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English Extension One Creative Writing Thread!
dancing phalanges:
Hey Elyse, I got teacher feedback recently, his main concerns with a) the part by the slave was unrealistic as he's not that well educated (i 100% agree with that but was trying to get another perspective in my story and also i actually based it off a slave narrative from the romantic period but that slave did go back to england first and received an education) so firstly, any feedback/advice there would be great. b) he wanted sign offs on each of the letters which i agree with in part but i like the way they end and finally c) he said i need a clearer ending but like with my discovery i like the subtlety of it, but i won't ruin it for you ;)
SpoilerFirst Mate James Kelsall’s Journal (1807)
On a setting sun, bequeathed a freedom few men had ever beheld. A rekindling of elevated thoughts soothed by subdued whispers of the ocean, and in such tranquil restoration laid a peace from deep within. A moment of relief from the undeniable guilt which I cannot escape, even in kipping. The rattling of chains and fateful moans of the four hundred and forty-two souls aboard brings upon an abhorrent disgust. A case of the ‘blue devils’ I can no longer deny. Beyond the horizon looms a rolling sea of grey and my dear Liverpool is now a monstrous town whose pitiful theft of its own humanity is of grave concern. I cannot truly console myself when men such as Sir Richard Arkwright are still revered as creative geniuses. For in his opening of Shudehill Mill in Manchester came the subsequent sacrifice of the free will of mankind. Yet, I do have hope, for past the thick plumes of smoke there must be a sea of marigold, a voice to be heard. Rousseau’s words echo a boundless source of promise that we can break the shackles of poverty and rise above injustice, for I too prefer liberty with danger than such peace with slavery.
James Kelsall’s Journal
Captain Luke Collingwood, of steady age and character, rarely had second thoughts about any given matter. Any discrepancies were scarcely made public, and, if so, Mr. Collingwood prided himself in simple facts and realities which disproved what few ideas opposed the constancy of his opinions.
“British-built ships typically carry 1.75 Black Ivory per ton of the ship's capacity…” he would recount with absolute precision, “on the Aurore, our ratio is 4.0 per ton.”
Sir Collingwood worshipped his creator and, for his own amusement, found occupation for an idle hour by compelling the poor wretches to sing psalms – which often entailed melancholy lamentations of their exile from their native country. When weather permitted, they would be obliged to dance, which, if they go about reluctantly, was punishable by whipping.
James Kelsall’s Journal
My beloved Lucy, it has occurred to me that the pathway from slavery to freedom is founded in the gift of education, which is something I have taken for granted for much of my life. Such lofty ambitions, however, are not without danger, for I feared that if I disobeyed Sir Collingwood’s orders, I may too come to the same fate as these forlorn foreigners we transport. Only once the below decks were obscured by darkness, did I begin teaching them the basics of a good Christian education. I scarcely had much time to do so however as the rest of the crew would often rise suspicious as to my location. Surprising as it may seem, I found myself somewhat indebted to the slaves. They were noble souls; who not only possessed loving hearts, but contained brave ones. Although secured together by iron legs, they were more strongly interlinked by the mutual hardships that they were subjected to in their condition as slaves. Soon they grew in wisdom as the sea of marigold appeared ever closer.
James Kelsall’s Journal
My dearest Lucy, perhaps Rousseau was quite correct in saying that “man is born free, but is everywhere in chains” for it brings me no deal of pleasure to open to you such events as what unfolded only a few nights ago:
The messengers which had gathered since dawn slowly sank to smother the winter sun. The storm, as it always does, appeared in various parts of the heavens and echoed across the Pacific Ocean, the most violent storm hung just north of Cape Verde whilst the Azores were enlightened by a series of faint flashes, playing on the peaks of Mount Pico in the most beautiful figures. I could not logically explain the sensation, as, although it was approaching ever so quickly, I had no urge to retreat. Yet, even as the messengers hung ominously in the distance, the lashing winds slowly soothed into a soft melody similar to that of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Such splendour of nature, however, were disturbed by piercing screams from the hold. What horrors that I beheld with my very eyes! The slaves were growing restless, fifty or sixty… fastened to one chain, I thought I must have been off my onion! Unfortunately, such was not the case. Frail, scurvy-infected bodies limped over one another as if a bunch of Lushingtons. Futile cries rang out from the front deck, distorted by undulating waves as human limbs were soon swallowed whole under a deep swell of sickly indigo, as Mr Collingwood, once a man of great respectability, simply watched. The few that remained sprang disdainfully from Mr Collingwood’s grasps and leaped into the ocean, triumphantly embracing death rather than tyrannical subjugation.
James Kelsall’s Journal
The wind descended in the south now as restless waves ascended to magnificent heights while the tempest raged within the heavens. Mr. Collingwood has disposed of even more of the hapless souls below and now only few remain. Even the echoing tempest cannot divert my mind from the awful truth of this cursed voyage, for it too seems to scorn down upon us. Perhaps it is only in the most natural of states that we can truly experience contentment? I only hope that these poor souls view their tragic end with similar sentiments.
James Kelsall’s Journal
Dearest Lucy! How I will covet the day when this grave sin against humanity is at last eradicated! The news of the passing of the Abolition of the Slave Trade Act in March gave me new life and spirits; a hope felt even by the poor few slaves who still remained. Alas, months have passed and still their cries for liberty remain ignored. I share with you a letter I found from Quaco, one of my more learned students:
I cannot help but feel as if learning had been a curse rather than a blessing. Freedom has now consumed my greatest desires, breathing in every wind and echoing in every storm, calling us to come and share in its hospitality. Yet, it also tormented me with a sense of my wretched condition. Is it not enough that I have been torn from my own country to toil for the luxury and lust of another man’s gain? The restless waves frighten me no more; rather they seem to understand. In them, I may finally find the peace I have been longing for.
At this point, I imagine, Quaco was swept away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.
James Kelsall’s Journal
I can hear it coming. Its roar echoes across the ocean floor to the peaks of Blue Hills, a signal that nature is decreeing its retribution, the Aurore will not reach the ports of Liverpool. It is not long before we shall plummet into the vast, empty abyss, reunited in death with the two hundred and forty eight already below. From a dense blanket of grey shines a light so glorious words cannot encompass, opening the depths of the heavens to my very soul. Yet, the light is now engulfed by the wrath of the raging forces above. Man is a sinful creature, but redemption awaits him if he repents his wrongdoings. How sad to think that nature speaks and mankind does not listen.
elysepopplewell:
--- Quote from: stephjones on July 19, 2017, 12:14:27 pm ---hey guys! I would absolutely love if I could get some feedback on my creative for sci-fi, it got 23/25 for the half yearlies but atm i'm really unhappy with it just because it feels really overdramatic in some places but I can't figure out how to fix it! Thanks so much in advance for taking the time to read it xx
--- End quote ---
Hi Steph - I'm incredibly sorry this took too long. I completely missed this in the rush we had and Jamon pointed it out to me before. So I'm really sorry! I hope this is still handy for you :) In saying this, I didn't study sci-fi so there may be particular conventions you need to adhere to that I'm not 100% up with, but nonetheless I'll look for grammar, structure, engagement, development, etc... :)
Spoiler“There is no human life more sacred than another, just as there exists no human life qualitatively more meaningful than another.” – Pope Francis.
Love this quote, but also love the love the way it's planted at the beginning before the story begins.
* * *
Artificial moonlight trickled through the gap in the beige curtains, casting mottled shadows over the bleached marble floor. The man woke as pain assaulted his chest, a hoarse groan of agony slipping from his throat. He struggled into a sitting position, eyes watering as the ache intensified with each gasp of air he took in attempt to placate it. Shaking fingers found the red button on the side of his cot, desperation forcing his fingers to clench as pain laced through his abdomen.
The light over his head glared crimson, the siren interrupting the silence of the ward. Immediately, the wall beside his bed folded outwards, an indistinct figure speeding towards him, a blur of silver and white. The bitter scent of chemicals was overwhelming, agonising, and pinpoints of black began to obscure his vision, and his screams drowned out the blaring siren and he didn’t know what was real anymore except for the pain, the darkness that blanketed him, the shadows that crept in from the corners of his vision, suffocating him.
And then suddenly, it was as if he was floating.
The man blinked, forcing his vision to come back into focus, barely noting the lifelines now stapled to his chest, a white tube pumping liquid that disappeared into smooth skin. A nurse hovered over him, its just not sure about its - unless there's a reason that gender cannot be assigned to certain characters in this story. In which case, I'll find out shortly blonde hair spilling over thin, metal shoulders as its unblinking cerulean eyes scanned the length of his body. He was numb, and the shadows were almost too bright as he gazed, disorientated, around his room, flinching from the icy fingers that ran over his forehead.
The curve of each nurses’ body was designed to calm the men, but they never could manage to get the body temperature right. But it was a price he was willing to pay – the Domestic Services Act of 2034 had retired human women from high-stress occupations, to spare them from the potential of emotionally-provoked errors.
The nurse made no noise as it grabbed a clipboard from the desk, scrawling indecipherably along thin black lines. “The sedatives won’t last much longer, Mr Archibald. This is it,” it informed him, and the voice was clipped, indifferent, dispassionate. The man swallowed, as a hollowness settled deep within his chest. “Your body is effectively eating itself.” It's not dialogue, but I think this would resonate more if it were put on its own line, the quotation.
The man’s vision began to blur, and he blinked furiously to fend away the shadows lurking at the edges of his gaze. His mind flooded with images, a photo album of the previous thirty years, of a family, of a dishevelled two-year-old boy waiting stubbornly by the window for him, of the desperation settled deep within his wife’s blue gaze as she kissed his knuckles.
He took in a trembling breath, eyes flicking desperately around the ward, yearning for the warmth of human comfort, but the sterile walls ignored him as he felt the images, the life slip from his grasp.
“Of course, you are eligible for a Life Extension,” the nurse continued, “The serum has a ninety-eight per cent success rate – exposing the body cells to cryogenic environments decelerates the aging process and destroys tumours, and has the potential to double the average human life expectancy. The population surplus is dealt with accordingly and immediately, and for a small price, it’s as though your body never malfunctioned.” It listed the benefits methodically, monotonous, voice a drone against the unnatural silence of the ward. This last sentence doesn't make sense. "It listed the benefits methodically and monotonously, the voice was a drone again the unnatural silence of the ward." Perhaps this works better? He thought again of his family, of tears he would be unable to catch, of dreams never realised. What was the value of his life, his family, his family’s future, to the value of a man he’d never met? But still his heart clenched painfully. The shadows continued to writhe, waiting in his peripheral vision.
“Surplus? Someone… killed…” But his eyes were drifting shut, voice slurring as his head sagged back to the pillow. The nurse finished printing details, placing the clipboard in front of him. The letters swam before his eyes, “ExtendiLife™ - Your life is too valuable to lose!” An excellent contrast to the quote at the beginning! Love this! His hands began to shake, and the ache began to blossom in his chest once more, an agony that ran deeper than his illness.
“Retired, yes,” the nurse corrected, “But someone less significant than you, Mr Archibald – someone from the colonies. Two things here - I'm wondering if it should be capitalised, and also wondering if it isn't wise to use the same name as Atwood does in the Handmaid's Tale. Get your teacher's opinion on this - I don't know if it borders into being unoriginal or it works as creative textual integration. As useful to our society as an ant is,” the nurse assured, pressing the pen into the man’s limp fingers, guiding his hands to the signature line, and it was all too much. And as the pressure built within his chest again, and the shadows reached greedily across his vision, the last thing he saw was the cold, silver hand signing his name.
* * *
The sky outside was an angry kaleidoscope of charcoals and greys as large droplets pelted relentlessly against the window, the smog suffocating the city, pressing up against the glass. A skeleton of skyscrapers loomed over the small house, the plethora of wires entangling them within the rubble that littered the ground. Hundreds of people scurried over the dusty hillside, as frightened insects in a foreign nest. The woman turned away.
“Mama, I did it!”
The child beamed up at her, a toothless grin that made his wide hazel eyes sparkle as he held the dusty, coloured cube triumphantly in his hand. The old wheelchair whined to a halt as he stopped in front of the woman, panting, exhilarated, pressing the puzzle into her palm, and his smile was infectious. She knelt, sweeping the auburn hair from the side of his face tenderly.
“Jimmy said you gotta be really, really smart to make the sides the same colours and I did!” he repeated, voice a squeal, a giggle bursting from his lips that lit the shadowy grey world beyond the window. “I’m gonna be a space man, Mama, because you gotta be smart to be a space man! Mr Abacus at school said I couldn’t because I can’t walk, but I read a book that said in space you fly so I wouldn’t even need my chair!”
And as the boy chattered on her thoughts turned to the cities that floated, invisible, miles above the industrial smog, where the stars were painted in the sky, where the space man was the man in the tie who sat on his throne and watched the ants scurry below. But she smiled, again, at the innocence of dreams which threatened to break the cover of clouds and nodded sincerely. “You can be whatever you want to be, Toby,” she affirmed, a lie, and the grin that split his face overshadowed the twisting anguish in her gut.
((I'm trying to include something here bc next para is too sudden imo))
The ancient telecommunications machine behind her whirred to life, spluttering as it spat out the clean, white paper. A government seal branded the top right corner, long cursive letters decorating the pristine page. Her stomach dropped as the bitter scent of chemicals wafted from the document, blood turning to ice at the boy’s excited cry of recognition of his own name penned in the scathing black ink.
“We regret to inform you that the individual TOBIUS BROWN is to be retired at noon tomorrow as a result of the population surplus. Sorry for the inconvenience.
Kind regards,
Archibald Enterprises.”
And suddenly the walls of the small home were suffocating, the dust that rose from the wooden floorboards choking her throat as the boy watched on, brows furrowed in an innocent frown of confusion. Her knees buckled, the toy cube thudding to the floor, the manuscript trembling in her hand as her mind flashed forward, to the tears she would never be able to catch, to dreams never realised. How could the value of one man’s life overshadow the dreams, the future of a family?
And miles above them, the space man raised his foot above the ants, and stepped down.
What I love about this piece:
-The way the initial quote comes from an authority like the Pope, because it's powerful yet also comes from an authority that's been criticised for hypocrisy before. Then, the way it's referenced and explored implicitly and explicitly throughout is just wonderful!
-The comparison between the two narratives is clever enough that I'm never thinking, wait, what happened to that first guy?
-It definitely explores speculative fiction in all the right ways.
What I want to suggest for improvements:
-I struggled to understand the nurse. Was it a woman dressed as a man? Why did she or he have silver hands? And from what I noticed, the nurse was only referenced as an "it" twice, meaning that I wasn't ready to commit to the fact that this was a genderless being instead of a potential typo.
-The legislation that is put in earlier, it also confused me a bit. I definitely like the implementation of the legislation, but it didn't answer questions for me, nor prompt them, but just kind of confused me. When it came to looking closely at the nurse figure, I was unsure of what to make of the nurse in general. So the act kind of just made it a little bit more muddy for me.
The second half of the story was very clear to me, although you said you felt like it jumped too far in that one bit where you want to add something else, I didn't particularly read it that way. I do wonder that when she receives the note about the termination, should it perhaps use some kind of hypocritical statement in there that's a little ironic? The inconvenience thing threw me a bit - because although it works in its own calculated and callous way, I wonder if something like, "We trust that you understand the needs of the nation." Or something like this...I wonder if this prompts more questions about the national needs about the individual needs, which in itself is another link to the original quote.
I hope this gives you another valuable perspective!
elysepopplewell:
--- Quote from: dancing phalanges on July 26, 2017, 06:19:57 pm ---Hey Elyse, I got teacher feedback recently, his main concerns with a) the part by the slave was unrealistic as he's not that well educated (i 100% agree with that but was trying to get another perspective in my story and also i actually based it off a slave narrative from the romantic period but that slave did go back to england first and received an education) so firstly, any feedback/advice there would be great. b) he wanted sign offs on each of the letters which i agree with in part but i like the way they end and finally c) he said i need a clearer ending but like with my discovery i like the subtlety of it, but i won't ruin it for you ;)
--- End quote ---
Heya! The feedback is in the spoiler but also at the end. I've read your teachers feedback and I'll keep that in mind :) I love that you haven't spoiled it for me! haha. (Also...I didn't study romanticism. So there might be some contextual things I miss, I'm sorry! but I'll be able to help with grammar, structure, development, engagement...etc :))
SpoilerFirst Mate James Kelsall’s Journal (1807)
On a setting sun, bequeathed a freedom few men had ever beheld. A rekindling of elevated thoughts soothed by subdued whispers of the ocean, and in such tranquil restoration laid a peace from deep within. A moment of relief from the undeniable guilt which I cannot escape, even in kipping. The rattling of chains and fateful moans of the four hundred and forty-two souls aboard brings upon an abhorrent disgust. A case of the ‘blue devils’ I'm wondering if a person writing this would use the "" around the blue devils, or if they'd just write it, seeing as it's not particular jargon to them and is common language?
(I'm assuming this - I don't know for certain about the regular use of this term, I'm just assuming it's contextual :)) I can no longer deny. Beyond the horizon looms a rolling sea of grey and my dear Liverpool is now a monstrous town whose pitiful theft of its own humanity is of grave concern. I cannot truly console myself when men such as Sir Richard Arkwright are still revered as creative geniuses. For in his opening of Shudehill Mill in Manchester came the subsequent sacrifice of the free will of mankind. Yet, I do have hope, for past the thick plumes of smoke there must be a sea of marigold, a voice to be heard. Rousseau’s words echo a boundless source of promise that we can break the shackles of poverty and rise above injustice, for I too prefer liberty with danger than such peace with slavery. This is all very clear - despite the fact that I don't engage with texts following Romanticism conventions, like,
ever, I'm following this really well and even when I don't 100% understand something (purely from my background), I can still imagine what it means, the setting is just enough to transport me there.
James Kelsall’s Journal
Captain Luke Collingwood, of steady age and character, Love this description. rarely had second thoughts about any given matter. Any discrepancies were scarcely made public, and, if so, Mr. Collingwood prided himself in simple facts and realities which disproved what few ideas opposed the constancy of his opinions.
“British-built ships typically carry 1.75 Black Ivory per ton of the ship's capacity…” he would recount with absolute precision, “on the Aurore, our ratio is 4.0 per ton.”
Sir Collingwood worshipped his creator and, for his own amusement, found occupation for an idle hour by compelling the poor wretches to sing psalms – which often entailed melancholy lamentations of their exile from their native country. When weather permitted, they would be obliged to dance, which, if they go about reluctantly, was punishable by whipping.
James Kelsall’s Journal
My beloved Lucy, it has occurred to me that the pathway from slavery to freedom is founded in the gift of education, which is something I have taken for granted for much of my life. Such lofty ambitions, however, are not without danger, for I feared that if I disobeyed Sir Collingwood’s orders, I may too come to the same fate as these forlorn foreigners we transport. Only once the below decks were obscured by darkness, did I begin teaching them the basics of a good Christian education. I scarcely had much time to do so however as the rest of the crew would often rise suspicious as to my location. Surprising as it may seem, I found myself somewhat indebted to the slaves. They were noble souls; who not only possessed loving hearts, but contained brave ones. Although secured together by iron legs, they were more strongly interlinked by the mutual hardships that they were subjected to in their condition as slaves. Soon they grew in wisdom as the sea of marigold appeared ever closer.
James Kelsall’s Journal At this stage, I'm thinking that the only thing that I would gain from them signing off the journals, is perhaps a little bit of context through language, but maybe I'd also have an idea about how much time elapsed between each. So maybe, "Much time has passed since I last entered these pages, I hope next time we meet it will be much sooner." I mean, I agree with you in that I like it even without signing off. But, if you chose to sign off, that would be the benefit.
My dearest Lucy, perhaps Rousseau was quite correct in saying that “man is born free, but is everywhere in chains” for it brings me no deal of pleasure to open to you such events as what unfolded only a few nights ago:
The messengers which had gathered since dawn slowly sank to smother the winter sun. The storm, as it always does, appeared in various parts of the heavens and echoed across the Pacific Ocean, the most violent storm hung just north of Cape Verde whilst the Azores were enlightened by a series of faint flashes, playing on the peaks of Mount Pico in the most beautiful figures. I could not logically explain the sensation, as, although it was approaching ever so quickly, I had no urge to retreat. Yet, even as the messengers hung ominously in the distance, the lashing winds slowly soothed into a soft melody similar to that of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Such splendour of nature, however, were disturbed by piercing screams from the hold. What horrors that I beheld with my very eyes! The slaves were growing restless, fifty or sixty… fastened to one chain, I thought I must have been off my onion! Unfortunately, such was not the case. Frail, scurvy-infected bodies limped over one another as if a bunch of Lushingtons. Futile cries rang out from the front deck, distorted by undulating waves as human limbs were soon swallowed whole under a deep swell of sickly indigo, as Mr Collingwood, once a man of great respectability, simply watched. The few that remained sprang disdainfully from Mr Collingwood’s grasps and leaped into the ocean, triumphantly embracing death rather than tyrannical subjugation.
James Kelsall’s Journal
The wind descended in the south now as restless waves ascended to magnificent heights while the tempest raged within the heavens. Mr. Collingwood has disposed of even more of the hapless souls below and now only few remain. Even the echoing tempest cannot divert my mind from the awful truth of this cursed voyage, for it too seems to scorn down upon us. Perhaps it is only in the most natural of states that we can truly experience contentment? I only hope that these poor souls view their tragic end with similar sentiments.
James Kelsall’s Journal
Dearest Lucy! How I will covet the day when this grave sin against humanity is at last eradicated! The news of the passing of the Abolition of the Slave Trade Act in March gave me new life and spirits; a hope felt even by the poor few slaves who still remained. Alas, months have passed and still their cries for liberty remain ignored. I share with you a letter I found from Quaco, one of my more learned students:
I cannot help but feel as if learning had been a curse rather than a blessing. Freedom has now consumed my greatest desires, breathing in every wind and echoing in every storm, calling us to come and share in its hospitality. Yet, it also tormented me with a sense of my wretched condition. Is it not enough that I have been torn from my own country to toil for the luxury and lust of another man’s gain? The restless waves frighten me no more; rather they seem to understand. In them, I may finally find the peace I have been longing for.
At this point, I imagine, Quaco was swept away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.
James Kelsall’s Journal
I can hear it coming. Its roar echoes across the ocean floor to the peaks of Blue Hills, a signal that nature is decreeing its retribution, the Aurore will not reach the ports of Liverpool. It is not long before we shall plummet into the vast, empty abyss, reunited in death with the two hundred and forty eight already below. From a dense blanket of grey shines a light so glorious words cannot encompass, opening the depths of the heavens to my very soul. Yet, the light is now engulfed by the wrath of the raging forces above. Man is a sinful creature, but redemption awaits him if he repents his wrongdoings. How sad to think that nature speaks and mankind does not listen.
I love the ending of this...the last two entries, to me, were the most powerful. I thought the story was engaging but also not too difficult to follow, and the language fit the scene. I think your second last entry deals with the question of how the slave is so well spoken, so I think it makes sense and I'm not too critical of that aspect, although maybe there could be some reference to the slave in school, even if its a comparison between the hostility of the ocean and the hostility he once felt... Something like this might just fill the question in the markers head, but I'd negotiate this with your teacher to see how this fits in contextually. I happen to disagree about the ending feedback your teacher gave - I don't know what about it needs to be clearer? There are lots of ways to interpret the ending, but I have no troubles with this. It's nice to be able to see it as a narrative for slaves, for colonialism, for human kind in general...and the imagery is just so nice in that ending bit. So I suppose my only area of concern is about the education level of the slave, because you won't be prefacing your exam with "he went to England for an education" you'd need more than that, carefully embedded in the story. Do you see how a marker would find your story to be fallible by that little section?
Hopefully this second pair of eyes helps! Again, another great story from you :)
dancing phalanges:
--- Quote from: elysepopplewell on July 29, 2017, 10:13:26 am ---Heya! The feedback is in the spoiler but also at the end. I've read your teachers feedback and I'll keep that in mind :) I love that you haven't spoiled it for me! haha. (Also...I didn't study romanticism. So there might be some contextual things I miss, I'm sorry! but I'll be able to help with grammar, structure, development, engagement...etc :))
SpoilerFirst Mate James Kelsall’s Journal (1807)
On a setting sun, bequeathed a freedom few men had ever beheld. A rekindling of elevated thoughts soothed by subdued whispers of the ocean, and in such tranquil restoration laid a peace from deep within. A moment of relief from the undeniable guilt which I cannot escape, even in kipping. The rattling of chains and fateful moans of the four hundred and forty-two souls aboard brings upon an abhorrent disgust. A case of the ‘blue devils’ I'm wondering if a person writing this would use the "" around the blue devils, or if they'd just write it, seeing as it's not particular jargon to them and is common language?
(I'm assuming this - I don't know for certain about the regular use of this term, I'm just assuming it's contextual :)) I can no longer deny. Beyond the horizon looms a rolling sea of grey and my dear Liverpool is now a monstrous town whose pitiful theft of its own humanity is of grave concern. I cannot truly console myself when men such as Sir Richard Arkwright are still revered as creative geniuses. For in his opening of Shudehill Mill in Manchester came the subsequent sacrifice of the free will of mankind. Yet, I do have hope, for past the thick plumes of smoke there must be a sea of marigold, a voice to be heard. Rousseau’s words echo a boundless source of promise that we can break the shackles of poverty and rise above injustice, for I too prefer liberty with danger than such peace with slavery. This is all very clear - despite the fact that I don't engage with texts following Romanticism conventions, like,
ever, I'm following this really well and even when I don't 100% understand something (purely from my background), I can still imagine what it means, the setting is just enough to transport me there.
James Kelsall’s Journal
Captain Luke Collingwood, of steady age and character, Love this description. rarely had second thoughts about any given matter. Any discrepancies were scarcely made public, and, if so, Mr. Collingwood prided himself in simple facts and realities which disproved what few ideas opposed the constancy of his opinions.
“British-built ships typically carry 1.75 Black Ivory per ton of the ship's capacity…” he would recount with absolute precision, “on the Aurore, our ratio is 4.0 per ton.”
Sir Collingwood worshipped his creator and, for his own amusement, found occupation for an idle hour by compelling the poor wretches to sing psalms – which often entailed melancholy lamentations of their exile from their native country. When weather permitted, they would be obliged to dance, which, if they go about reluctantly, was punishable by whipping.
James Kelsall’s Journal
My beloved Lucy, it has occurred to me that the pathway from slavery to freedom is founded in the gift of education, which is something I have taken for granted for much of my life. Such lofty ambitions, however, are not without danger, for I feared that if I disobeyed Sir Collingwood’s orders, I may too come to the same fate as these forlorn foreigners we transport. Only once the below decks were obscured by darkness, did I begin teaching them the basics of a good Christian education. I scarcely had much time to do so however as the rest of the crew would often rise suspicious as to my location. Surprising as it may seem, I found myself somewhat indebted to the slaves. They were noble souls; who not only possessed loving hearts, but contained brave ones. Although secured together by iron legs, they were more strongly interlinked by the mutual hardships that they were subjected to in their condition as slaves. Soon they grew in wisdom as the sea of marigold appeared ever closer.
James Kelsall’s Journal At this stage, I'm thinking that the only thing that I would gain from them signing off the journals, is perhaps a little bit of context through language, but maybe I'd also have an idea about how much time elapsed between each. So maybe, "Much time has passed since I last entered these pages, I hope next time we meet it will be much sooner." I mean, I agree with you in that I like it even without signing off. But, if you chose to sign off, that would be the benefit.
My dearest Lucy, perhaps Rousseau was quite correct in saying that “man is born free, but is everywhere in chains” for it brings me no deal of pleasure to open to you such events as what unfolded only a few nights ago:
The messengers which had gathered since dawn slowly sank to smother the winter sun. The storm, as it always does, appeared in various parts of the heavens and echoed across the Pacific Ocean, the most violent storm hung just north of Cape Verde whilst the Azores were enlightened by a series of faint flashes, playing on the peaks of Mount Pico in the most beautiful figures. I could not logically explain the sensation, as, although it was approaching ever so quickly, I had no urge to retreat. Yet, even as the messengers hung ominously in the distance, the lashing winds slowly soothed into a soft melody similar to that of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Such splendour of nature, however, were disturbed by piercing screams from the hold. What horrors that I beheld with my very eyes! The slaves were growing restless, fifty or sixty… fastened to one chain, I thought I must have been off my onion! Unfortunately, such was not the case. Frail, scurvy-infected bodies limped over one another as if a bunch of Lushingtons. Futile cries rang out from the front deck, distorted by undulating waves as human limbs were soon swallowed whole under a deep swell of sickly indigo, as Mr Collingwood, once a man of great respectability, simply watched. The few that remained sprang disdainfully from Mr Collingwood’s grasps and leaped into the ocean, triumphantly embracing death rather than tyrannical subjugation.
James Kelsall’s Journal
The wind descended in the south now as restless waves ascended to magnificent heights while the tempest raged within the heavens. Mr. Collingwood has disposed of even more of the hapless souls below and now only few remain. Even the echoing tempest cannot divert my mind from the awful truth of this cursed voyage, for it too seems to scorn down upon us. Perhaps it is only in the most natural of states that we can truly experience contentment? I only hope that these poor souls view their tragic end with similar sentiments.
James Kelsall’s Journal
Dearest Lucy! How I will covet the day when this grave sin against humanity is at last eradicated! The news of the passing of the Abolition of the Slave Trade Act in March gave me new life and spirits; a hope felt even by the poor few slaves who still remained. Alas, months have passed and still their cries for liberty remain ignored. I share with you a letter I found from Quaco, one of my more learned students:
I cannot help but feel as if learning had been a curse rather than a blessing. Freedom has now consumed my greatest desires, breathing in every wind and echoing in every storm, calling us to come and share in its hospitality. Yet, it also tormented me with a sense of my wretched condition. Is it not enough that I have been torn from my own country to toil for the luxury and lust of another man’s gain? The restless waves frighten me no more; rather they seem to understand. In them, I may finally find the peace I have been longing for.
At this point, I imagine, Quaco was swept away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.
James Kelsall’s Journal
I can hear it coming. Its roar echoes across the ocean floor to the peaks of Blue Hills, a signal that nature is decreeing its retribution, the Aurore will not reach the ports of Liverpool. It is not long before we shall plummet into the vast, empty abyss, reunited in death with the two hundred and forty eight already below. From a dense blanket of grey shines a light so glorious words cannot encompass, opening the depths of the heavens to my very soul. Yet, the light is now engulfed by the wrath of the raging forces above. Man is a sinful creature, but redemption awaits him if he repents his wrongdoings. How sad to think that nature speaks and mankind does not listen.
I love the ending of this...the last two entries, to me, were the most powerful. I thought the story was engaging but also not too difficult to follow, and the language fit the scene. I think your second last entry deals with the question of how the slave is so well spoken, so I think it makes sense and I'm not too critical of that aspect, although maybe there could be some reference to the slave in school, even if its a comparison between the hostility of the ocean and the hostility he once felt... Something like this might just fill the question in the markers head, but I'd negotiate this with your teacher to see how this fits in contextually. I happen to disagree about the ending feedback your teacher gave - I don't know what about it needs to be clearer? There are lots of ways to interpret the ending, but I have no troubles with this. It's nice to be able to see it as a narrative for slaves, for colonialism, for human kind in general...and the imagery is just so nice in that ending bit. So I suppose my only area of concern is about the education level of the slave, because you won't be prefacing your exam with "he went to England for an education" you'd need more than that, carefully embedded in the story. Do you see how a marker would find your story to be fallible by that little section?
Hopefully this second pair of eyes helps! Again, another great story from you :)
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Thanks Elyse :) Yeah I might have to add in something ie. some slaves were chosen to be integrated into English society and thus received an education so maybe I'll add something contextually then because I do really feel like the perspective of a slave needs to be there and I don't want to write uneducatedly because i dont think it will add much sophistication even if contextually correct. and I also like the idea of giving an idea of how much time passes :) Yeah I really like the ending but might just have to for now make a bit more clear since my teacher is marking it but I'll still try to keep the subtlety - he said that the markers in the hsc might not be smart enough to realise what it means which i think is a lame excuse to change it and i dont believe him either. but anyway thanks for your help! :) oh and also yeah the blue devils was a word of the time that was used to describe feeling melancholy, i did originally have it in 'blue devils' but my teacher crossed them out haha
elysepopplewell:
--- Quote from: dancing phalanges on July 29, 2017, 11:06:25 am ---Thanks Elyse :) Yeah I might have to add in something ie. some slaves were chosen to be integrated into English society and thus received an education so maybe I'll add something contextually then because I do really feel like the perspective of a slave needs to be there and I don't want to write uneducatedly because i dont think it will add much sophistication even if contextually correct. and I also like the idea of giving an idea of how much time passes :) Yeah I really like the ending but might just have to for now make a bit more clear since my teacher is marking it but I'll still try to keep the subtlety - he said that the markers in the hsc might not be smart enough to realise what it means which i think is a lame excuse to change it and i dont believe him either. but anyway thanks for your help! :) oh and also yeah the blue devils was a word of the time that was used to describe feeling melancholy, i did originally have it in 'blue devils' but my teacher crossed them out haha
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I learned something! I like the blue devils, it sounds nice.
You are definitely playing it smart by referring to the criticism from your teacher if they are the one marking. With your trial feedback, you'll be able to take it further and spend time developing the slaves voice carefully alongside the context to perfectly meld the two together.
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