Writing Exercise: The Spy (a World War Two epic intro for Monica Bushor)

Monica Bushor is a mother, a singer, and a talented photographer with a flare for dramatic storytelling. When she volunteered to be a subject for this exercise, I thought about her work with the camera and this scene just sprang into mind. Enjoy and let me know what you think!

     Travis stumbled up to the edge of the ridge, gritting his teeth against the screaming pain in his leg. The earth dropped away before him and the moon lit up the scenery. The once lush forest had been ruthlessly cut away to make room for the modern installation. Typical of all Nazi manufacturing plants, it was ugly and ominous, surrounded by barbed wire, guns, and soldiers.
      ‘Damn,’ he thought. If only his camera hadn’t been broken in the crash, he might have been able to accomplish his reconnaissance mission after all…
      He heard the snapping twig just as he realized that he was no longer alone. He turned, scrambling for his pistol, but it was too late. The newcomer’s Luger was already out and at the ready.
     A woman stood there, cloaked in darkness and hand steady on the pistol. Travis could make out only that she was tall and blond, her hair piled up neatly in a bun.
       He was struggling for the German phrase for “Don’t shoot,” when she spoke.
       “You’re a long way from home, fly-boy,” she said.
     It took a moment before he could acknowledge that she spoke in English, a curious mixture of a New England clipped accent with a Nebraskan twang.
     “You’re American!” he said.
     She stepped forward and the moonlight fell on her. She was dressed in boots and pants and a small, sleek camera dangled from a cord around her chest. She was grinning, as if this were all a big joke.
      “Maybe,” she said. She kept the Luger pointed at his chest. “What are you doing out here?”
     “My plane was downed last night,” he said and gestured towards the west. “I’m trying not to get caught. Are you going to shoot me?”
      “Maybe,” she said again and gestured with the Luger. “To the left, please.”
      He stepped as directed, keeping his hands up. The Luger followed him, held in her right hand. The left brought the camera up and before he could quite realize what she was doing, she’d snapped several pictures of the installation.
      “You’re a spy!” he exclaimed.
      She just winked at him and tucked the Luger into her belt.
     “Don’t tell anyone,” she said. “Come on, fly-boy, let’s get you out of here before our kraut friends decide to join us.”

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