Creative writing

By Flynn Gorman

As I am walking home along the beach, I see huge canoes with massive sheets of white fabric. I run as fast as I can home, but when I try to tell my people about them, no one listens. The huge canoes land and people come out, but they don't look like ordinary people. Their skin is as white as the foam in the waves, their hair varies in color from pale as sand to black as a raven's feathers. One of them puts a stick with a piece of colorful cloth on the end into the ground. They wear heavy cloth even in the sun's heat and speak an unfamiliar language. One of them takes out a long, thin, silver stick, and one of us reaches out and grabs it. They yelp in pain, and when they pull their hand away, it bleeds. The strange people only laugh and let more people grab it. After a night or two, I start to understand their language more, and they seem to want our gold, but we have very little. When one of us tries to tell them that we don't have much, their leader got angry and stomped away. He left, leaving us wondering if he would come back. Eventually, he does. With hundreds of people, he took hundreds of us as slaves and warned us: “if you don't give me gold, I will slay your people.” we had to fill a hawks bell with gold every 3 months. Otherwise, he would cut off our hands and let us bleed to death.