School Assignment Turned Short Story
So my World History gave out his first enjoyable assignment of the year. We had to write a 33 line (hand written) story from a picture of child labororers during the Industrial Revolution. So here's the much fixed up version of what I turned in, from the POV of a little boy I like to call Patrick.
For Momma
Words: 520
Momma’s eyes are always so sad when Papa and I leave for the mines. They are always wet and shiny, like little Sammie’s when she is hungry. Poor Momma. She never smiles any more. She’s why I work, not because Papa says I have to, and not because he says it will get my tummy full. It’s too dirty and icky down there, with all its darkness and bad men and ash, for me to go work just for that. But if I work, just enough, Momma can eat more and not get all wet-eyed. I know she’s hungry; I’m hungry and she eats less then me.
Momma always gets flustered when Papa and I come home. She flutters over, wiping at our blackened faces with her already stained apron, wincing as I wheeze to breathe. The ash is everywhere: clothes, faces, eyes, throats. Sometimes I fear that it will come after me, turning into the goblins of Momma’s tales, creeping farther down my throat till it gets into my tummy and lungs and blood, till I cough and cry and bleed it. I like it when my fingers crack; they’ll crack like stone, little lines of red running through the hard finger pads until they’re like little rivers surrounded by black sand. It lets me know that the ash hasn’t gotten to me yet.
Papa says it’s not fair; he says that I shouldn’t have to work in the tunnels along side the men. He calls the overseers cruel and heartless, along with much worse things when they can’t hear. But every morning he is the one to wake me up, before even the sun has struggled up into the gray sky, so that we can begin the long walk to the mine. Momma packs us little lunches in tin pails, stuffing them with whatever crumbs she can spare. The rest goes into Sammie’s mouth. She kisses Papa every morning like he’s never going to come home, and sometimes I don’t think she’ll ever let me go when she hugs me. I hate those hugs; it makes her seems so drawn and worn and desperate. I see it too much in her face already. I want her to hug me with a smile on her face.
She cleans and weaves and sews all day, only stopping to cook us dinner and welcome us home. When we come home from the mines Papa and I feed the goat and the chickens, and work on anything that we can get our hands on. Papa’s hands can fix anything that ever breaks, working them till they bleed and make jerky, exhausted movements. It’s only after the sun has dropped to sleep that we too crawl into the bed, which Papa made himself on Momma and his wedding day, all curled up under a big old blanket Gramma made before she passed away.
Everyday’s the same, and Momma gets sadder and sadder, till her cheeks get wet every morning too. Her face stays with me, a dim light in the dark tunnels. I work and sweat and bleed. And it’s all for Momma.
Dedicated to all those who worked (and still work), sweated, bled, and died in terrible conditions for the good of their family.
For Momma
Words: 520
Momma’s eyes are always so sad when Papa and I leave for the mines. They are always wet and shiny, like little Sammie’s when she is hungry. Poor Momma. She never smiles any more. She’s why I work, not because Papa says I have to, and not because he says it will get my tummy full. It’s too dirty and icky down there, with all its darkness and bad men and ash, for me to go work just for that. But if I work, just enough, Momma can eat more and not get all wet-eyed. I know she’s hungry; I’m hungry and she eats less then me.
Momma always gets flustered when Papa and I come home. She flutters over, wiping at our blackened faces with her already stained apron, wincing as I wheeze to breathe. The ash is everywhere: clothes, faces, eyes, throats. Sometimes I fear that it will come after me, turning into the goblins of Momma’s tales, creeping farther down my throat till it gets into my tummy and lungs and blood, till I cough and cry and bleed it. I like it when my fingers crack; they’ll crack like stone, little lines of red running through the hard finger pads until they’re like little rivers surrounded by black sand. It lets me know that the ash hasn’t gotten to me yet.
Papa says it’s not fair; he says that I shouldn’t have to work in the tunnels along side the men. He calls the overseers cruel and heartless, along with much worse things when they can’t hear. But every morning he is the one to wake me up, before even the sun has struggled up into the gray sky, so that we can begin the long walk to the mine. Momma packs us little lunches in tin pails, stuffing them with whatever crumbs she can spare. The rest goes into Sammie’s mouth. She kisses Papa every morning like he’s never going to come home, and sometimes I don’t think she’ll ever let me go when she hugs me. I hate those hugs; it makes her seems so drawn and worn and desperate. I see it too much in her face already. I want her to hug me with a smile on her face.
She cleans and weaves and sews all day, only stopping to cook us dinner and welcome us home. When we come home from the mines Papa and I feed the goat and the chickens, and work on anything that we can get our hands on. Papa’s hands can fix anything that ever breaks, working them till they bleed and make jerky, exhausted movements. It’s only after the sun has dropped to sleep that we too crawl into the bed, which Papa made himself on Momma and his wedding day, all curled up under a big old blanket Gramma made before she passed away.
Everyday’s the same, and Momma gets sadder and sadder, till her cheeks get wet every morning too. Her face stays with me, a dim light in the dark tunnels. I work and sweat and bleed. And it’s all for Momma.
Dedicated to all those who worked (and still work), sweated, bled, and died in terrible conditions for the good of their family.