Hello, this is a short story that I have written. Any suggestions would be appreciated “You, make sure that your stitches are tighter then that. We do not stand for sub-par shoes.” He told me. I can’t stand him. Constantly looking over us. Reassuring himself that yes, we are working. Yes, we are slaving away at these tables. Yes, we are making him richer. No, we aren’t standing up to him. No, we aren’t revolting. No, we aren’t aware of our rights. None of us knew his name. The only way we could describe him to each other was “The American”. But we could not call him that, we wouldn’t not even dream of confronting him. We were suggested, forced, to call him simply “sir”. “Yes sir, I will make sure that I have it done.” I responded, the only response that wouldn’t have me beaten. “Good, now get back to work. You’re wasting time. And if you do not have two hundred shoes made by the end of today. Well you know what happens.” He told me with a wink. The wink that would haunt my dreams for years. I knew what happened. It happened to my sister. The day ended. Everyone met the two hundred shoe quota. Most people got more. Everyone except my sister. She tried her hardest, but couldn’t possibly get it all done. Two of her fingers were broken that day. They sent her to fix the jam in the fabric press. She had small fingers. She fixed the machine, but as soon as it was no longer stuck, it pressed. Crushing her hand, and breaking two fingers. But she could not go home. Even if they would let her, we could not afford it. Back to work, she began sewing. However by the end of the day, she had only sewn twenty more shoes then she had already done. Only one hundred. They took her outside, and forced everybody else to come with her. Forming a giant circle around the American, and my sister. He pulled out his pistol, and forced her to the ground. One of the other Americans shouted out. “Wait, get her sister.” So they grabbed me too. Forcing me to hold my sister on the ground. Preparing her for death. I closed my eyes, not being able to watch what they were doing, but they would not let me. “If you even blink between now, and the shot. Your next.” The American told me. So I watched. Sat silently, holding my younger sister to the ground. As he cocked his pistol. The metallic click, piercing the silence of the circle. No one dared to make a sound. “I’m sorry” I whispered. A moment before the shot was fired. I was beaten for that. Whipped, for a final goodbye to my sister. But that image scars deeper than the cuts on my back. Haunting me for the rest of my life. I was awoken from my daydream by a prick on my finger. I became careless while my mind wandered. If I were not awoken at that moment, I definitely would be after a few moments. Yelling was heard across the room. One short sentence. One that would change our lives forever, and end the life of one. “Shut up, you fat American pig!” Was that sentence. It was uttered by a young boy; he couldn’t have been much older than twelve. Young enough to be considerate, but old enough to know better. “What did you say?” The American responded. The boy did not speak. Finally realizing what he had said. Mentally comprehending the consequences of his actions. “What did you say?” Repeats the American, louder. You could see his face become red. Trying to think of what he could do to this boy. What punishment seemed appropriate. But the boy was still silent “What did you say!?” The American repeats for the third time, screaming. By now, the entire factory was watching. Trying to get a glimpse of what would happen to the boy. The American turned around to us. “Get back to work” Nobody listened. We needed to see this, no one had ever stood up to the American before. We could not miss it. Then the boy surprised us all. Did what we would never expect him to do. He stood up, spit on the American, and ran. But it was no use. No matter how fast he ran. They would stop him. Within seconds, the doors were blocked, and locked. There was no escape. The boy was grabbed, taken into the basement, and never seen again. Mumbling was heard throughout the factory. All of us wondering what would happen to the boy. Whether he would be beaten, or worse. It was short lived though. Within five minutes, the American returned from the basement. Alone.
The class struggle remains the central fact of life for most garment workers and light manufacturing workers around the world, but the overseers are generally not American these days. Penalty for non-compliance to sweatshop rules is almost always dismissal, not death, so in that respect your story is unrealistic.
Thanks for your input. unfortunately, I had to write this in school for a writers craft test. so I had no access to the internet, or any other sources for research. I had to go by what I assumed, and that is what I had come up with.
The story was shocking though and I'll bet it has happened more than once. As far as no more American slavedrivers...they might as well be. Nice job.
