The Runaway : A Short Story : 'The Runaway'

“The Autobiography of a Runaway Slave” revolves around the life of Esteban Montejo: who once set his life is the Caribbean island of Cuba; in which this story provides readers with another distinctive approach to teaching the lives of slavery. As the narration progresses through this writing, readers consequently have many opportunities to annotate how the abolition of slavery played a great role in his personal life. Evidently, whether it is intentional or unintentional, the narrator frequently mentions the ending of slavery, as he substantially detailed “…till slavery left Cuba,” (Barnet 38); “… I got to know all these people better after slavery was abolished,” (Barnet 58); and “It was after Abolition that the term ‘effeminate’ came into

Norman Rockwell’s piece of work, The Runaway, is painted on a canvas. This famous artwork is known as an oil painting. The Runaway was painted during 1958 and measures 35” x 33”. This amazing piece of work can currently be found in the Norman Rockwell Museum in his collection of artworks. This museum is located in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. Normal Rockwell used state trooper Richard J. Clemens Jr. to model as the state trooper in the painting and used eight-year-old Ed Locke to pose as the boy. The painting was created at the Howard Johnson’s Restaurant.

William Grimes in the, Life of William Grimes the Runaway Slave, and Harriet Jacobs in the, Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, both wrote about their lives under the hands of slavery. Though they both experienced hardships, the difference in gender played a role in how their enslavement was endured. These different experiences influenced different tones. In Chapter three of Incidents, Jacobs tone is emotional, hopeless and depressing. She writes “ But to the slave mother New Year’s day comes laden with peculiar sorrows.

That day it went by to fast my brother and I tried spending as much time as I could with my dad. That night I went to bed sad I didn’t know if i would wake up in time to say goodbye to him. That morning I woke up and ran to see if my dad was still here. I ran into the kitchen first where I saw him eating ready to leave. He said that they were going to pick him up in ten minutes. Next thing you know we here a knock on the door. I went to answer the door it was some men in uniforms they were there to pick my dad up. My dad said goodbye to us I started to cry when he was leaving and so did my brothers and mom.

Few documentary sources exist from the Caribbean islands and the Latin American mainland written by Africans or their descendants that describe their life under enslavement. In Brazil, two mulatto abolitionists wrote sketchy descriptions of their personal experiences, and one autobiography of a black man was published before emancipation. In contrast, several thousand slave narratives and eight full-length autobiographies were published in the United States before the outbreak of the Civil War (1860-1865) (Conrad, p. xix). In Cuba, one slave narrative appeared in the nineteenth century. Penned by Juan Francisco Manzano, the Autobiografia (written in 1835,

One night as I was walking back home from work, I heard a scream coming from a nearby house. I did not pay much attention to it until, I started to hear it more often. I was curious about what was going on inside the house, so I approached the house where the scream was coming from. I looked

There was a loud bang on the door. I sat up right away along with the other 13 people in my room. A soldier dress in head to toe with his uniform along with a winter jacket. He threw five pieces of bread on the floor and told us to go to work before leaving. The bread only got split upon nine of us; I was one of those nine. I had noticed a young boy did not get a piece so I gave him mine. The boy looked at me with a blank stare and took the bread from my frangile bonny fingers. I stood up, buttoned my shirt and adjusted my shorts. Under that slats of wood I slept on, I hid a scarve that I stole from a dead woman. I pulled it out and tucked it in my shirt so no one would notice. As I stepped out the door frame I felt a chilling breeze up my

It was the first Sunday of December morning when my father asked me to take some boxes to the basement, I had never been down there, as a kid I always thought it was scary, but know as a 19-year-old guy, how could I say no. I went downstairs with a couple of boxes, but could not find any place to put them. The area was a mess, so I decided that I would organize every box that was there. While I was organizing, I notice this one box hidden in the back, so, I decided to open it. Inside the box, there was a newspaper and a couple of burnt pictures. Therefore, I decided to read the article, I could not understand much, it was an 18 years old newspaper, but it talked about a burning house with two twin babies, It said that one had been saved with no harm while the other one was rescued later on with severe burn mark. It was a miracle that other baby had survived, they called him miracle Carlos, and his brother Richard. I stood there for a second before my brain processed

One of the fire department members was standing outside of the front door saying that something was wrong, that there was a fire. My brother grabbed his phone and called my dad. I threw on my fire pants and gloves and went inside. It hadn't quite crossed my mind what had happened yet so when I saw that the floor was pitch black, I thought it had gotten painted and no one had mentioned it. It was so dark and foggy inside that I went for the light switch. They didn’t work, but then I noticed something else. The cobwebs near it were covered in soot. That’s when I realized how much trouble we were in.

It was a late summer afternoon in Crenshaw Los Angles. The sun is setting and I was sitting at the stairs of the two apartment building I lived at. I was waiting for my dad to return from work. Down in the street gust of wind blew torn paper into spirals. The sun was shining through the bright blue empty sky making it hard to see through the distance as the light shines through my eyes. My father was walking towards me with the harsh light of the sun outlining his body. As my father began to come closer to me the sun began to set even more. Light fading away as soon as my father stood in front of me. As he stood in front of me I was able to smell the fresh paint that was stained on his pants all the way up to his neck. He then squats down in

My dad always slept with his shoes off.But tonight, tonight was different. Probably because the town was being evacuated. Gun shots so close you can trace the sound back to the weapon. People running, screaming and dying. It was amazing, well to me it was it was the first time i seen everyone outside at once i wish it was on this occasion but it was good to see people care about each other. Back to the store though. My mom came running into the house screaming,”they’re here,they’re”. My dad jump from the bed, like he was waiting for this moment all his life, “grab the begs” he says to me and my 3 brothers. They were place in the corner of the living room next to the back door. I didn't pick up nothing being the youngest in the

My heart felt as if it was ready to jump out of my chest and go shoot itself.  How will I ever get over the death of my parents they were my everything. To walk in to find their cold rotting bodies, was not something I've ever imagined happening.   As I walked into

My screams were literally sucked out of my lungs and suddenly we were gone from the alley in a brilliant white flash. A second later I was in a dark void, I felt as though I was being squashed flat between two buildings despite the emptiness of the place and couldn’t breath. Any second now and I knew I would be dead. I clawed at my throat, my eyes bulging from my head and suddenly--

I dreamt of death. Violent images of maimed humans surfaced, their mouths gaping open, skin clammy with sweat and eyes staring up at nothing. The bony skulls of my family grinned at me through the blackness. I still remembered that dead blank look in my parents' eyes. The gurgle that they made as they collapsed in a heap on the floor. With a shudder, I dragged myself from going through the torture of relieving everything over

Within one second I saw my brother bolt through the hallway and sprint down the stairs. I started to chase after him, trying to help; but then I hesitated. Something felt wrong. Was it because my father was downstairs? Was I scared of him? Why was I not downstairs helping my mother?