Shiny Grimer
Active member
- Pronoun
- she/her, they/them
This was made for English Class - we were reading Kindred and needed to write about time travel to another place. I remembered it a day ago - I want to twist it around a bit to have a story in this setting, but I wanted to know if there were any inconsistencies in the original writing. I couldn't find much abotu Poland in 1914, and I had to read through a convoluted history of Poland to even try to make some sense out of it. Most importantly, I wrote this at the same time that I wrote my NaNo, and it's rushed and not checked for consistency. I need to find those inconsistencies so that I can, you know, fix them when I want to write something else like this.
I'm sorry if my Polish sucks; it was taken from an online translator and if someone knows Polish, it'd be really nice of them to help me. :D Also, I don't have a title for this. This story actually has little to do with the mechanics of Polish Time Travel, but it is involved. It's finished but I won't be posting the whole thing here since I find parts of it to be pretty horrid (in fact I don't really like this day but w/e).
Sunday, November 22nd
Today, I found the strangest thing: I woke up in another country. I do not know what happened. I was sleeping in my bed in Denver, Colorado when all of a sudden I find myself in this strange country. I do not know how I arrived here. I am not sure I can come back, either.
I somehow woke up standing on a corner of a busy street filled with oddly dressed people. Everyone’s clothes were rather unsaturated and dull, but far more formal than what I saw normally on the streets: all the men were wearing suits and all the women ankle-length skirts as well as jackets. People were crowding onto the streets, where I was surprised to see relatively few cars. Considering the strange, foreign atmosphere, I dismissed the scenario as a dream. But something was nagging at me, something telling me that everything was not as it should have been.
I was in the clothes I was wearing before I came here – a t-shirt and pants. I was clutching a mechanical pencil and a sketchbook; the result of a late night urge to draw.
One thing I distinctly remember doing was asking a rather tall woman next to me where I was.
“Nie rozumiem. Zapytać ktoś inny w Warszawa.”
That was the moment I realized this was not a dream. She had spoken a language I had to struggle to bring back from the depths of my mind: Polish.
I could make out her sentence as something like: I don’t understand; ask someone other in Warsaw. I couldn’t translate it properly; the shock of hearing someone speak in a completely different language in a completely different country temporarily numbed me.
I tried to be courteous and say Thank You, but by the time I translated the words to bad Polish, the crowd had moved across the street. I moved with them, shocked, scared.
Warsaw? Warsaw was in Poland. Poland was in Europe. Europe was VERY far away from the United States of America. How was I here? Why was I still here – if this was a dream, I would have woken up by now, wouldn’t I?
I cried in that crowd. I recognized nobody, saw no familiar faces. Where were my parents? Why was this such a horrible dream? Questions that were never answered.
I looked at the shops besides the sidewalk: a bakery, a little convenience store, one offering supplies for sale – and I knew this only from looking inside the stores. It had been a long time since I had ever used the Polish language. I would be needing it now.
Something that I suddenly realized I would be needing was money. I struggled to recall my Polish classes: the currency in Poland was the złoty. Pronounced zwati or something like that. Then there were rubles… I can’t remember. I would have to take up a job or find some way to gain money to live here. This was a strange Poland… there were so little cars on the street. That was suspicious: in the modern day, there are always cars on the street. Something’s not right.
I can’t think about that now, though. I’m a thirteen year-old kid alone in Warsaw. Where will I stay, what will I eat, how can I get back home? These were questions swirling around in my mind at the time. I had no answers, though.
Walking past a store that sold large, detailed wooden clocks, I stopped to see what time it was. 3:45 PM. I knew I slept late, but never past 12. Pressing my face against the windows, and holding on to the pencil and book, I scanned the room for something to tell me the day or something. I saw a calendar which rewarded me with very disturbing information:
It was Sunday, November 22nd, 1914.
1914.
I had gone back…… 93 years.
Tears started to escape their prison behind my eyes and slid down my face. Fear and panic started to grow inside me. I somehow woke up in Warsaw, Poland, on the 22nd of November in 1914. I was alone, far away from my home and my time. I don’t know what force brought me here, but I would have to do something to live here until I could somehow, someway, come home. I needed a place to stay.
Immediately, I started racking my head for relatives that might live here, who might take me in. At the moment, nothing came to mind. I started thinking about why I bothered to learn Polish, someone in my family who lived in Poland, during this very age… no; it was two people. They worked with children... orphan children, was it?
I passed more stores, going with groups of people. I needed a name, first or last, it didn’t matter. Maybe I could ask someone and they could tell me a name…
I decided to go back to the shop selling finely detailed grandfather clocks, and I opened the door. The inside smelled of newly sawed wood.
The shopkeeper was cleaning the counter. He was a short man with little hair and round glasses balanced on his ears. I approached him.
“Sir…do you speak English?”
He looked up. “Little.”
I was slightly relieved. “Sir, do you know a family that owns an orphanage?”
He seemed to struggle to understand my words.
“What that last word was?”
I tried to find a way to say it in Polish, but the very basics of the
language were slipping from my mind.
“Sierociniec,” I heard myself say, struggling with the pronunciation.
“Ah, on the hill,” he said. “Maria and Henryk Irzykowski. Live on the hill. Sierociniec Polski. There,” he said, coming out of the shop and pointing. I followed him, and saw he was directing me to a large house on a hill.
“Thank you very much, sir!”
“Problems not.”
I made my way through a crowd of people. Most of them were dressed humbly, some in rags. I often heard Russian and German tongues – were they supposed to be there? Russia did have control of Poland for a while…and I think Germany tried…?
I noticed something at the moment that I did not before – it was cold. There was a chilly wind blowing, and the frigid air became ever colder. Poland wore the cold well.
I found a small path leading up the house. I was hopeful. The house loomed ahead, an impressive structure compared to the small buildings I saw earlier. I knew I couldn’t expect much hospitality of luxury as I entered, but I expected a place to stay for just a little while…
I opened the door and peeked inside. I saw beds – many beds. Children on the beds. A few adults tending to the children.
Slowly, I made my way inside, scared of the atmosphere. It was very dark inside, and gloomy.
“Hello?” I said meekly. Nobody responded. I made my way to a desk that I saw. I stood there, observing the house. There were many doors and halls.
“Hello?” I repeated. A very tall woman approached the desk.
“Guten label, hallo,” she asked hurriedly.
“Please, I need a place to stay. Just for a few days,” I explained. She sighed.
“Come with me.”
I followed her to a corner of the very large room with beds. I saw children staring at me oddly.
“Come. You may sleep here,” she said. “You work for your food. We all do.”
The bed was a rickety old thing with a torn mattress and no sheets. Nevertheless, I got into it and curled myself up into a ball. I slept for a good long while after the shock of today.
I'm sorry if my Polish sucks; it was taken from an online translator and if someone knows Polish, it'd be really nice of them to help me. :D Also, I don't have a title for this. This story actually has little to do with the mechanics of Polish Time Travel, but it is involved. It's finished but I won't be posting the whole thing here since I find parts of it to be pretty horrid (in fact I don't really like this day but w/e).
Sunday, November 22nd
Today, I found the strangest thing: I woke up in another country. I do not know what happened. I was sleeping in my bed in Denver, Colorado when all of a sudden I find myself in this strange country. I do not know how I arrived here. I am not sure I can come back, either.
I somehow woke up standing on a corner of a busy street filled with oddly dressed people. Everyone’s clothes were rather unsaturated and dull, but far more formal than what I saw normally on the streets: all the men were wearing suits and all the women ankle-length skirts as well as jackets. People were crowding onto the streets, where I was surprised to see relatively few cars. Considering the strange, foreign atmosphere, I dismissed the scenario as a dream. But something was nagging at me, something telling me that everything was not as it should have been.
I was in the clothes I was wearing before I came here – a t-shirt and pants. I was clutching a mechanical pencil and a sketchbook; the result of a late night urge to draw.
One thing I distinctly remember doing was asking a rather tall woman next to me where I was.
“Nie rozumiem. Zapytać ktoś inny w Warszawa.”
That was the moment I realized this was not a dream. She had spoken a language I had to struggle to bring back from the depths of my mind: Polish.
I could make out her sentence as something like: I don’t understand; ask someone other in Warsaw. I couldn’t translate it properly; the shock of hearing someone speak in a completely different language in a completely different country temporarily numbed me.
I tried to be courteous and say Thank You, but by the time I translated the words to bad Polish, the crowd had moved across the street. I moved with them, shocked, scared.
Warsaw? Warsaw was in Poland. Poland was in Europe. Europe was VERY far away from the United States of America. How was I here? Why was I still here – if this was a dream, I would have woken up by now, wouldn’t I?
I cried in that crowd. I recognized nobody, saw no familiar faces. Where were my parents? Why was this such a horrible dream? Questions that were never answered.
I looked at the shops besides the sidewalk: a bakery, a little convenience store, one offering supplies for sale – and I knew this only from looking inside the stores. It had been a long time since I had ever used the Polish language. I would be needing it now.
Something that I suddenly realized I would be needing was money. I struggled to recall my Polish classes: the currency in Poland was the złoty. Pronounced zwati or something like that. Then there were rubles… I can’t remember. I would have to take up a job or find some way to gain money to live here. This was a strange Poland… there were so little cars on the street. That was suspicious: in the modern day, there are always cars on the street. Something’s not right.
I can’t think about that now, though. I’m a thirteen year-old kid alone in Warsaw. Where will I stay, what will I eat, how can I get back home? These were questions swirling around in my mind at the time. I had no answers, though.
Walking past a store that sold large, detailed wooden clocks, I stopped to see what time it was. 3:45 PM. I knew I slept late, but never past 12. Pressing my face against the windows, and holding on to the pencil and book, I scanned the room for something to tell me the day or something. I saw a calendar which rewarded me with very disturbing information:
It was Sunday, November 22nd, 1914.
1914.
I had gone back…… 93 years.
Tears started to escape their prison behind my eyes and slid down my face. Fear and panic started to grow inside me. I somehow woke up in Warsaw, Poland, on the 22nd of November in 1914. I was alone, far away from my home and my time. I don’t know what force brought me here, but I would have to do something to live here until I could somehow, someway, come home. I needed a place to stay.
Immediately, I started racking my head for relatives that might live here, who might take me in. At the moment, nothing came to mind. I started thinking about why I bothered to learn Polish, someone in my family who lived in Poland, during this very age… no; it was two people. They worked with children... orphan children, was it?
I passed more stores, going with groups of people. I needed a name, first or last, it didn’t matter. Maybe I could ask someone and they could tell me a name…
I decided to go back to the shop selling finely detailed grandfather clocks, and I opened the door. The inside smelled of newly sawed wood.
The shopkeeper was cleaning the counter. He was a short man with little hair and round glasses balanced on his ears. I approached him.
“Sir…do you speak English?”
He looked up. “Little.”
I was slightly relieved. “Sir, do you know a family that owns an orphanage?”
He seemed to struggle to understand my words.
“What that last word was?”
I tried to find a way to say it in Polish, but the very basics of the
language were slipping from my mind.
“Sierociniec,” I heard myself say, struggling with the pronunciation.
“Ah, on the hill,” he said. “Maria and Henryk Irzykowski. Live on the hill. Sierociniec Polski. There,” he said, coming out of the shop and pointing. I followed him, and saw he was directing me to a large house on a hill.
“Thank you very much, sir!”
“Problems not.”
I made my way through a crowd of people. Most of them were dressed humbly, some in rags. I often heard Russian and German tongues – were they supposed to be there? Russia did have control of Poland for a while…and I think Germany tried…?
I noticed something at the moment that I did not before – it was cold. There was a chilly wind blowing, and the frigid air became ever colder. Poland wore the cold well.
I found a small path leading up the house. I was hopeful. The house loomed ahead, an impressive structure compared to the small buildings I saw earlier. I knew I couldn’t expect much hospitality of luxury as I entered, but I expected a place to stay for just a little while…
I opened the door and peeked inside. I saw beds – many beds. Children on the beds. A few adults tending to the children.
Slowly, I made my way inside, scared of the atmosphere. It was very dark inside, and gloomy.
“Hello?” I said meekly. Nobody responded. I made my way to a desk that I saw. I stood there, observing the house. There were many doors and halls.
“Hello?” I repeated. A very tall woman approached the desk.
“Guten label, hallo,” she asked hurriedly.
“Please, I need a place to stay. Just for a few days,” I explained. She sighed.
“Come with me.”
I followed her to a corner of the very large room with beds. I saw children staring at me oddly.
“Come. You may sleep here,” she said. “You work for your food. We all do.”
The bed was a rickety old thing with a torn mattress and no sheets. Nevertheless, I got into it and curled myself up into a ball. I slept for a good long while after the shock of today.
