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The Displaced

We were all moved to a tiny corner of England when the soldiers came.

By Sam H ArnoldPublished 4 months ago 5 min read
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My Nan tells of a time when all the homelands were united against the Germans. Now, the Scottish are partners with Germany, and we are alone in Kent. All of England squashed into this tiny county once known as The Garden of England.

Some say it started with Brexit in 2016, but it started before that when the Scottish won independence from England in 2014.

What about Wales, some may ask, but they blew the bridge when the trouble started. Now, they live in their own little country peacefully. Northern Island was taken back by Ireland as soon as the troops left.

My life is very different now. Shacks stand where green fields once were to house the displaced. Food is scarce; we live off what we grow. There is never enough to feed us all. The Dover Port, which once provided the gateway to Europe, lies deserted. The Scottish made it illegal to trade with us. Now, boats that used to ferry refugees to a better life sneak across the channel for food, but too few make it back.

My Nan used to laugh at how we could never stop the dinghies coming across, but now troops patrol the channel to stop the food and us trying to flee. Not that I think the average English person would have the guts to become a refugee.

We are alone, and the whole world watches whilst we starve to death and the soldiers murder our young.

They weren't always indifferent to us. When it began, people marched in the streets for our freedom. But, news moves on and the world forgot about us, if they do watch they have stopped caring.

We were considered lucky; we already lived in Kent. When the displaced arrived, we had to fight to keep our small two-bedroom house. My brother grew up overnight. He was only thirteen but became a man in twenty-four hours. Armed with my grandad's old hunting shotgun, he fought alongside my mother to stop them from taking our home.

My Nan and I hid at the back of the house. My father is lost to us. He was working in Birmingham when the troops arrived. We don't know what happened to him or where he is.

Everything settled once the displaced had homes. We all fight equally now. United in a common goal: survival.

My Nan lived six months before deciding she was finished with the world. A sniper on the wall killed my mother whilst she was standing in the ration queue. Now, only Ethan and I live in the flat that was once our garage—joined to our old house where the Smithsons, a family of eight, now live.

None of that is important, though. What I am sure you would rather know is how this happened. How did one nation of people get trapped in a tiny square of country?

It started with two votes—the first when Scotland wanted devolution from England. The votes were counted, and the Scottish people had spoken; they were separating from Great Britain. Within six months, they were governing themselves: different laws, benefits and a way of life.

The second vote, however, was when the world changed, Brexit. I don't understand fully how it happened; I was only eight. My dad tried to explain it, and this is what I understood. Britain was part of an organisation called the European Union, EU for short. It gave us the power to act as a bigger country, getting better deals with others. Some thought this was a bad idea. My Nan said they were motivated by their own greed. These men persuaded the country to vote to leave the EU.

That was when the trouble started. Scotland didn't want to leave the EU, and because they were separate from us, they stayed governed and supported by the rest of Europe.

Two years after this, Scotland decided they wanted more land. Our soil was better for growing; we had better airports and ports, which they wanted.

The EU decided they were perfectly within their right to take the land. They had suffered enough. Scotland was provided with weapons, soldiers and support to take England for themselves. The soldiers came, followed by the people. Those in the land were told they had one hour to pack and move to Kent. Those who refused were killed. The Scottish moved into their houses. They now belonged to them. Many moved to the next town only to be pushed further towards Kent until we were all here.

Then, the walls came around the county. Checkpoints that only ever allowed traffic one way were set up. We are living in a prison, and our captors hate us because we talk slightly differently and look English.

I'm now thinking that no one will read this. If they do, will they care? But, you see, I had ambitions. I wanted to become someone; I wanted to write and tell stories. Children the same age as me in other countries are taking their exams and deciding on a career. They are laughing and attending concerts. I am walking from one medical centre to another, looking for Ethan.

Ten days ago, Scotland wanted the Port of Dover, and we are in the way. Apparently, three English who escaped Camp Kent blew part of Portsmouth up, and they want revenge for the dead. That is what they say, but it looks more like annihilation to me. The world has decided that English is now an extinct nationality. Ethan went to fight and never came back, and then the bomb wiped the flat and the Smithsons out. I have no one unless Ethan is alive.

I walk from medical centre to medical centre, staring at the faces covered in blood and concrete dust, praying I recognise him. I go to the mass graves and look at the tiny mangled bodies and pray I don't see his face. But no god is listening to the English people anymore.

It will be over soon. We all know it. I look at the other people, and they all know it too. They won't stop until every one of us is dead, until there is not an English person left, and they have taken everything.

It isn't their land. It never was, but the Scottish have told everyone it belongs to them. They tell the world we are terrorists and we must be eliminated, and the world believes it. But how can we be terrorists eighty per cent of us are children, just chil

Manuscript found under the rubble of the William Harvey Hospital - Jan 2024

Fable
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About the Creator

Sam H Arnold

A writer obsessed with true crime, history and books. Find all my dedicated newsletters whether you are a true crime fan, bookworm or aspiring writer on Substack - https://substack.com/@samharnold

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  • Test4 months ago

    You're doing amazing work

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