Arlen
I heart ROBOT
- 90
- Posts
- 14
- Years
- Age 31
- Melbourne, Australia
- Seen Nov 28, 2021
This is a short story I am handing in for my English class at school.
June 12, 1793.
The floor boards were rough and wet, the fog created those large patches of wetness on the ground, but the floorboards were the closest thing to a seat on this large boat; full of hundreds of other sobbing, depressed, weak and hopeless people. The captain and other sailors constantly tell us that we're almost there, but I haven't the strength to believe them. All we were given on our way here was an old briefcase and a bar of soap; a bar of soap? We've traded our souls to a land of which we know nothing about, and all we are given is a bar of soap. Interestingly enough, the noose doesn't sound like such a bad idea after all, even though it is undeserving.
June 13, 1793.
I was woken by a loud knocking against the cabin doors, a chilling feeling overtook my back, and I knew we had finally reached shore, and I knew we were doomed for eternity. There is one thing that I'm the tiniest bit interested in, everyone keeps telling me the people on this land are savages, 'black dogs' they call them. But even so, this land I have no prior knowledge about, is theirs, survival is guaranteed if I can learn their ways. The prejudice and doubt, I shall leave to the other condemned. I was then again startled by a large knock, on the cabin door, by a hand that is firm and all bone, but the sound tells me he has the same depressed, weak and hopeless feeling as everyone. Nonetheless the sound pierced through all the ears that had still their hearing. Oi ya' dirty mongrels, we've arrived. Get ya' bags together and line up outside. This was it, the first glance at what would forever be deemed our home, and after a big, sinking, dismayed breathe, I summed up the strength to exit the cabins, and behold an astonishing sight. There were no streets, no buildings, only water, and trees.
June 15, 1793.
I came here, after avoiding death, but due to minimal crimes, I was granted freedom, freedom; a lie. This land was everything but freedom; it was the biggest prison my eyes had ever witnessed. There was only one thing that occupied my mind at that time, finding these 'blacks' and attempting to persuade them into teaching me their ways, with what would only be hand signals and loud voices. The English language to them was what their language was to us, valueless. Within the past few hours, someone had informed me that an Aboriginal hung around these parts, and that he went by the name of 'Harry'. Why the settlers chose to name someone in a tongue that was not native to them is beyond my understanding, but he was my key to success and survival. I was going to take whatever was given to me. All I had to do was wait, but it came to my attention as I glanced around the area, waiting was the only thing that could be done in a land which seemed to only be occupied by moving trees. And I feel asleep on the ground. Closest thing to a pillow 'round these parts were the odd branches sticking out of the ground. My eyes closed, and a vivid darkness overtook me.
My sleep was interrupted by a strange figure standing in front of me, my blurry vision had yet to clear and I could only distinguish him by his broad shoulders, and chest bulked by muscle. He waved his hands at me, and it seemed like he was signalling me to move. Due to a lock of orientation and any mental thought, I stumbled to the side, and observed. Watching, the man slammed a sharpened piece of wood into the side of the large tree, and my vision would sharpen at an instant, clean water started spilling out onto the ground. This water was nothing like the either muggy green or brown water that was found in Portsmouth. The man pulled what seemed to be a satchel made from leaves and caught the water before it ran dry. As my mind cleared, I knew this was the moment, if I had any chance of success; I needed to communicate with the man, and see if he could show me what he had just done. All I could think to do was smile, and then point frantically at the tree; I must have seemed like a child. He folded some more leaves from the ground and repeated the process of cutting the tree open, but this time I was on the receiving end of the leaves, quenching my thirst.
June 16, 1793.
It was dark, and even though my vision was sharp again, the skin of the man almost blended in with the environment, and I could barely distinguish the immediate area from him. The trees surrounding this place swallowed any light that tried to penetrate to the rough ground beneath it, even the radiant light of the moon was left hopeless. As the man began to walk, I followed. I don't think it occurred to him that I was indeed trying to follow him, but I did, and I watched every motion of his muscles, they amazed me. This interminable site of trees and ground confused me to the end of my bombarded mind. The man however, was not fazed at all; he knew the land from leaf to branch, and branch to trunk, and trunk to soil. After what seemed to be an hour of walking, he reached a campsite with several glowing red flames, and I reached it shortly after him. The Aboriginals at the site were shocked to behold me, a straight glare overtook every single child, parent and family at the campsite, and I was filled with the upmost distressing feeling of disappointment.
June 23, 1793.
My persistence and undying hope of survival was the only thing that kept me going, I had gone days without food or water, and had walked miles behind the Aboriginal group as they moved about, yet it was only today in which my first accomplishment became present. A young child in the group, stood from his spot and came over to me holding a piece of kangaroo meat left over from the night before, my heart beat with excitement, had I finally been accepted into their group? I had sat quietly paying attention to all their words and rhythms, and only today had my eyes shined with additional hope. I knew though, months of hard work and struggling communication were ahead, but for the time being I was going to sit down and relax, absorbing the moment. My success finally gave me a reason to.
Present – August 9th, 1794.
It was night, fog had consumed the area and we were all grasping each other to try and maintain heat, the koala skin could only do a maximum. Harry stood up, something seemed to have gathered his attention, and he pierced through everyone's feeling of comfort with a stricken face. It was clear something was bothering him, and I stood up quietly to see. I stared straight through the fog, in the same manner as him, but I could see nothing. It wasn't until a few moments later everything became clear to me. The Aboriginals had trespassed onto proclaimed white land before, and the Settlers had come to eradicate them for they had had enough, this place was proclaimed 'Blackwoods'. Bullets filled every empty space and the sound of gunshots was impossible to escape from. I tried to shout, begging the Settlers to cease, but the screams of women and children sucked every ounce of life from the area, including my throat.
I gazed, stunned, as one by one, the family I had lived with for so long fell, one by one. Blood spewed across the area and painted the trees a horrifying red. My body continued to freeze, everything turned into a blur and sounds became fuzzed. My mind was overwhelmed; a question was all I could see in front of me – why was this happening?
After all the weeks I had spent sweating, after all the bruised hands and bloody fingers, I was going to be massacred by the Settlers? I had come as one of them, but they were not my own anymore. This place had become me, and I lived off what nature had provided, not from the materials which altered the very idea of it. My journey for knowledge and wellbeing was about to be stripped from me, and destroyed, right in front of my bewildered eyes. But I would not let that happen, if I could somehow escape from this nightmare, I would be able to teach the others and maybe the conflict would cease.
I handled a large stone, and with hesitation, threw it at one of the men, it smashed right into the side of his skull. This was my opportunity to flee. Flee from what had become my life. I made a run for the security of the woods, and the only path I could follow was the path where the blood slowly disappeared. It was the only direction which was safe. I had abandoned my family, the ones who took me in, the child who fed me when I was on the brink of starvation, and Harry, the one who knew I was following him, but could someone sense the good within me. Greif, and guilt, overpowered and other sense I had. I fell to the ground; my heart had sunk so low I could imagine the feeling of having a spear, or bullet, through it. Blood stained every small gap in my hand. As I looked down to the ground, it seemed even the soil was disappointed with me, it seemed even the soil had felt the grief I had, it seemed even the soil had witnessed this devastation. Was there more I could do? I hadn't a weapon, I wouldn't have lasted a minute until a sword or bullet pierced my skin in the most gruesome and painful way imaginable.
I fell into a surreal state. All I could feel, hear, or sense, were my thoughts. Had the English lost their culture? Was the idea that all men were equal a false belief? Was the bible a false belief? It seemed as though the English accepted it as that. I shaped myself into a ball and starred to the sky, teardrops blurring any visible object. My words were broken and not understandable, but I was hoping God was all he was pronounced to be. I prayed. If you can hear me, it's Walton. I want to know. Was there something I could have done? Was there another way?
But my words faded, the land around me disappeared into a sea of red, and my eyesight went pitch black.
June 12, 1793.
The floor boards were rough and wet, the fog created those large patches of wetness on the ground, but the floorboards were the closest thing to a seat on this large boat; full of hundreds of other sobbing, depressed, weak and hopeless people. The captain and other sailors constantly tell us that we're almost there, but I haven't the strength to believe them. All we were given on our way here was an old briefcase and a bar of soap; a bar of soap? We've traded our souls to a land of which we know nothing about, and all we are given is a bar of soap. Interestingly enough, the noose doesn't sound like such a bad idea after all, even though it is undeserving.
June 13, 1793.
I was woken by a loud knocking against the cabin doors, a chilling feeling overtook my back, and I knew we had finally reached shore, and I knew we were doomed for eternity. There is one thing that I'm the tiniest bit interested in, everyone keeps telling me the people on this land are savages, 'black dogs' they call them. But even so, this land I have no prior knowledge about, is theirs, survival is guaranteed if I can learn their ways. The prejudice and doubt, I shall leave to the other condemned. I was then again startled by a large knock, on the cabin door, by a hand that is firm and all bone, but the sound tells me he has the same depressed, weak and hopeless feeling as everyone. Nonetheless the sound pierced through all the ears that had still their hearing. Oi ya' dirty mongrels, we've arrived. Get ya' bags together and line up outside. This was it, the first glance at what would forever be deemed our home, and after a big, sinking, dismayed breathe, I summed up the strength to exit the cabins, and behold an astonishing sight. There were no streets, no buildings, only water, and trees.
June 15, 1793.
I came here, after avoiding death, but due to minimal crimes, I was granted freedom, freedom; a lie. This land was everything but freedom; it was the biggest prison my eyes had ever witnessed. There was only one thing that occupied my mind at that time, finding these 'blacks' and attempting to persuade them into teaching me their ways, with what would only be hand signals and loud voices. The English language to them was what their language was to us, valueless. Within the past few hours, someone had informed me that an Aboriginal hung around these parts, and that he went by the name of 'Harry'. Why the settlers chose to name someone in a tongue that was not native to them is beyond my understanding, but he was my key to success and survival. I was going to take whatever was given to me. All I had to do was wait, but it came to my attention as I glanced around the area, waiting was the only thing that could be done in a land which seemed to only be occupied by moving trees. And I feel asleep on the ground. Closest thing to a pillow 'round these parts were the odd branches sticking out of the ground. My eyes closed, and a vivid darkness overtook me.
My sleep was interrupted by a strange figure standing in front of me, my blurry vision had yet to clear and I could only distinguish him by his broad shoulders, and chest bulked by muscle. He waved his hands at me, and it seemed like he was signalling me to move. Due to a lock of orientation and any mental thought, I stumbled to the side, and observed. Watching, the man slammed a sharpened piece of wood into the side of the large tree, and my vision would sharpen at an instant, clean water started spilling out onto the ground. This water was nothing like the either muggy green or brown water that was found in Portsmouth. The man pulled what seemed to be a satchel made from leaves and caught the water before it ran dry. As my mind cleared, I knew this was the moment, if I had any chance of success; I needed to communicate with the man, and see if he could show me what he had just done. All I could think to do was smile, and then point frantically at the tree; I must have seemed like a child. He folded some more leaves from the ground and repeated the process of cutting the tree open, but this time I was on the receiving end of the leaves, quenching my thirst.
June 16, 1793.
It was dark, and even though my vision was sharp again, the skin of the man almost blended in with the environment, and I could barely distinguish the immediate area from him. The trees surrounding this place swallowed any light that tried to penetrate to the rough ground beneath it, even the radiant light of the moon was left hopeless. As the man began to walk, I followed. I don't think it occurred to him that I was indeed trying to follow him, but I did, and I watched every motion of his muscles, they amazed me. This interminable site of trees and ground confused me to the end of my bombarded mind. The man however, was not fazed at all; he knew the land from leaf to branch, and branch to trunk, and trunk to soil. After what seemed to be an hour of walking, he reached a campsite with several glowing red flames, and I reached it shortly after him. The Aboriginals at the site were shocked to behold me, a straight glare overtook every single child, parent and family at the campsite, and I was filled with the upmost distressing feeling of disappointment.
June 23, 1793.
My persistence and undying hope of survival was the only thing that kept me going, I had gone days without food or water, and had walked miles behind the Aboriginal group as they moved about, yet it was only today in which my first accomplishment became present. A young child in the group, stood from his spot and came over to me holding a piece of kangaroo meat left over from the night before, my heart beat with excitement, had I finally been accepted into their group? I had sat quietly paying attention to all their words and rhythms, and only today had my eyes shined with additional hope. I knew though, months of hard work and struggling communication were ahead, but for the time being I was going to sit down and relax, absorbing the moment. My success finally gave me a reason to.
Present – August 9th, 1794.
It was night, fog had consumed the area and we were all grasping each other to try and maintain heat, the koala skin could only do a maximum. Harry stood up, something seemed to have gathered his attention, and he pierced through everyone's feeling of comfort with a stricken face. It was clear something was bothering him, and I stood up quietly to see. I stared straight through the fog, in the same manner as him, but I could see nothing. It wasn't until a few moments later everything became clear to me. The Aboriginals had trespassed onto proclaimed white land before, and the Settlers had come to eradicate them for they had had enough, this place was proclaimed 'Blackwoods'. Bullets filled every empty space and the sound of gunshots was impossible to escape from. I tried to shout, begging the Settlers to cease, but the screams of women and children sucked every ounce of life from the area, including my throat.
I gazed, stunned, as one by one, the family I had lived with for so long fell, one by one. Blood spewed across the area and painted the trees a horrifying red. My body continued to freeze, everything turned into a blur and sounds became fuzzed. My mind was overwhelmed; a question was all I could see in front of me – why was this happening?
After all the weeks I had spent sweating, after all the bruised hands and bloody fingers, I was going to be massacred by the Settlers? I had come as one of them, but they were not my own anymore. This place had become me, and I lived off what nature had provided, not from the materials which altered the very idea of it. My journey for knowledge and wellbeing was about to be stripped from me, and destroyed, right in front of my bewildered eyes. But I would not let that happen, if I could somehow escape from this nightmare, I would be able to teach the others and maybe the conflict would cease.
I handled a large stone, and with hesitation, threw it at one of the men, it smashed right into the side of his skull. This was my opportunity to flee. Flee from what had become my life. I made a run for the security of the woods, and the only path I could follow was the path where the blood slowly disappeared. It was the only direction which was safe. I had abandoned my family, the ones who took me in, the child who fed me when I was on the brink of starvation, and Harry, the one who knew I was following him, but could someone sense the good within me. Greif, and guilt, overpowered and other sense I had. I fell to the ground; my heart had sunk so low I could imagine the feeling of having a spear, or bullet, through it. Blood stained every small gap in my hand. As I looked down to the ground, it seemed even the soil was disappointed with me, it seemed even the soil had felt the grief I had, it seemed even the soil had witnessed this devastation. Was there more I could do? I hadn't a weapon, I wouldn't have lasted a minute until a sword or bullet pierced my skin in the most gruesome and painful way imaginable.
I fell into a surreal state. All I could feel, hear, or sense, were my thoughts. Had the English lost their culture? Was the idea that all men were equal a false belief? Was the bible a false belief? It seemed as though the English accepted it as that. I shaped myself into a ball and starred to the sky, teardrops blurring any visible object. My words were broken and not understandable, but I was hoping God was all he was pronounced to be. I prayed. If you can hear me, it's Walton. I want to know. Was there something I could have done? Was there another way?
But my words faded, the land around me disappeared into a sea of red, and my eyesight went pitch black.
Last edited: