“Shift the bobbins.”
The foreman shouted to be heard over the iron-looms groaning. We were only ten workers serving the steel-beast replacing two hundred weavers.
I used to have pride in the careful process of fabric-making, of seeing my skill turned into garments for women.
Their machines had turned me to polisher of steel, tender of cotton, a servant to steel.
Glancing at Marie I nodded.
She winked at the foreman, while I threw my clog deep into the intricate heart of the machinery.
Afterwards we stood smiling in the wreckage of cogwheels and broken levers.
“Sabotage”, the foreman roared.
The image reminded me of the story (apparently a myth) that the word sabotage originates from weavers throwing their clogs into the machinery. Clog is named sabot in French, and the world saboteur originally meant people walking in clogs (making a lot of noise).
Friday Fictioneers is a community of bloggers writing stories to the same picture every week in hundred words (or less). Rochelle keeps us all aligned and make sure we refrain from adverbial sabotage of good prose. But I don’t care I have a poetic license.
March 27, 2019