My name is Henry and I am a ship builder. I’m exhausted, thirsty and could barely move but if I wanted to keep me and my family alive; I had to work. I was a shipbuilder and each day me and 50 others who had been hired would come down to the the dock where the new ship was being built. Our boss was a mean middle aged man who seemed to be incapable of working yet he had the right to make us work. It was hard to get a job and I decided that my best option was to stay here, at least for a little while. I went to a near by tree where shade was available and had a sip of my water.

As I was looking into the distance a spotted something that we often see. It was a ship, but this one seemed to be larger then the others. I could see around ten men standing on deck which was abnormally small for the size of the ship. The ship drew closer in and everyone began to look. The ship slid into the dock and came  to a rearing stop. The men jumped of board and greeted us ” This is a big group of em” one of the men said to our boss.

I didn’t understand what he meant by that but that made me curious. Then I looked back at the ship and saw loads and loads of people coming out and onto the bank of the shore. They were dressed and raggedy and torn clothes. They were covered in dirt and you would occasionally see someone carried out and hear the groans. I heard one of my fellow shipbuilders ask why they were so dirty and the man said one word, “slaves”. I was now even more confused and was un aware of the term slaves. This may be because I was poor and could not focus on things that didn’t involve me and my families survival.  

 A day in the life of slave after the long boat ride…

We slowly dock into shore. I can see another ship much like the one that I was on bring built. As I step off the ship and the sun shows down on my face and it is blinding.I have been on this ship for eight weeks and the voyage is finally over. We all stumble off the ship having not been on land for so long. me and my brother follow the long line of groaning and shivering slaves. We reached a tall patch of grass and we began walking through. I was 14 and my brother was six.  He was crying as be put down our few belongings and walked into the house, he was thinking about our parents who had boarded the ship with us but had not been lucky enough to get off. Both of them had died on the long journey along with many others. Disease had spread rapidly and the dead were in humanely thrown overboard. I don’t think that they cared about us and we sure didn’t care about them. Now all I cared about was keeping me and my little brother alive. I stepped into the house as quietly as possible. My so called master called me and iwalked into the room and told me that I should drop my stuff and immediately go outside to help with the preparation of tobacco. It was hot out and probably June and I hit the air like I a wall of bricks. Me and my brother ran over to the field where we were given hoes. We instantly had to begin. Many of the men were singing songs and we decided that we would try to join in. It seemed many of these men had been here for years judging from their age and the brutal scares that lined there backs from the harsh man that was in charge of this place.

After about an hour I was exhausted and could barley move. My brother dropped to his knees and as I told him to stop the hard lash of a whip came down on his back sending him to tears. I picked him up and put him over my shoulder. Our master was about to strike again when I told him that I would work twice as long and twice as hard if he would just spare my brother. He gave me a disapproving look and then said, “I’m giving you this break once because you are new. You’re brother can work in the house for a bit but if I catch you slacking then you are being shipped off to another plantation.” That would be the worst punishment I could receive. Though the whip may be brutal I have already lost so many that I loved and couldn’t bare to loose anymore.

A day in the life of a wigmaker

My name is Elizabeth Williams and I am a wigmaker. Every day I wake up when the warm orange sun rises above the tall green grass. I get out of my bed and walk into my children’s room to make sure they are ok. Poor little Johnny has been having horrific nightmares lately. I smell the buttery biscuits that aunt Katherine had brought over early this morning. I am in the middling class so having warm honey biscuits was a treat for me. I put on my dress and my off-white bonnet that I had made by myself. Its a floral, cotton dress that smells of powder and dye that has stained it. My husband, John, has left for work already and aunt Katherine will come over later to take care of the kids.

I walk down the cobblestone road until i get to the wig shop. The wig shop is small with many shelves displaying the different styles of wigs I make. Lace curtains hang over the windows and the light shins right through it. I smell the faint scent of old English tea and I hear the water being poured into the bath tub upstairs. I walk in and an a new apprentice in sitting on the corner chair. My chair. She sees me and tells me her name in Samantha. She smiles. I smile back. I don’t exactly like training new apprentices but it’s part of my job so I must make Samantha the very best she can be.  I start to get to work on the wigs as a lady with her daughter walks in. “Hello,” the old lady says, “Good day ma’am,” I reply. “I need you to shave my daughter’s head and fit her for a wig,” the old lady says, “Mother…I don’t want to shave my head!” The daughter exclaims. The older lady looked annoyed, like this isn’t the first time she’s complained. “It must be done.” she says. I sit the girl down and bring the razor to her head.She winces as I take the first part off.  When I’m done, I tell them that they can leave and pick up her wig in a week. As she and her mother walks out the door slams and I was glad I didn’t have to hear the fight that was about to happen. I tell Samantha to start to carve the block head. After I will make the wig by sewing hair onto mesh. I do this everyday and many times it gets boring but I must help my family survive in this hard world we live in.

I walk back down the street to my house. The yellow color of the sun and the bright blue sky has now turned dark.  I yawn and blink slowly as my torn shoes make a scratching noise on the bumpy road. I will almost be to my house, I know I wont get much sleep but I pretend I will. When I open the door to my small house I tip toe up to my room, careful not to wake the younger children. The floor boards makes a creaking noise, like it’s reminding me that it’s getting old.  I take off my apron and my dress that I wear almost every day. I feel too tired to do anything else but I still walk in too each of my children’s room and kiss them all on the cheek and say, “Good night my wonderful babies.”  And as I drift asleep I know this day will continue to repeat.

19 dead

Before we were bewitched, my cousin and I were normal girls.  We woke every morning to dress in our fresh white bonnets and pale pink and blue dresses and our lovely white socks, just to go out and run errands for our mother and father.  Well, not my mother or father, but Betty’s mom and dad.  My parents died when I was an infant. Our house burned in an instant.  The flames licked at their ankles as they ran out the house, my mother cradling me in her arms.  My parents, Rosalyn and John Williams, thought we all were safe outside of the house.  But we were not.  They died and I survived.  My uncle came, the same uncle I live with today, Reverend Parris.  My cousin was born two years later when the Reverend and his wife Christina realized that I needed another friend. My cousin Betty and I have been best friends since the day she was born.  

In 1692, the worst year of our lives, Betty was nine and I was twelve-years-old.  I was lucky enough to live to fight another day, whereas those people we accused of being witches did not.  All but one of those accused witches died because of me.  We didn’t think that we were being so bad at the time, but we faked illnesses and accused people of witchcraft because our religion told us to do so.  It was a dreadful year.  Nineteen people were hung, and one hundred and eighty imprisoned, and all because of a fun game that Betty and I had made up.  

Now, my life is different.  It has been two years since the horrific Salem Witch Trials, and I have yet to clear my conscience.  I can still see the faces of those who were hung because of me, and I feel them haunting me most days and nights.  I wake in the middle of the night and hear screaming and see figures, and I am unsure if they are there or not.  They seem real, but they never stay long enough.  I pretend that this never happens.  If the Reverend knew, he would start the Witch Trials all over again.  He is a very respected man, leaving our family with a very high status.

         I live in Salem Massachusetts, and I am the face of the town.  Everyone knows Betty and I for the role we played in the Salem Witch Trials.  It is a brutal name to carry.  I worry about the Reverend finding out about my night terrors and my possible ghost sightings.  If he finds out, twenty more people would end up dead, just as it happened before.  I am consumed with guilt for those people I  killed.   I did not mean for it to happen like that, but it did.  I killed people.  I am a cold-hearted murderer.  I blame myself for the happenings of the Salem Trials, not Betty who was indeed my partner in crime.  It was I who had the idea for attention.  It is I who will rot in hell for my crimes.

A Day In The Life: Rose Baker

      “Mother! Mother! I’m terribly hungry!” Felicity impatiently tugs on my skirt while Peter stands on his tiptoes in the vain hope of snatching a breakfast treat. “Breakfast is almost ready. Patience, my loves.” Properly chided, they sit down at the scratched wooden table. Outside, the city of Williamsburg is bustling with morning activity. Horses briskly trot down the cobblestone streets and merchants begin to open their shops. Rays of a new sun stream into our kitchen, adding a gentle morning glow to the room. My husband John rushes out the door, breakfast in hand. He works as a blacksmith, a humble yet satisfying position.

As I watch the grits sizzle on the stove, the fire drifts my thoughts to elsewhere, to a time in my childhood. I was raised on a farm by two hardworking parents, but when I turned 18 our house burned to the ground. One day, I met John and 2 years later we moved to our home here in Williamsburg. That was 10 years ago. Since then I have spent my days raising Peter and Felicity, and making baskets, candles, and fruit preserves to sell to merchants. I am brought back to earth as the smell of smoke fills my nostrils. I look down in alarm and remove the burnt grits from the pan. I prepare another batch as quickly so as not to upset Peter and Felicity any further. We sit down and eat in comfortable silence, our tin forks scraping across the fading china plates.

      The birds begin to trill their evening song as the sun sets behind the softly glowing trees. Sometimes, I wonder what it’s like to be someone else, perhaps a femme sol, an unmarried woman. I could open my own shop, support myself. I have always wanted to be a Milner. But I wouldn’t dream of it of course; after all, unmarried woman are pitied across the land. As I finish my daily gardening I absentmindedly watch the loose soil roll off my worn fingers and and onto the thriving tomato plant I had just been tending. I pick up my basket, filled to the brim with fresh produce, and set off to make a hearty dinner stew for my family.

      “Peter! Felicity! John! Dinner is ready!” My family eagerly answers my call to supper. My husband is determined to educate Peter about the upcoming political election. “Who’s views do you support peter? Which candidate will best influence our nation?  Peter! Are you listening to me? When you are a Man, these matters will be very important, do you understand?!”

      “Yes father,” Peter replies with obvious indifference. John has a strong interest in politics, an interest that I do not share in the slightest. Of course, even if I was invested in politics, I could not have any influence whatsoever because as a woman, I cannot vote or hold public office.

       Felicity spiritedly pipes in, “Father! I support General Washington beca-“

      John sternly cuts her off, “Now thats enough Felicity, don’t trouble your pretty little head about these matters.” I worry about Felicity sometimes. She seems to have a sincere passion for her father’s political lectures in a way that other girls her age do not. If she continues this way, she’s bound to get herself into trouble.

A Day in the Life of a Prisoner

I was shivering in this disease ridden jail cell. It is too cold to think. I am on the floor with nothing but a rag on my back; others lay shivering around me moaning from their empty stomachs and the bitter cold. I have been in this treacherous place for nearly a month now awaiting my trial. Damn those lazy statesmen, making it easier for you to die inside the jail so they wont have to try your case. I am smothered with filth just the same as everyone else and the cold wind comes blowing in from outside. How I yearn for a warm fire and a bed to rest my tired back. How could I be put in this type of  treachery for simply stealing a loaf of bread?

My family was starving and if I didn’t do what I did they would  all be dead. I feel anger pulse through my veins. I wonder why life is so unfair. As the days slowly seep by my body only becomes more and more frail, my skin seems translucent, my breath croaking in my chest. I am at the door step of death and the thought of running away suddenly becomes apparent to me. I know the consequences, and I know that if I did the unthinkable, I would never be able to return to my town again. My family depends on me to bring them food. I sleep on the thought, it tormenting me, and I slowly drift into an unbearable sleep.

The next day I am woken by a gruff arm grabbing my tattered sleeve I hear a deep voice and see the jailer as my eyes quickly adjust to the harsh light. The first thought that runs through my head is, “Oh no, what have I done?!” He tells me to wash up and hands me a bucket a murky looking water. I know that there is only one reason the jailer could tell me to look presentable. Today is the day. The day when I will finally be seen by the court and my case will be tried.

A warn feeling rushes though my spine. I imagine my family lovingly embrace me, I imagine warm plush bed. A wide smile creeps across my face, a smile I have not painted on in what feels like a lifetime. When I make myself look somewhat presentable the jailer puts me in a pair of iron shackles. I fidget with my hands adjusting to the unfamiliar weight. I walk out into the light breeze and think, today is going to be a very good day.

As I approach the House of Burgesses the smell of freedom wafts towards me. My eyes light up with joy and I can’t help but put a little skip in my walk. We reach the courthouse and I am brought back to reality as I see a woman being dragged out screeching and kicking. I can see the fear in her eyes; she has been violently crying. She’s pleading for her innocence, but no one seems to hear her cries for help. Maybe no one cared… A crowd of eager bystanders swarm behind her and try to get a glimpse of the culprit as she is dragged towards the town’s hanging post. “Hang the Witch!” , “Better yet, BURN HER!” An evil laughter erupts among the crowd. There aren’t many hangings but whenever there were is, it’s an event. The part that makes me sick is that others truly enjoy watching people die even if they have been wrongly accused.

Suddenly I fear for my life. Panic. My heart feels like it will fall out of my chest and on to the dusty road. What if the court decides to hang me as well. You never know, they are so unpredictable and the severity of punishments seem to vary on wether the jurors have had a good day. I twist my neck as the jailer pulls me away from the scene, but I can see his disappointment for he doesn’t want to miss the show either. I am pulled in to the large room and the ceilings feel infinite. Now all eyes are on me. I am brought to the edge of the barrier that divided the audience and the jurors and judge. I was surprised to see some of my colleagues in the jurors seats. “What is your name?” The judges booming voice puts me in a temporary coma. As my mind processes the simple question in a feeble voice, “Alexander Doubt.” He gives me a short grunt. I don’t feel good about this.

A Day in The Life Of A Slave Preparing for the Saturday night meeting

By Lulu G.

       I.

Unlike our master, we don’t get to change our clothing depending on how special the celebration. We have to wear the clothes we are given, which is not so bad because he wants us to have nice clothes because as his workers we represent him. I am excited because a celebration like this doesn’t happen so often. The master believes that if we have too much free time we will plan to run away… he is probably right though. This is a privilege given to us and I don’t know of too many plantations that let their slaves dance and grow. There are relationships with each other, of course, and that’s why we have to make it look like we are not having too much fun because if they think we are, then our privilege will be gone. If we get to have a Saturday night meeting it only happens once every month for those slaves who are lucky. But we are not so lucky because we have to wait almost a year to have a celebration like such. That’s why it so special.

No matter what, even if this is a time for us, we are being watched. We can’t plan, we can’t run away, we can’t have too much fun. But this is my first night time meeting. I have heard they are not fun at all, yet everyone shows up. When I was younger I wondered why that was, then I realized… all we do is work since they found we could. The only singing we get to do are the call and response work songs we sing so that we don’t get whipped. We get no time to dance and to express ourselves freely to the rhythm of our drums, like we used to. So the night time meetings are important not just to me but to everyone, and I’m excited to go, though it may not be fun and we will have to make it look uncomfortable. I am excited to get to dance One More Time.

         II.

I was talking to my elders when they told me we came over to America as indentured servants too, but since we couldn’t burn in the sun as easily as a pale skinned white people they took us and taught us to work all day in the sun. I started working on the fields when I was 5. I would come home with cut fingers and nearly fatal wounds, just like my elders. I was one of the lucky ones because I was able to pick up on the work songs quite quickly and I have never been whipped or beaten by the master. It’s important to know the work songs to keep pace while we are working, so no one gets tired and left behind or works too fast and makes the others look like they are slacking off. There is a young boy on our plantation who doesn’t understand the work songs. With his young energy and strong muscles he is able to do a bit more than the elders can. He likes to show off that he sings the work songs fast to begin with and he works at his own pace.

One day we were all singing and were working hard at the right pace but the young boy had been working as fast as he could for the entire morning that by the time the master came he was tired. The young boy was naïve and difficult. He got left behind. He hadn’t listened and now he’s learned the hard way. The boy was beaten and the blood stains and deep slashes on his back were enough to prove it. He is why I sing works songs because I never want to be in the place of that young boy.

As I walk into the shop, I can still taste the breakfast my mother had prepared: hot  cornbread just out of the oven. She had been working on it all night. Today I had just turned fifteen and I was starting to get to the shop before master. I remember hugging her and walking to the door. Outside I saw my father working with the slaves on the plantation field, farming tobacco for the winter.

When I first entered  the shop, I saw on my left the line of tools, unorganized and unpolished. It will be my job to fix that. To my right, I see all the works in projects and the cold forge. Today I arrive at the blacksmith shop early today, it is my job to start up the fire so when Master Johnson arrives he can start the pounding  of metal and I can start the pumping of the bellows.

I first start by blowing air on the hot coals, still hot in the hearth. They glow a ruby red before they burst into flame. I load the hearth with timber to keep the fire going. Meanwhile, I pump the bellows a little bit more before I fall to the cold,dry  floor of exhaustion. When I awake, Master  has still not arrived and the fire has stopped  burning.  I wait a couple seconds to catch my breath, then with all my strength I stand up and repeat the process.

As I stand up I am reminded of the first time I fell in this shop, the first day I was here. I was so used to playing all day with my friends, i had never understood how tired you could get after a day of pumping the bellows. Once my feet are stable on the ground decide that instead of blowing air, I would pump it through the bellows and watch once more as the ruby, red coals spark than burst into a hot, bright flame. This time  I pull up the old, rickety rocking chair in the corner and sit down. Every minute or two I stand up and load a plank of birch wood into the fire, then I sit back down to rest.  As I sit there, I gaze into the flame, and then turn my head to look out the large window.

The precious sun is starting to rise. This means that Master has most likely woken up and is on his way to the shop right now. I once more stand up  and load the heavy logs into the fire. Just as I sit down and close my eyes, the door flies open. Master has just arrived. As he walks in he says,”Christopher, let’s get started.”