A dense blanket of fog settled over the land on the cold gray morning. The Creative Director’s stomach was bound like a ball of rubber bands as he emerged into the trench. He knew the news he’d just received wasn’t going to sit well with the rest of the platoon. As he weaved through muddy alleys carved like ugly wounds in the earth, he began kicking his men to life. They were groggy from having just pulled an all-nighter to have captured the ground they were on. Grunts and grumbles were his soundtracks as he made his way to the central command post. The battered men stumbled into a crude formation.
“All right, men listen up,” the Creative Director began. “There’s been a change of plans. I got word from the top that our deadline has been moved up to today.”
Groans reverberated down the line.
A Senior Art Director spoke up first, “I thought the plan was to further dig in these trenches so we could get a better handle on what we’re up against.”
“Forget all that,” the Creative Director responded. “Today’s a new day. You all know what you signed up for. This is the way things go.”
He waited for any other challenges, but when he got none, he continued, “The mission is to get our ideas safely across no man’s land to the client. If we can do that, we’ll have considered the battle won.”
“It doesn’t give us a lot of time to get ideas together,” a Copywriter said.
The Creative Director rubbed the back of his neck apprehensively, averting the men’s eyes, “Well, I’ve got these.”
He stood back, and three weak ideas shuffled forward. They were tired-looking as if they hadn’t been adequately fed. The ideas stared out at the men before them. The men stared back, analyzing them with judging eyes, mentally mulling over ways to improve them.
“Where’d you find them? The latrine bucket?” said one of the Senior Copywriters. This drew a stream of snickering from the group.
The Creative Director said, “It’s more than what you’ve got.” He hadn’t meant to come off as defensive as he did. He was tired, and he knew they were all running on fumes. “Sorry. This is what we’ve got. We can improvise along the way, but we need to give them something. So if nothing else comes together, then this is something at least.”
The men shuffled anxiously then as they started their preparations. The enemy had pummeled them over the last week. Their forces were depleted, and morale was low. The situation wasn’t ideal, the Creative Director knew. Still, if they could get this victory, it might add some vigor back to the platoon. An intern was handing out cups of stale coffee to the men. A few shared cigarettes as they choked down the lukewarm drink.
The Creative Director walked up and down the line, checking each man’s readiness. When he looked into their eyes, some he could tell weren’t going to make it. At five minutes to ten, he felt they were ready.
“On my whistle, every man moves forward,” he said.
He did one last scan of his men, watching as some made the sign of the cross while others snuffed out their smokes in the mud. He put the whistle to his lips, and with one exhausted breath, he let out their battle cry.
All hell broke loose as the men began pouring out of the trenches, led by the naive and overly eager Junior Art Directors. The enemy immediately began hurling grenades of new projects with short-timed fuses. One blast wiped out two of the Junior Art Directors and a copywriter before they’d made it ten yards. The enemy then unleashed a torrent of rapid-fire requests, flanking their left ranks. A few more Junior Art Directors walked right into the line of fire, holding up the hands of fledgling ideas to only be mowed down.
The Creative Director dropped into a bombed-out crater with a Senior Art Director and Senior Copywriter.
“There’s too many of them,” the Senior Art Director shouted over the chaos.
“The bastards already took out half of the art department,” the Senior Copywriter added.
“You’ve got to keep pushing forward,” the Creative Director said, trying to control the panic in his voice.
“Fuck it,” the Senior Art Director said. “I think I see the piece of an idea over there. Come on.” He tapped the Senior Copywriter on the shoulder, and they crawled out of the crater back into the fray. The Creative Director watched them maneuver through the battered and severed remains of some of the Junior Art Directors as they hunkered down behind a mountain of spent beer cans. He watched them a little longer as they started digging out an arm beneath the dirt, the pile of cans providing them some cover.
The Creative Director turned his attention to the three ideas behind him. One of them looked on the verge of collapse, having taken a high caliber round of feedback to the chest from an enemy sniper. He assessed the damage and swallowed the realization that the idea was as good as dead. He nodded solemnly to the other two ideas, and the three of them made a break for another crater. The left-behind idea watched helplessly as they fled, then crumpled up to meet its fate.
In the next crater, a Senior Copywriter bunkered down with two cowering Junior Art Directors.
“You’ve gotta help us,” one of the Junior Art Directors screamed.
“Is it always like this, sir?” the other Junior asked.
“Can it, you two,” the Senior Copywriter scolded. “Don’t listen to them, sir.”
“Have you got your field kit with you?” the Creative Director asked the Senior Copywriter.
“I do. I lost a few tools along the way, but it’s mostly intact.”
“What can you do on this one here?” the Creative Director asked as he pulled the first idea in front of him. “He’s showing some signs of potential. I think he’s worth saving.”
The Senior Copywriter inspected the idea for a few minutes, lifting up its arms, turning it over, and checking its vitals. “I’ll see what I can do. A new tagline might do the trick.”
“Perfect. Give me five of them. Have you seen Danvers?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I saw him over by that burning stack of fast food cartons there,” the Senior Copywriter said, then grabbed the Creative Directors’ arm before he could leave. “Just go easy on him. He’s had a lot of ideas killed over the last month. I don’t think he’s in a good space right now.”
The Creative Director nodded in understanding, then told the second idea to follow him. “Come find me when you get those taglines buttoned up,” he shouted back to the Senior Copywriter as he started to trudge towards the fire. As he got closer, the heat of the flames forced him to run wide and shield his eyes. Blinded by the light, he collided with a black mass that was hunched over. The mass growled under the impact and spun around to face the Creative Director.
“Danvers? Is that you?” the Creative Director stammered out, cautiously stepping backward.
“He’s stopped breathing,” Danvers, another Senior Art Director, whispered.
Danvers was coated in a thin film of soot, only his teeth, and eyes visible, giving him the appearance of being swallowed by a shadow. The Creative Director inched forward and peered at the ground to see what Danvers had been working out. Sprawled out on his back was an idea spattered with holes of criticism. Fresh blood still seeping out from the wounds. Despite the gore, the core of the idea looked like a creation of true beauty and imagination. Something that only those well equipped could understand and appreciate. It had complexities of over-the-top thinking yet mixed with clever simplicity. The Creative Director’s heart broke for the shambles of a man at his feet. This, unfortunately, he knew, was the cost of War.
“I’m sorry,” the Creative Director said. “It looked like it would’ve been brilliant.”
The Senior Art Director had a vacant, far-off look. “What do you need?” he asked lifelessly.
“I need you to look at this,” the Creative Director said. “What can you do with it?”
The Senior Art Director glanced at the frightened idea behind the Creative Director. A frail smile edged onto his face, and he held out his hand for the idea to take. The idea was reluctant at first, but then he saw the shell of the man before him meant him no harm.
“Let’s have a look at you,” the Senior Art Director said. Gently, he brushed some of the mud and grime from the idea’s face. From inside his jacket, the Senior Art Director extracted a clean white cloth and removed a dash of a third party’s blood from the idea’s cheek.
“Now, we’re starting to look presentable,” he said. Next, he took out a comb, brushed the idea’s hair, found a clean shirt hidden beneath some rubble, and replaced the tattered cloth barely hanging on to the idea’s body. “How’s that?”
The Creative Director surveyed his work. It was good, he thought, damn good.
“Fine work,” the Creative Director said, impressed.
Tears looked to be welling up in the Senior Art Director’s eyes as they heard a loud grinding of gears drawing near. Behind them, an armor-plated mini-tank crested a small hill. Mounted to the top was a massive machine gun. Manning the gun was the Chief Creative Officer.
“What in the hell is that abomination?” the CCO shouted down to them, pointing at the polished second idea. “Why wasn’t I brought into this plan sooner. Heads are going to roll for this.” He then grabbed an idea by the scruff of its neck and tossed it down to the Creative Director. “Put this idea in the mix.”
The Creative Director studied the abomination in his hands, stifling the bile rising in his throat. The misshapen idea, no, thing, had the stench of plagiarism on it with limbs torn from past campaigns and reassembled a hellish monster.
“We can’t show this,” the Creative Director said.
“You bet your ass you can. Besides, I wasn’t asking,” the CCO said. “Now, let’s take care of the slop you put together.” The CCO said as he racked back the bolt of his machine gun.
The Senior Art Director stepped in front of the idea, trying to protect it. He shouted a logical rationale for why it worked and needed to live, but the words fell on deaf ears. The CCO depressed the trigger, and a symphony of criticism erupted from the gun barrel. The Creative Director tried to stop it, but he was too late. The idea was ripped to pieces, taking what sanity was left of the Senior Art Director with it. Furious, the Creative Director chucked the CCO’s idea back at him. As he did, the banshee scream of a mortar rained from the sky and detonated in the center of the mini tank. The Creative Director didn’t stick around to see what carnage was left behind as the smoke started to dissipate.
Time was running out. He needed to find his first idea and see what the other pairing had come up with. He sprinted through an open patch of earth, avoiding a field of meeting mines and shrapnel from exploding enemy instant messages. He found the Senior Copywriter with his first idea twenty yards down in a massive crater, just in front of a fence of barbed wire. On the other side, he could see the client’s bunker. As he rushed towards them, the other Senior Art Director and Senior Copywriter were converging on the same point. They were firing off a defensive barrage of emails as they slid into the crater with another idea in tow.
“Christ, I’d thought they’d got you too. I think we’re all that’s left,” the Senior Copywriter said as he shoved the first idea back to the Creative Director.
“They’ve certainly tried,” he replied, looking over the first idea. “It’ll do. What have you guys got?”
The other Senior Art Director and Senior Copywriter pushed their cobbled together idea forward. It was different looking, but it served as a nice contrast to the first idea.
“Where’d you pull this idea from?” the Creative Director asked with a grin.
The creative duo looked at each other, then the Senior Copywriter said, “You don’t want to know.”
“All right, this is it then,” the Creative Director said. Mortars started falling from all around then as the deadline was upon them.
“Hurry up, get the hell out of here,” the Senior Copywriter shouted. “Good luck.”
The two ideas gripped the back of the Creative Director’s jacket and hung on for dear life as he sprinted five yards before diving to his stomach in front of the barbed wire. He contorted and fought through the last stretch, the wire lashing at his face. He could feel a trickle of blood dripping into his eyes. He wiped it away and pressed onward. Twenty minutes later, he emerged on the other side. Panting, he looked over the ideas one last time, then saluted the men left behind the lines. For those still standing, the War would rage on, but the battle, the battle was finally over.
If you enjoyed this piece of fiction be sure to check out my book of short stories, White Space.
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