Cut Productions: Story #2: One Shot

January 8, 1631 (For the Story)

Hello audience, or from now on A.W.I.R.T. (Stands for Anyone Who Is Reading This, just for now and future reference we will refer to 'AWIRT' as a he person. And for all you over-the-top feminists out there: get over it.)! Guess what ALWIRT? This is Maracta of Cut Production's 2nd story! Yaaaaaay! (ALWIRT jumps up and down with happy delight-wait, aren't those the same thing?) Well, first of all I, Maracta, am posting my second story only a week after my first story so I am feeling very proud of myself. Second, I just wanted to say thank you to EVERYONE who took time to review and favorite my last story 'Courage in Mind'; it made my day!-check that...my week. It felt so good to know that other people enjoyed my work and thanks to author 'Breathwithme', that it was fairly accurate. Oh, and thanks for the small critism author 'Josephine Grace'; keeps me humble. This story is also an old school assignment that I wrote sometime last year, and like my last story, I believe it to be good. Maybe not as good as 'Courage in Mind', but decent. If it would not be to time consuming, please submit your opinions in a review. That, and I feel like I'm not very good at story titles. If you agree AND have another suggestion for the title of this story, you can tell me in your future review of my story. ;)

Maracta of Cut Productions presents…

Story Summory: Ten years ago today, my family set their feet on American soil for the first time. This is a simple journal diary entry on what has happened in the last 10 years since January 8, 1631.

Reflection of a Pilgrim Girl

Dear Diary,

Ten years ago today, my family set their feet on American soil for the first time.

The date was January 8, 1621, and we had just taken a treacherous crossing of the Atlantic Ocean from England to the state of Virginia. I had been three then, and am now thirteen, the age where all girls are considered young ladies; something which I partially dread.

My family moved because our father thought that we would have a better chance of success (even though our life had been fine then). Father had said, "Everyone else is traveling to America. And that is where all the new and bigger opportunities will be. The first ones there are the ones that will most likely get the best benefits." The only reason I know that is because my brothers know it and sometimes recite it out loud. I don't know why (they come up with the most random excuses to say it), but I think they repeatedly quote it just so it will get on my nerves. Knowing my mother, she would have been skeptical from the beginning, but could not overrule Father.

As I have been told, the entire sea voyage was awful and appalling. It was the first time for any of us to be on a ship, and it took a good while to become accustomed to the constant movement of the boat. However, the real problem on the journey was the sickness that swept the entire ship.

Over half of the passengers and crew came down with the sickness and many of them died. Paul, Meagan, and William all came down with the contagious virus and were sick for most of the journey. Many bodies were cast into the ocean on the voyage and among them was my brother, William, who was only older than me by one year.

I don't really remember him, obviously because of my young age, but mother said that he loved me dearly and we would play with each other for hours on end; running, laughing and enjoying the being of existence. I thought of him as the perfect gentlemen, and would follow him everywhere taking his word as the best for me. In return, he was very protective of me and would become angry if he thought someone was even looking at me in the wrong way. After he died, I was unable to comprehend what had happened to my protector to whom so much I owed, and cried aimlessly for days almost to the point of sickness. My father has explained to me how William's death had caused Mother a great deal of stress and anxiety as well as setting a dark and heavy load on the family.

Our arrival in Virginia was a sorrowful one, but it symbolized the means of strength, and end of something and the beginning of something new.

Father received the head-right of 50 acres of land that was advertised at the time and, along with the other plantations around us, decided to grow tobacco. Our first harvest in America was a good one, and the next better. We were successful from the beginning and made larger profits each year.

On the second year of planting my father made an important decision. He decided that in order to stay on top with the other plantations, he would have to get people to help with the work in order to make enough money to buy everything we needed and more. But we could not, and would not, be able to pay workers to work for us.

So my father bought slaves.

Our plantation continued to grow and, in addition, we continued to grow in wealth. Our number of slaves increased. I myself am not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing. In my younger years, I had not really known about slavery in general and had subconsciously judged it. But when I met Chena, my perspectives changed.

By the way they talked and what I heard about them, I had always assumed that black people were dumb. But no, not Chena. She was bright and smart as a whip, could (and often would) stand up to anything and never back down. In many ways she was a cocky girl, with an uplifted chin and a stubborn personality...but I liked her anyway.

By spending so much time with Chena I slowly began to learn more about her. One time I asked how she came to be here, and her answer shocked me.

Chena had said when she was young white and black folk had kidnapped her family and had put them on a boat and shipped them across the Atlantic. Her family had then been separated and sold to different places and then been forced to work and do hard labor. When she was eleven she was separated from her mom and younger brother; the only family she had left, and sold to another plantation. Since then she had been sold to even another plantation, which was ours.

She also said that the same cycle happened to other children and their families all the time. While telling me all of this, Chena broke down and started crying. Believe me, that was the last thing I would expect to see from Chena. As she cried and spoke, I found myself near tears as well because her story was so horrific.

Since that conversation our friendship has grown even more. Father says that I shouldn't spend so much time with Chena, and more time with my friends from school. But he does not make me so I don't change.

Chena's words have impacted me greatly to where I almost don't want to believe them, but know they are true. They make me feel ashamed and guilty. But there is one thing for sure; my family and I would not be where we are today without slaves, and honestly I really like where I am. In this way I feel divided, and I do not know to think.

Author's Note: 'Chena' sounds like, 'Cheena', just in case you were saying it inncorrectly in your head.

Tadaaaaaaa! End of diary! Yaaaaaaaay! So, second story for Maracta, what did you think? Did you like it? Did you LOVE it? Do you what some more OF IT? HA! I just made a rhyme. Good for me. Anyways, heads-up/sneek preview (that's right you're being sneeky!) I am doing a short story for Christmas! It is not a one-shot, but a THREE-PARTER and really cute! (AWIRT goes, "ooooOOOOooo...") I don't know exactly know when I'm going to post it, but I'll do it soon. I have it all written except for the middle (which is kind of weird...) so if I could have some prayers for Writing Discapline (which I'm really not good at) that would be great. Thank you for your time and concentration. Please reveiw if you have time. Sincerely,

Maracta of Cut Productions