This short story is about how a facet of identity is represented in contemporary Australian life and reflects the poem 'Ancestors' by Peter Skrzynecki. It is, of course, unfinished but I wanted to see if I was on the right track. Here is the short story for General English FA3:
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Perhaps it was by mistake that he was awakened so suddenly from his sleep. Bewildered at how he ended up at this train station, he sat up and seemed not to notice the light drizzle of rain conjuring a sweet pattern upon his exposed skin. Inadvertently, he pushed his finger against a particularly abused patch of skin above his right knee, making him flinch abruptly and become unnervingly aware of his solitude in this derelict train station. Apart from this small bruise, what was even more disturbing was the lack of any sign of violence that he’s suffered. However, this was not the only thing. There was no picture of anything whatsoever in his mind, not even the shadow of a memory. With boundless dismay, he perceives that he no longer has the faintest memory of a journey on a train or ending up in this worn-down station.
Isolation hung in the air. The shattered tin roof, ineffectually covered the concrete floor beneath, attempted to be a silent observer in the silver moonlight, pathetic, scant and uncompelling. What cared they for this man’s unfortunate troubles? The train station was only lit by the whimsical scattering of stars that glimmered feebly through the perforations in the corroded tin roof. A mellow breeze whispered through the gaps above the middle-aged man’s head. A shaft of twilight radiance bathed the timeworn concrete granting it a momentary focus.
In the impenetrable darkness and his vision acute, he didn’t have luck with his attempts to decipher the name of the station. As a normal person would do, he began feeling about himself. Beginning from the top right of his cotton, saturated shirt, he rapidly scanned his pockets until he was met with a small leather wallet tucked away in the breast pocket. A certain part of him whispered to him that the wallet wasn’t his but pulling it out and opening it, he noticed a card with a reflection of him with a name…Akira.
“Akira Tamasaki,” uttered Akira, his voice hoarse and breathless from the fear.
It seemed to leave a certain taste within his mouth or possibly it may be the lack of speaking for a while. Although the knowledge of his name eased him, childish fears paid no mind to his inner demands for their enduring banishment from his unsettled mind.
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Thanks for your help in advance!!