The Outsider
Being different was not a bad thing for me. It was the ridicule that came along with being abnormal for there was no justice for the different, no safe haven for the weak and no solace for the segregated. In this vast land mass there was no room for people like me. My face shone in the subdued watery sunlight as it burst in beams through the almost complete cloud layer above, casting transitory spotlights. My features were typical of my kin in the lands south across the seas, but here they marked me out as an alien. My cocoa-pigmented, angularlying chiselled face was considered appealing back home or at least not disturbin, here it was a cause of alarm. Trust me, I am not one to blame them for their views, for these people have lived in the colder climes for so long that their skin now matched the snow. On the other hand mine unmistakably resonated the rich fertile soils of the motherland. Back home I did not have an accent. In the rolling hills and plunging valleys my speech wa