Chapter 1- Lydia 

I woke up this morning in my bed, the sun shining through my windows. I put on one of my dresses and braided my hair. I walked down to the second floor and saw my mother and father getting ready too. I kept skipping down the stairs into the parlor room where breakfast was waiting for me. Beside my breakfast was Mary. She is one of our slaves. I enjoy Mary very much. She is one of my favorites. Sometimes Mary will sneak me a little cookie or treat. It pains me when I see Father punish the slaves. They have been so nice to me and I don’t like to see them hurt. Sometimes if Mary is around she will try to cover my eyes from the gruesome scene. She always says to me, “Lydia, I don’t like to see your face so sour and pained. Do not look when someone is getting hurt if it tortures you so much.” She must be right. I don’t know why I look, but when I do, It’s horrid.

I have two sisters and two brothers. One of my brothers’ name is Patrick. He is eight years old. One year older than me. The other one is named Abraham and he is only six months old. My sisters are both four. They are twins. They’re names are Henrietta and Phoebe. I just adore the name Phoebe. Sometimes I wish Mother and Father named me Phoebe. But I guess Lydia will do. I love playing with dolls with my sisters. We each have our own dolls. Sometimes we will pretend that we are princesses and Patrick is the handsome prince that will come save us. Patrick doesn’t really like that game.

During the day my tutor comes. I learn about religion, reading, writing and more. I am even starting to learn how to speak French. After my tutor leaves I play with Phoebe and Henrietta and sometimes jump rope. When I am not doing any of that, Mother teaches me how to cook a little bit. Only as much as she knows. The slaves do most of the cooking. Mother also teaches me herbal remedies for when I am sick, or one day, when my husband or children are sick. Sometimes Father will even take me to town or the docks with him to sell tobacco. That’s what we grow on our plantation. Father normally brings Patrick because Father says that Patrick needs to learn how to get the best deal for when he is working.

When you first come through the gates to our house, there is the game shed where we put games and store other things that we don’t need. If you keep walking you will reach our house. To the right and left of our house there are two guest houses. That’s where our guests stay if they are visiting. And then of course there is our house. There are three levels to the house. On the first level there is the parlor room, the dining room, the kitchen and any other rooms for dining and recreation. The second level is my parents level. There is their bedroom, Father’s study, and the powder room. The third level is where my bedroom is. Patrick also has a bedroom of his own, and Phoebe and Henrietta share a bedroom. There is also the other room where we have our lessons. That is where the tutor teaches us. We spend most of our time on the third level, outside, or in the parlor room. Sometimes Mother and Father will have guests over for dinner, but we are never invited. We never go into the dining room. Mother says we are too clumsy and we will break something. I don’t understand why we are allowed in every other room if we’re “too clumsy.” Behind the house are the fields. That is where the slaves go and work. Mary doesn’t normally work in the fields though. She helps take care of the slaves’ babies and cooks our food. I normally don’t see Mary a lot when we have guests over for dinner because she is so busy cooking the feast. If I try to talk to her or amuse her she will normally send me off to play where I won’t distract her.

During the day Father is normally in his study or out. Sometimes he is gone for several days at a time selling our tobacco. Mother is always busy with Abraham. She has to feed and take care of him. When Father is gone, she gets stressed out because she has to care for all of us at once. Mary is always cooking and caring for other babies. Sometimes if she isn’t busy and I’m not busy we will both sit down and talk. We talk about everything. My studies, my siblings, my dolls. If Mother ever catches us talking, she will say, “Lydia! Enough! You must study and you have to leave Mary to do her work. I bet she is plenty busy.” Mother always gives a glance at Mary after that. I know that Mother and Father think less of her, but who am I to argue? I just walk back up the stairs. I only skip when I’m happy, so I walk.

Chapter 2- Mary

I got up and went back into the kitchen. I don’t understand why Mrs. Wattson always gets to boss me around and give me that look. That look that travels deep into my soul making me feel helpless. Useless. Just because I am a black woman doesn’t mean that I should be treated any different. Sometimes I feel that Lydia is the only one that understands that. She is so young and innocent. Not knowing why things happen, and mostly, don’t even know the things that do happen. I am so fed up with it. Tonight I will talk to the other workers. Tonight I will plan my escape.

After another long day of working, I go back to the slave quarters. I stay up all night talking and planning how I will get out of here. I hate to leave poor Lydia behind, but sooner or later she will find her true hatred for blacks, just like everyone else. Mr. Wattson won’t be home until next week. I have plenty of time to leave. But just how will I do it? Will I say I’m going to get some food from the pantry and run? Or will I secretly sneak out at night? I think the night time will do. Less people to see me. I’ll do it tomorrow night, long before Mr. Wattson gets home. If he finds me he can’t beat me.

In the morning I get up at the crack of dawn and go into the kitchen. I prepare some bread and honey with porridge, Lydia’s favorite. I want to be extra nice to her so she will remember me this way when I am gone. As usual, Lydia comes down the stairs, her hair in some sort of braid, wearing one of her floral dresses. She hops into the parlor looking at her breakfast wide eyed. “Thank you so much Mary! My favorite!” I smile as I watch her greedily eat her delicious meal. I wish that I had meals like that. I have to eat the dinner scraps from the night before and spread it out between each meal. I am always hungry. I look at Lydia’s face. Her creamy skin and golden hair falling into her freckled face. Her blue eyes looked up at me and she smiled. “Mary why are you looking at me that way!” I smile again. “I was just admiring your beauty dear.” I respond. I wish I didn’t have to leave, but I had to. I was going to.

Finally it was night time. It was pitch dark and the only noise I could hear were the crickets chirping in the distance. I silently opened the door and snuck outside. The warm air hit me. The aroma of grass dew overfilled me. I kept walking, I looked in Lydia’s bedroom, the lights were out. I could of sworn I saw her lips move to a grin as I walked by. I couldn’t look at her anymore. It made me too sad, too guilty. I must go on. I kept walking until the house was out of sight. Soon enough I was in the town. In a short few miles I would be free. I saw a torch light quiver in the distance. I froze and tried to run. I heard a man scream at me. “Come back! Why are you out so late!” I just kept running. There was a blur of houses and trees. By breath was getting heavier but I couldn’t stop. I knew that I would be beaten soon. I knew that I could be killed. So I stopped. I waited. The men kept running after me, but I didn’t move. What was the point? If they didn’t hurt me than Mr. Wattson would. So I froze and waited until they finally caught up.

“What is this slave doing out here?” The first man said.

“I don’t know, but it must be from some plantation miles from here.” Said the second man. It. I am nothing but an object to them. Why am I surprised?

“Well what are we going to do with it?” The word burned inside of me. I stood up and waited. Listening to their words of hate being exchanged. I thought of Lydia. She always called me by my first name. ‘Hello there Mary.’ ‘Thank you Mary,’ ‘How was your day, Mary?’ They finally took me back to the plantation. Outside of the house was Mrs. Wattson looking at me in awe. Lydia started to cry. I couldn’t look at her, she was so upset. What have I done?

“Is this slave yours Ma’am?” One of the men asked.

“Ye-ye-yes.” Mrs. Wattson mustered. “I’ll ta-take her back. Th-thank you.” I felt so horrible. I had done something wrong. I had hurt Lydia, and of all people, I would never hurt her. Mrs. Wattson grabbed me by the arm and dragged me back into the house. She threw me into the parlor and started screaming. “What have you done?! You have brought so much shame on this family! How could you do this?! I can’t even look at you! This isn’t the end Mary. You are not allowed back in this house. You will work in the fields. You are not allowed to talk to my children or even look at them the wrong way. My husband will deal with you when he’s home. You disgust me.” A tear streaked my face. I sat there helpless. My body felt hollow and empty, it shook as I cried. And I cried and cried. “Get out!” She yelled. I stood up and ran. I ran to the fields and cried. I am going to die. I know that I am going to die.

Tonight I will plan my suicide. I don’t want it to be painful. I don’t want to kill myself, but I know that if I don’t do it, Mr. Wattson will, and that would hurt a lot more. I think I will drown myself. I can’t swim and it wouldn’t hurt. That seems like the obvious answer. I start to walk out to the field. It’s dark now and everyone is asleep. I walk past the fields and to the river. I take a deep breath and then jump. The water surrounds my body. My breaths getting smaller and smaller, until… Everything. Goes. Black.

Chapter 3- Lydia

I woke up this morning in my same bed. As usual, I braid my hair, put on one of my dresses, and skip down the stairs. I go into the parlor. I look up, but Mary isn’t there. I look at the table and see no breakfast waiting for me. I get nervous. I run up the stairs to Mother and Father’s room. “Where is Mary?” I ask impatiently.

“What do you mean ‘where is Mary?’” Mother asks.

“She’s not here.” I say panicked. My lip is starting to quiver.

“Don’t worry.” Mother says sympathetically. “We will find her.” I nod and run back upstairs. I go outside and look around. No Mary. I go into the pantry. She’s not there. I go into the guest houses, she’s not there either. I go into the game house, she’s not there. I go into the fields. “Mary! Mary!” I yell. “Has anyone seen Mary?” The other slaves shake their heads.

“She’s been gone since last night.” One of the slaves said.

“I checked her bed, she wasn’t there.” Another one said. I started to run towards the river. “Mary! Mary! Please answer me Mary!” I scream. I look down at the river. I see a body lying there motionless. I struggle to take it out of the water. I drag and drag screaming for help, but no one answers. I finally got the body out and I plop it onto the grassy ground. I wipe the soaking black hair away. I recognized the face. “Mary,” I whisper. I sit there, on top of her, sobbing.

Gwen R.

2015

A Day In The Life of the Bookbinder

My daily routine is almost always the same. I awaken with the sunlight beaming in through my window, continue my work as a bookbinder, and check in with the printer to see if there are any small prints that I need to bind. Being a bookbinder is hard work. Books take a long time to bind. Sewing signature, after signature. Putting the cover together, putting the pages in the cover. It doesn’t seem very hard, but it is. It took many years of apprenticeship. I wake up early every day to finish my work. I put my apron on so I do not get glue from the books onto my skirt. My shop is small will only one window to let in light. I leave the door open for fresh air. The window I have is stuck shut, and I should really get it fixed. But the door is good enough for me. Today, I don’t have my door open. It is colder out today. Ding! The door swings open and the printer walks in.

“Theodosia! I have some prints for you! About 10 more copies of Every Man His Own Doctor. They are in very high demand as of now.”

“Not those. I swear that I have memorized every page in that pamphlet!” I responded.

“Well, we make money the way we make money,” he said back cleverly. I have bound so many copies of Every Man His Own Doctor. At least it is a simple bind. Just thread back and forth. No fancy cover, just the prints.

“Thank you Gideon.” I get straight to work, stopping the bigger book I was binding. These are simple and I know I can finish them faster than the big one. First, the most tedious part. Folding every single page. I cannot fold them all in a pile, or else the folds will be uneven. Once I finish folding, I move on to punching holes. I use my short, dull pencil to mark where the holes will be, and use my ice pick to punch the holes. Sewing is my favorite part. I love sewing. If I wasn’t a bookbinder, I would be working in the millinery. While I sew, I hum a tune my mother used to sing to me when I was young. Before she passed away when I was 10. She was the one who told me that I could do anything I wanted. Without her, I don’t know where I would be.

When I was growing up, I would be with the girls learning how to sew. But now and then, I tinkered with my father’s trinkets. He was in inventor and always had stray items thrown around our house. My mother always told my father to clean them up, but he never listened. I like that they were in every room. I always had something different to play with in every room. I built furniture for my dollies. My mother encouraged tinkering. But if anyone else ever found out that I tinkered, they would think bad of my family.

I am the only female book binder in all of Williamsburg. In the history of Williamsburg. The bookbinder is a roll that gets passed down not to family, but to who wants to be a bookbinder. There is only ever one bookbinder at a time. Only ever one printer at a time. It makes my job even harder because there is only one of me, and many books to be bound.

My father still lives in the house I grew up in. He loves when I come home from the shop because he is always alone at home. It was getting late, so I finished binding the last copies of Every Man His Own Doctor, and organized my materials for the next day.

When I got home, I hugged my father, like I do every day. It was my job to cook supper. I got to the kitchen and made the pork. I had baked the bread yesterday because I had less work, and I got home earlier.

“The sweet smell of pork,” my father said.

“Just wonder what food we would have if we were in the gentry class!” I say starting to fantasize.

“Maybe you could get us there one day.”

“Not as I bookbinder I can.”

We ate the delicious food. I went to my bedroom after supper and cleaning the kitchen. I laid down to slowly fall asleep, wake up, and do the same thing the next day.

Miles Trumbull

December 6th, 2015

                Benjamin Banneker’s Clock

I wake up in my old wooden house, with my door open, and my waistcoat on the floor. I remember I have to get right to work on the fields today. I run onto the dark wood floor and grab my black waistcoat, white button down and cravat. The cravat hasn’t been washed in sometime and is becoming more beige than white. I grab some stale bread and walk out the door.

The tobacco wasn’t going to farm itself. Spending time of the farm lets me think about a lot of things. I open the creaky, unhinged wooden door to see a splinter in my hand. The blazing sun instantly hits my hazel eyes and causes me to use my hand like a tricorn hat as if I was some sort of pirate. My feet sink into the damp grass and I can tell it rained yesterevening. I slowly walk to the farm that seems a mile away, and I think about my idea. There is something I have been trying to make for some time now. Today is the day that I finish my clock. I have already made the gears, it is now time to put it all together.

I rush into the room and almost hurt myself going to the door. “There you are honey! Just in time for dinner! Please, sit down, it will be ready in a few minutes,” My wife says in her soft voice.

“First let me show you my newest invention!” I reply.

“Not another of these, come on honey, show me after dinner,” My wife insists. “It’s a clock,” I say.

“Oh come on honey, you’re being frivolous!” She says with both anger and laughter.

I unveil it to her and she quickly says, “Oh honey, it’s marvelous!” At this point, our dinner has been forgotten and turned cold.

“I have been working on it for some time now,” I say with gratification. “This is huge for us, the first clock in America, created by an African!”

“Your father must be very proud of you,” Florence says.

We then sit down in our wobbly, and uneven chairs and have an amazing dinner talking about how this will change our African lives.

This is so important to both my culture, and my family. Growing up with a father that once experienced slavery was very hard. He had no human life. I knew that I had to make him proud. This shows that a skin color doesn’t limit the success you can obtain. The first clock in America is made by a black man. That will always be in the back of the minds of the English. When I accomplished this, it made me feel warm inside. Like I represented my people well. I cannot wait to tell my father of this. I hope he is proud of me.

I live my life under the radar. I am a widow whose husband died two years ago. My life is jail cells, pillories, moldy burnt bread, dirty ditches, running for my life, and death. I watched my husband, the most acclaimed judge in Williamsburg, die at the hands of a madman. I’ve watched my only daughter die at birth, almost taking me with her. I have barely any soul left, and I walk around like a hollow shell of a person. My name is Jane Harris.

Today is a warm, sunny day on the bustling streets of WIlliamsburg. I see dignified women walking with their parasols, I hear men shouting at their horses, beseeching them to move. I sit quietly on the sidewalk, waiting for someone to notice me. Sometimes people will throw me a coin or a piece of bread. There is a nice family down the block with two kids. One of the kids, their teenage daughter, will sometimes bring me some leftover bread, or rotten fruit. Well, to them, it’s rotten; to me, it’s marvelous. I see a couple walking serenely down the sidewalk, arm in arm. My heart fills with sorrow, thinking back to when my husband and I used to go on long walks through the town, sometimes stopping at the bakery for some Queens cake. I miss those times, when my husband was alive and we were prosperous. Neither of those things are true anymore, all thanks to that man who killed my husband. Not only did he kill him, he also robbed us of everything we owned; and the county sheriff was unable to track him down.

Unfortunately, the family that brings me food went away on a vacation, and I haven’t eaten anything in 2 days. My legs feel faint, and I can’t bring myself to move. The baker comes out, carrying a fresh tray of bread. Just as he places the bread down to cool, there is a crash in the bakery. He hurries inside, leaving the tray unwatched. The bread sits there, completely unwatched. I feel myself moving towards the tray. I look around, no one is watching me. Against my will, my arm reaches out and grabs a piece of warm, fresh bread. Riddled with guilt and excitement, I run with all my might towards the edges of the town, where I live.

I sleep in a gutter, that is usually dry, but there is the occasional rat. It is not as comfortable as my down bed, but it is acceptable. I sleep well that night, my stomach full with the warm bread. Suddenly, I feel hands grabbing me and pulling me out of my sleep. I look up to see the angry face of the sheriff! I immediately start to struggle, but the sheriff is strong and I am weak. No matter how much I protest, the man maintains a strong grip on my arms. “Stop fighting!” he demands. I keep struggling. He takes out a stick and everything goes black.

Chapter 3

I wake up in a jail cell. I immediately go to the window and start banging on the bars. A man comes into my cell. I look up at him pleadingly. “All I did was take one piece of bread. I’ll pay back the baker, I promise.” He gives me a stern look. “Since you have admitted to stealing bread, you will be released. But you owe the baker the money for the bread, and you must spend one hour in the local stock.” As he says stock, I don’t know whether to feel happy or sad. Since this is my punishment, I will have to spend one hour with my feet trapped. That part isn’t that bad, but I will also be mocked by all the townspeople. At least it’s not the pillory, where I would have my ears cut off. I might as well make the best of the situation, and I allow the man to lead me to the horse and wagon waiting at the entrance of the jail.

The jail is at the outskirts of town, and the ride takes several minutes. I sit timidly in the back. The jailer turns to me. “What is your name?” he asks. I know that I should not answer, but all hope and will has left me, and I oblige. “Jane Harris.” I say with a sigh. His eyes widen. “Wife of the late Judge John Harris?” I nod. “Hmmm.” he said. “How did you go from the wife of the most prosperous judge Williamsburg to a thief?” he inquires. “After the murderer killed my husband, he then took every valuable item from our house, and our money.” I look down as I say this, as it does still pain me.

We arrive at the local square. The jailer stops the horse, and I step off the wagon, looking at the stock in dread. The jailer looks at me with pity in his eyes. He hands me a coin. “For the bread.” he says. “I can’t do anything about your punishment. I will surely be replaced if the sheriff finds that I am pitying criminals.” I look at him with gratefulness, and take the coin. “I am forever in debt to you.” I say; my eyes shining. He looks down. “It was nothing. Now I suppose I must put you in the stock.” He leads me over to the stock, and lowers the wooden board over my legs. I struggle slightly, but my feet are stuck in the two holes. An hour later, the sheriff comes and releases me. I am covered in bruises and rotten tomato juice. More than five people have hit me or thrown something at me. I am miserable. The sheriff leads me back to my gutter, and asks for the money to pay back the baker. I hand him the coin that the jailer gave me. He looks at me with contempt. “If I catch you stealing anything again, it will be the pillory for you.” I nod, and he walks away. I look around. Is this where my husband’s death has brought me? I have allowed myself to be turned into a thief, and I will never let that happen again.

Living Secrets

I am Cuff, a slave, a man dwelling in his cold, dark sorrow.
Today I woke up in my hard cold bed, my feet numb from the frost outside. I have no blanket and sleep on a straw bed. Outside it was snowing, I looked out my drapes and saw my master sitting by the fireplace, playing cards with his wife. I ask myself what did I do to deserve this? I didn’t do anything wrong. I looked back at master, sitting in his velvet chair while laughing with his wife. The food me and the other slaves in the room have is crap compared to the normal African food at home. I’ve been working in these tobacco fields for 1 month, every day for 14 hours. Even though I have only worked in the fields for 1 month, I have already been scarred, emotionally and physically. Master calls us objects, it seems like hurting us is enjoyable for him as he laughs every time we are hurt. On my 17th day working in the fields, I was farming the tobacco like I normally would, when master asked me “why didn’t you cover up the seeds”? I said “They need sunlight to germinate.” He got his whip and hit me with it 6 times until I had a scar. He chuckled and said “You don’t cover up the seeds, idiot.” He asked the other slaves do you cover up the seeds and they all said “no.”He did not even know how to farm but still hurt me. After that he responded “oh then that’s too bad for your little friend.”I hate working at the plantation in America but about 6 months ago I was having a great life in Africa. I had a brother and a great life, my parents are still with me but are always working. But one day that changed I lost home and my brother, some English men put my head in a wool sack and carried me onto their ship. They took me and about 60 more black men and women and told us work by sweeping the decks. For the last month it has only been working in the cold wearing thin clothes and working for our master. Me and the other men on the plantation used music to keep us in rhythm while we work. Besides my family the most important thing to me is religion. The don’t let us black men into church so we sneak into the woods to practice religion. The law says we can’t be around more than 5 black men without supervision. But we do not care every night we sneak into the woods to pray and worship god. If someone of us slaves were caught being with other black men we would get in major trouble. Still every night I go into the woods because god is important to me and to all men, women and children. Every day is a living hell, it would be better to die than work your whole life on the plantation. Yet I stay alive because god is the only thing that keeps me sane. Every day there is something terrible and nothing good. I ask again, what did I do to deserve this?

II

That is the story of my friend Cuff’s life on the plantation. He worked all the time and received no respect. I am Ry Taylor, I am 16 years old and work at the Anglican church as a tour guide. You might think, oh since he works at the Anglican church he is Protestant, in addition it is mandatory to be protestant around here in the south. But I am actually a secret Quaker. In the south Quakers were accused of Witchcraft and executed. I am a Quaker but pretend to be Protestant by working at a Protestant based job. I know that my friend Cuff works very hard and lost everything he cares about and can’t even go to church. So I have decided to let him be a quaker and practice with us. Quakerism is the perfect religion for him as he is treated terribly and harshly. In Quakerism ever one is said to be equal so I thought it was a great fit for him. I asked him if he likes Quakerism and he said “yes” and said “thank you so much for changing my life Ry.” The way I met him is very interesting and no one knows besides Cuff and his parents. My parents owned the Taylor plantation they are farmers and make the Africans farm their resources. When I turned six my parents wanted me to see how the system works. While they were having tea and talking I was exploring the plantation and saw a boy about my age. I went up to him and asked if we could talk he said “yes master.” I was very confused, I said “I am no master my parents are, call me Ry.” I asked him “where are your parents”? He said “they are working in the tobacco fields like I was.” I said “But you are just a kid, why do you have to work”? He said that all of the Africans on the plantation had to work. He also said that you have to start working at five. He also said that his family was taken away from their home in Africa and were forced to work here. I said “that’s terrible, my parents told me lies and never told me how unfair they were.” I said “do they treat you well, are they sympathetic”? He said “Sadly not they treat us as objects and harm us for the fun of it.” I said “that is awful.” “I am a Quaker in secret because Quakers are accused of Witchcraft.” I said in Quakerism everyone is treated equal.” “I can sneak you and your parents into the church when I leave in secret too.” He said “Yes please, God bless you.” That is how I met Cuff and his family and changed their lives forever.

I am Aurora Jackson

“Aurora!” Ma called from the kitchen, “Come help me.” That was my wake up call. I jumped out of bed knowing that if she had to come in here, things would not be fun for me. I put on my old dress, tied the apron around my waist, and headed only a few steps to the kitchen. My mother wakes up everyday before me and when I was young I would ask her why she would wake up early and work so much. She always answers the same thing, “When you are a woman you will understand, you must work hard at everything you do, even if nobody is appreciative of it.” I am now older and I am beginning to understand what she means. My mother and I do all of the work around here, with the occasional help of my younger sister, and nobody seems to understand or appreciate. I often imagine what it would be like to be a wealthy woman. I would be able to get an education. On the other hand I often wonder if my life is better than theirs. Is that possible? Maybe, I remember just last week Alexis Montgomery was married off to just about the most horrible man I’d ever heard of, she was miserable, but she had no choice. Could my life be easier than the women sitting inside all day sewing and learning how to speak properly?

Although their lives seem pretty easy, they’re not. I have hard work to do everyday, but at least I have control over myself and some of my own freedom. Therefore I get to run around outside, no one cares how I speak, I won’t have to get married to a horrible being, and I have a family who cares about me as a person, not as just the wife in training of some random rich guy. I get to wake up to the same beautiful sounds everyday. The birds are chirping, chickens clucking, cows mooing, and Ma’s voice travels through the house. I have many, many jobs to do during the day. Some are, cooking, cleaning, sewing, candle making, fire starting, caring for my youngers siblings, and looking after ma. A bunch of these things that I have to do smell horrible so I like some better than others. These jobs aren’t hard for me, some of them I actually think are fun. For example, when I get to look after my little sister and brother, June and francis, it’s fun because we get to work together and laugh and have fun. My life overall isn’t as bad as some people think it is and I’m happy to be who I am.

Bread & Butter

My name is Katherine Turner, but you can call me Kate. I am 18 years old and a middling baker. I own a bakery with my friend Cecily Bond, but I call her Cece. Every day I wake up before dawn and walk to my bakery. This end-of-winter morning is just like the rest. The clouds are floating above the sky, drifting with the wind. The grass and trees are swaying from side to side, up and down. The sky is getting lighter as the sun starts to appear. I live five minutes away from my bakery which is very convenient for me. When I get to my bakery, I open the door and put on my apron and pull out a few candles, light them right away and place them eat different tables around the room. Cece isn’t there yet, just like every morning, but when she gets here, the room feels like  thousand more lights have appeared in the room, making everyone feel comfy and cozy. I start cleaning pots and pans that were left dirty the day before. After I’m done cleaning my pots and pans, I start mixing yeast and flour together, then I add water, and eggs to make wheat bread. When the dough is ready, I cover it with a bowl and leave it to rest on the counter. Then I start making another batch of wheat bread and let that rest just like the one before. When the first dough has risen all the way, I uncover it and start kneading the dough. Then I cut it in half and shape the two halves into circles. I make a slit in the middle of both dough circles and place them in the bread oven with my long handled, wooden paddle. I use my paddle to turn, and take out the bread from the bread oven so my hands don’t get too close to the fire and burn. After I’m done baking about a dozen big and small loaves of bread, I start making the filling for a savory pie with carrots, peas, spinach, and sausage.

I remember when my bakery first opened. The sky was surrounded with clouds, blocking the sun. The temperature was crisp, cold enough for a fire, maybe too cold to not have one. I’m bundled in what feels like a dozen coats, but I can still feel the cool air whispering in my ears, my face bright red from the cool atmosphere. It opened on a Friday when it had just started to get cold, right before  Cece was wiping down all of the pots and pans when I walked in. The aroma in the air smelled like bread dough and the warmth of the air made me feel cozy and like I had owned a bakery for years. I felt comfortable, almost like I was supposed to be here. I have wanted a bakery for years and years, and now I get to own one, and own it with a life long friend. I see two loaves of white and brown bread were already resting on the countertop, rising to it’s full size. I hung up my bag and coat and put on my apron as fast as I could because I knew there would be a lot of people scooping out our new restaurant. As I walked more into the room, I spotted where the bread was rising. It needed a few more minutes to rise so I started working on some more bread dough for rye bread. Once I was done mixing the ingredient for the rye bread, Cece was working on some filling for a few lemon pies, so I started kneading the bread dough and cut all of the dough rolls into quarters and put them in the bread oven. After the sun was up and making it’s way through the sky, the store was open and packed full of people, also considering our bakery wasn’t too big. Cecily and I had to make a dozen bread loaves, five lemon pies, five meat pies, a couple dozen ginger snaps, and a ton of other food. We made a good amount of money that day, but not every day after that has brought us that much business, but I love owning a bakery, even though it’s very stressful sometimes.

The Life of a Misunderstood Criminal

My husband was a cruel man. We had an arranged marriage so I had no other choice. My parents cared for me and thought that he would take care of me and I met him he seemed like a nice man so I told my parents that I liked him. But I soon realized what a cruel man that he was. We soon had two daughters and were supposed to have a third child when my I had a miscarriage. My husband was outraged, he started beating me and my children saying that that was going to be his first son. I knew that there was nothing else I could do, I had to take my children and run away.

One night when that awful man was sleeping, I woke up my daughters and we ran into the streets. We didn’t have any money and the only food that we had was the loaf of bread that I had packed with us. After two days we were starving, so I went out to find some work or a way to get some food. I started walking and soon came across a bakery. The delicious smell of cooking bread reeled me inside. There I found a table of bread laid out for people to purchase. I was so hungry and I was starting to feel dizzy, so quickly when I thought no one was looking I grabbed a loaf and snuck in under my dress. I quickly walked out of the bakery feeling guilty but relieved about what I had done. When I got back to the corner on the sidewalk where me and my daughters had been living in, I split the bread up into three uneven pieces, giving my daughters most of the bread. I would have given them all of it but I was so hungry I felt like I was going to pass out. I took I bite and felt the world becoming light again. As I regained my strength I started off to find work again. As I walked through the town I found myself receiving looks. Was this about the bread?

“There she is!” a man said pointing at me to two sheriffs trailing behind him. “That’s the women who killed her husband!” I started to panic, I didn’t kill my husband. I turned the other way and started to run as fast as I could, but not fast enough to get away from the man who was chasing me. They soon caught me and I was being dragged to the jailhouse.

“I didn’t do it!” I kept yelling, but it was no use. I was thrown into the jail cell and locked into shackles that were connected to the wall. I wondered what my daughters were doing. How would they feel when they realized that I wasn’t coming home? I had taken them away from their home and then left them in danger. What kind of mother am I? The next day I had my trial. I went into the big capitol building and they sat me in a stool facing all of the burgesses. I lost.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept thinking about how my daughters would be sitting there, just waiting for me. The room was small. All it had was a throne to do my business, my shackles and a big space for where my coffin would sit. The only light came from a small barred window on the side of my cell. A huge door, that covered the entire wall, shut me in on the other side. There was no way of getting out. In three weeks I would be hung.

The following week, the tailor came to measure my body for my coffin. I tried to ask him how my daughters were, if they were okay. He ignored me and quickly went back to his shop. He didn’t look me in the eyes once. I don’t understand how this happened! I didn’t kill my husband. I shouldn’t be being hung. I should be in the pillory if anything, as a punishment for stealing bread.

Today is December 16th, 1682. I am sitting on my coffin thinking about my daughters. Tomorrow I will be hung. Unfortunately it won’t be a quick death. I will be hung until I am almost dead, and then I will be drawn and quartered. Drawing, to draw out my blood. And quartering, to split me into quarters. I’m not upset about the execution, infact I’m glad to be leaving this horrible world. I’m just worried about my daughters, without me there is no one taking care of them.

I don’t think I will writing anymore. If you ever see my daughters, please tell them I’m innocent. Make sure that they are safe? Thank you. Goodbye.

A Day in The Life of the Apothecary’s Wife                                                           By: Lindsay O’Brien

I open my eyes, the sun streams through the windows, blinding me. I stumble out of bed in my shift, get my clothes on, and walk groggily downstairs.

I must introduce myself. I am the wife of the Apothecary, Robert North, and I help him with work. My name is Catherine North and I am 29 years old, and have four children. I am very lucky for a woman, instead of staying indoors all day sewing, I help my husband in the shop, grinding herbs for treatments that we have. I am also much stronger than a normal woman, I am often one of the people who holds down customers when they need something amputated.

Robert already must be at the shop, getting ready for today’s business. Walking in the kitchen, I slice the bread into thick slices spreading creamy butter over it, calling my eldest child, Eleanor, to help me. “Eleanor!” I call, hoping that she is awake.

“Yes Mother?” she asks, walking in the kitchen.

“Please set the table for five today, your father’s already left.” I am very proud of my daughter Eleanor, at the age of thirteen she is an accomplished young woman. Robert is thinking of marrying her off to a merchant went she reaches fifteen. I think of all of this when I am taking out the remaining muffins from yesterday morning. I hear the clink of the silverware against the wood of the table as I put the muffins in the pot over the fire, hoping I don’t burn them before they warm up.

I go upstairs, besides Eleanor and myself, no one is awake. Walking into the boy’s room, I wake Benjamin first, the elder boy, and if his father is to die one day, he will be the man of the house. Then James roles over, trying to deny the day as long as he can I suspect. When they finally drag themselves out of bed, I am already bustling to the girls room. I open the door, slowly, peering about the dark room, in the shadows, as if looking for a ghost.

In a way I am, my little girl Lucy, died at the age of seven a few months ago. She had not been looking when she was crossing the road. The rider tried to stop the mare, but the horse ran her over anyway. It was too late when we finally got to the doctor’s house. He said she had died the second the horse galloped over her, she had been dead.

I shuffle into the room, hoping that I don’t make a sound. Quietly I shake my youngest daughter, Eliza, awake. She moans, probably hoping she can stay in bed all day. “Hurry up” I say, opening the shutter. I walk quickly down the stairs. I set the muffins on the table, and Eleanor calls the children.

I hurry out the door after setting the girls on dish washing. Soon, the girls will leave for their class with Miss Deliverance Smith, they are learning how to be gentlewomen. As for boys, they are going over to Mister Warringtons house for lessons. I practically run to the shop, hiking up my skirts to halfway to my shins, scandalis! All of the people on Duke of Gloucester Street turn to stare at me, who is running like a mad woman to the Apothecary.

I burst through the door of the shop, stopping just inside the doorway. The smell of the room is always tinged with the stronger smelling herbs. Lavender, mint, lemongrass, and this is just what I need with my heavy breathing. I lift my gaze to my husband who’s already measuring and grinding herbs.

“The Governor’s errand boy already stopped by, he will be picking up a bottle of the ground white willow bark,” he says, I sigh. The Governor’s errand boy is a regular customer. He comes to pick up white willow bark, a substance that will relieve the pain of a headache.

“Also, there will be an amputation today,” I sigh, I always hate these days. There so much blood, shouting and pain. I take my apron off of the hooks behind the counter and put it on. Well, It’s another day at the shop.