The Great Gatsby

Chapter 4 Writing Competition

Entry 1
I turned toward Mr. Gatsby, but he was no longer there.
Not nearly phased by Gatsbys 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. Toms hand held host to a bona fide tear, racing from the sturdy and
tenacious basal.
In that moment, Toms 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, its
epiphytic glint blinded me instantaneously. I peered in. I saw Tom. I saw Gatsby. I saw, what
is the recherch faade that evokes every vulnerability in the insurmountable conscience of
both of the citys largest mountains.
I saw Tom pick the delicate flower, affix its 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 lifes 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 waiters 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.

Entry 2
I turned towards Mr Gatsby, but he was no longer there. I hesitated for a moment, thinking
over in my mind why Gatsby would do such a thing. But it was unsurprising, almost fitting of
the true side of the man I was finally getting to know. Meanwhile Tom had become aware of
the disappointment etched on my face, Is something of the matter Nick?'. His authoritative
manner brought me back to reality, Mr Gatsby must have gone for air, he was feeling ill this
morning', I lied half-heartedly. Still taken aback by what had just occurred I was in no mood
for chit-chat, 'I better go and see how Mr Gatsby is doing', I remarked as I shuffled towards
the exit. As I walked out the door, I had a sudden realization of what had just gone before; I
had an uneasy, tingling sensation in my stomach. I had never felt so disappointed in my entire
life. The great esteem and hope I had for Gatsby was all but gone, he was a coward. I spotted
a lone taxi about to depart before I hastily waved it down. I sat in and closed the door,
becoming aware of the dark shadow sitting across from me, Ill explain everything', he
announced assertively.
Entry 3
After Gatsbys mysterious and uncharacteristically impolite disappearance from the
restaurant, Tom abruptly ended our conversation by declaring that I would see him for dinner
on Friday at eight o clock sharp, at his rather exaggerated and extraordinarily boastful
mansion. This arrangement was very much forced upon me, completely without consent,
though something about his humour suggested it would be rather unwise to refuse the
invitation, or more accurately the order. This stunted encounter left me wondering if any
brave soul had ever said no upon encountering Toms assertive manner. The inescapable
conclusion that I have arrived upon is a simple and unquestionable no, any man in Toms
company would, no doubt, foresee the danger in a bold move such as this.
As I departed the secluded restaurant and made my way up the stairs to the now familiar
Manhattan pavements, a young, gangling waiter called after me. I recognised him as the
employee who had, just moments earlier, brought me my change. Blinking rapidly against the
mid-afternoon inferno that hung wearily in the sky, a stark contrast to the cool, dim refuge of
the sublevel restaurant during the summer months, he relayed a message which Gatsby had
apparently asked him to deliver to me upon his swift departure. He wished to sincerely
apologise for his hurried exit, but it had been unavoidable. An urgent matter in Chicago
demanded his immediate attention, and he was looking forward to hearing from me when I
returned from the city. I was beginning to ponder whether any human being could possibly
hold out against that dazzling smile and those charming manners that seemed to briefly
escape him that afternoon. This spent server, Wolfsheim, Jordan, the wealthiest of New
Yorkers, and if Im being honest, I myself have also succumbed to the prodigal behaviour
and jaded expectations of Mr. Jay Gatsby.
As I make my way west, from Chelsea on 10th Avenue towards 5th, passing the Avenue of the
Americas and the cacophony of Broadway, I resolve to walk the remainder of my journey to
the spectacle that is the Plaza Hotel. Passing the Flatiron, the Empire State Building, the

Rockefeller Centre, and finally catching sight of central park in the distance, I speculate at the
true depth of the relationship between Jordan and my perplexing neighbour. If Gatsby is
bestowing on Jordan the privilege of revealing this curious matter to me, then there is
unequivocally a relationship in existence. Perhaps not an intimate or romantic relationship,
but nonetheless a relationship, and for some inexplicable reason, i find this thought rather
unsettling.
I turn at the corner of West 58th and 5th, and soon Im ascending the stone steps of the hotel,
carpeted blood red, to the foyer of this irreplaceable haven. It harbours an impressively
extensive list of world renowned celebrities on a weekly basis, and Im almost certain that the
elegant woman dressed head-to-toe in black in the lobby, who is conversing and gesturing
wildly with her jewel covered arms, is Gloria Swanson. I am conscious of my own reflection
in the gleaming marble that encompasses me, and I feel a sudden wave of excitement and
simultaneous dread as I enter the Tea Garden of the hotel. My reverie is disrupted when a
slender figure in the corner of this most gaudy of tearooms languidly raises her sallow arm.
My initial inclination is to inform her that I am not a member of staff, but in fact a guest,
however as I approach her I recognise the familiar features of her face. Her sharp chin, her
hair the colour of an autumn leaf, but most prominent and by far the most familiar to me is
the contemptuous expression that seems to have taken up permanent residence on her
freckled face. My insides twist and my tongue feels like parchment as I sink into the
cushioned armchair opposite Jordan at the edge of the room.
Entry 4
As I quickly turned back around to face Tom Buchannan, I saw the dark, loomed shadow of
Gatsby's jaunty figure turning the corner, into the unknowns of this world. Simultaneously I
turned towards Tom, as he turned towards me; I saw an unintelligible look that was slowly
spreading across Tom's face. As I studied his normally inscrutable face, the scene was
suddenly illuminated by a spectroscopic beam of moonlight. The beam danced and glanced of
the glassware and mirrors to create sudden rivulets of ethereal luminescence that seemed to
focus on Tom's deep, dark eyes. For the first time ever I noticed the hawk-like crow's feet that
radiated out from Tom's eyes and the densely furrowed brow that resembled a ploughed field
in the low winter sun. I knew then that the image depicted in Tom's face would remain
ingrained in my brain and that I would never look at Tom in the same light again.
Entry 5
The hustle and bustle of the crowded cellar became almost unbearable in that moment, people
conversing and shouting. The clamour seemed to grow slowly. Tom stood uncomfortably
close to me his mouth raised at the corner with a devious smirk. I stood on the spot, frozen
with embarrassment. Gatsby had vanished leaving me standing with Tom Buchanan's breath
hitting my face like a warm summer breeze. He seemed almost smug, as if Gatsby's sudden
evanescence was due to his intimidating demeanour. I noticed Gatsby's face when meeting
Tom. This was a way that I had never seen Gatsby. He looked embarrassed. The expression
that was painted on Gatsby's typically calm and collected face was uncaringly unfamiliar.

The way Gatsby was acting made me see a side of him that made me question everything he
had told me.
Entry 6
I turned towards Mr. Gatsby, but he was no longer there.
Something in his hasty exit hinted that there was more to this encounter and it piqued my
interest. It was clear to me that Gatsby was a peoples man at heart, and so it struck me as odd
that he drifted from the bar with such peremptory haste. Dont trouble yourself with the likes
f him said Tom, with a bitter smile to match his fractious manor. A fellow bondsman I
presume. Better to keep your work and private life separate, I think he added with a sharp
clap to my back. I fought the urge to educate him on Gatsby out of fear that Tom would feel
the need to prove his prominence. I was ushered forcefully into a cramped booth at the side of
the establishment. The booth was dimly lit and through the soft cloud of ash I could make out
three striking silhouettes. First a large, sharp featured American whose dark suit melded with
the upholstery and whose dark skin starkly contrasted that of the porcelain angels perched on
either side. One woman was blonde and carried with her an alert elegance that you may find
only in oil on canvas. The other woman slumped on the Americans left shoulder. Her light
brown eyes were hazed and absent. Her gaze fell upon an empty liquor glass that hid itself
well amongst the barren plates and saucers, and she stayed admiring it for most of the
conversation that ensued.
It turned out that the strange man was a well-known polo player. At least thats how Mr.
Buchanan introduced him. The truth of the matter was that he smuggled tobacco and wild
beasts into America illegally. A fact that was relayed to me by the same elegant blonde while
she was in a state of dizzying rapture at one of Gatsbys parties. The girl showed no sign of
recognising me, but I steered clear of all pathways leading to the man who had just made his
great escape through that door.
I was trapped in the booth for around an hour before I slipped unnoticed out of the dark
alcove and out to the slightly smoking streets. The light was crisp and pale and it stunned all
who exited the shaded cellar. I found myself disconcerted that both Gatsby and Tom
Buchanan had wandered so close the underbelly of the city. A perfect alcove for Tom
Buchanan, a man who hid from the light to keep his shady mischief from the publics
snooping eye, but why for Jay Gatsby? Why would a man who had nothing to hide, not prefer
to spend his time in the light? Why was Gatsby so much more of a mystery than I could have
ever foreseen?

Entry 7
Tom eyed up Nick from across the bar and with one swift movement the shear bulk of mass
that was Mr Buchanan hovered over Nick, casting a dark shadow across the room,
conversations grew quitter as if Toms very presence was that of a corrupt police officer. The
cellar that this unforeseen encounter took place in was in the back streets of New York. The
room was dimly light with some fifteen people around the bar or sitting in the old wooden
chairs that appeared that they had been in use far too long. Pictures of men and oceans lined
the walls all with one true colour, green. An overflowing bin sat in the dull corner, fruit flies
swarmed around it searching endlessly for their next meal. Toms suit lit up the room. It was
blue, but not just any blue it was the blue of a sky on a crisp winters morning. I noticed one
of the buttons was undone and beside it was a red stain. This was unlike a man of Tom's
status to have a stain and shirt not properly buttoned. Who or what caused this I did not want
to know. Tom bought two drinks from the overweight bartender, the drinks took position in
the middle of the table, condensation filled the glass and I watched a small bead of water
trickle down the glass onto the table. Inside the glass was a red liquid. I did not have the thirst
to stomach it so I pushed it aside when Tom looked away. I knew there was something more
to this casual encounter than I expected as Tom turned back to me his face and lips tightened
and his hulking frame propelled towards me "Nick, I have been meaning to tell you
something".