with a butcher, his wife, and two other evacuees, both boys. He stayed there for a year, slowly molding into the country life. But when the heavy bombing began in September 1940, he stole a small sum of money from the butcher who had been kind to him this far, and headed south. It took him three day to get back to his old street, where he found almost all the house, including his own, leveled to the ground. Street life continued how it ever did, even amongst the ruins. He questioned a neighbor about his mother, and found that see had perished when the house had taken a direct hit. They had never been able to find an intact body, but found pieces several teeth which identified her.
Devastated, and feeling he couldn’t head back to the country, he began to walk the streets of London as a tramp boy, not sure what would eventually become of him.
Rank: Civilian
Writing Sample:
The city was a complete mess, with rubble littering the streets, ambulances whining up and down, fire crew putting out small fire from the night before and troops moving up and down the streets trying to keep order. Air raid wardens sat at their posts, drinking warm, watery tea from grimy mugs, yet more soldiers moving covered bodies from what were once homes, and crying women searching for treasure belongings. It was a very sorry site.
James rubbed his eyes with dirt covered hands as he lifted himself off the hard concrete and yawned. He’d tucked himself into the small door way of a half burnt and now uninhabited house, and used and old sack for a blanket. It was thin and had also been full of sand at one point, which he had tipped out. But some grains still remained and had slipped out in the night, making his clothes itch. He glanced at his watch, and saw it was half past seven. The sun was out and there were few clouds, but it still felt freezing.
He’d gone back to his old school the day before. It was deserted, all the children had been sent either north, south or west, and it appeared that one of those flaming bombs had hit it. Being unoccupied, and unused, the fire had been left to burn, and no all that remained was a blackened shell. It wasn’t a nice site. James had spent years in that building, and most of his class rooms were now none-existent. His old home had also gone, along with his mother, and he had no clue where his other family were. And to make matters worse, a bomb had struck the grave yard where his father had been buried, eradicating almost all of the graves.
He needed to find something to eat first. His belly hurt; he hadn’t eaten in nearly a day and a half. There was apparently a soup kitchen somewhere in the area, but he had no clue whereabouts. James felt his dehydrated. His throat was dry from his sleep, but he wasn’t sure he should drink. He had half a bottle of beer that he was saving, taking small sips here and there. He scavenged it from the rubbish of the local pub. Why they had thrown it out he didn’t know, and maybe he didn’t if there was something wrong with it.
James picked himself up and rolled the sack into a rough ball before tucking it loosely under his arm. There was an air raid post made out of sand bags and corrugated metal sheeting at the end of the street. Maybe the warden would know?
-JT
Account E-Mail: Evacuee39@hotmail.com
Name: James Morris
Nationality: British
Character History:
James William Morris was born on 12th July 1929, to the family of a dock worker in the East end of London. He was the last of three boy and two girls. James grew up in a small terraced house in the shadow of the docks, an area of extreme poverty. Over crowding in the area was common, and his school was over capacity by fifty students, nearly 50% more than it was designed to take. Life was hard, and James rarely ate well; most of his meals were nothing more than chips from a small shop down the road, or lumps of break from the local baker. His father was a usual drunkard, spending most of his wages at the pub, and often coming home stumbling. He was violent, and would often take his anger out on his wife and children, who did little to defend themselves against the brute. The mother turned to religion in an attempt to escape, becoming near fanatical in her beliefs.
When James was eight, one night his father didn’t return from the pub. A week later they found out he had got into a fight, been hit badly in the stomach and stumbled out into an alley, before throwing up and drowning in a mixture of his own blood and vomit. The entire street marched at the funeral, even though he was far from a liked man. It was a cheap affair, and two months later, few remembered him. The Morris family began to draw on national allowances, but they had less money than ever. The mother’s beliefs became far more extreme and she forced the children to follow her rituals. They did, grudgingly, but she influenced known of them.
In the first week of September 1939, James was evacuated with the rest of his school mates, but was split up from his brother and sisters. He was sent to a small village in the midlands, where he stayed with a butcher, his wife, and two other evacuees, both boys. He stayed there for a year, slowly molding into the country life. But when the heavy bombing began in September 1940, he stole a small sum of money from the butcher who had been kind to him this far, and headed south. It took him three day to get back to his old street, where he found almost all the house, including his own, leveled to the ground. Street life continued how it ever did, even amongst the ruins. He questioned a neighbor about his mother, and found that see had perished when the house had taken a direct hit. They had never been able to find an intact body, but found pieces several teeth which identified her.
Devastated, and feeling he couldn’t head back to the country, he began to walk the streets of London as a tramp boy, not sure what would eventually become of him.
Rank: Civilian
Writing Sample:
The city was a complete mess, with rubble littering the streets, ambulances whining up and down, fire crew putting out small fire from the night before and troops moving up and down the streets trying to keep order. Air raid wardens sat at their posts, drinking warm, watery tea from grimy mugs, yet more soldiers moving covered bodies from what were once homes, and crying women searching for treasure belongings. It was a very sorry site.
James rubbed his eyes with dirt covered hands as he lifted himself off the hard concrete and yawned. He’d tucked himself into the small door way of a half burnt and now uninhabited house, and used and old sack for a blanket. It was thin and had also been full of sand at one point, which he had tipped out. But some grains still remained and had slipped out in the night, making his clothes itch. He glanced at his watch, and saw it was half past seven. The sun was out and there were few clouds, but it still felt freezing.
He’d gone back to his old school the day before. It was deserted, all the children had been sent either north, south or west, and it appeared that one of those flaming bombs had hit it. Being unoccupied, and unused, the fire had been left to burn, and no all that remained was a blackened shell. It wasn’t a nice site. James had spent years in that building, and most of his class rooms were now none-existent. His old home had also gone, along with his mother, and he had no clue where his other family were. And to make matters worse, a bomb had struck the grave yard where his father had been buried, eradicating almost all of the graves.
He needed to find something to eat first. His belly hurt; he hadn’t eaten in nearly a day and a half. There was apparently a soup kitchen somewhere in the area, but he had no clue whereabouts. James felt his dehydrated. His throat was dry from his sleep, but he wasn’t sure he should drink. He had half a bottle of beer that he was saving, taking small sips here and there. He scavenged it from the rubbish of the local pub. Why they had thrown it out he didn’t know, and maybe he didn’t if there was something wrong with it.
James picked himself up and rolled the sack into a rough ball before tucking it loosely under his arm. There was an air raid post made out of sand bags and corrugated metal sheeting at the end of the street. Maybe the warden would know?