Fanny had mostly grown accustomed to the droning churn of the spinning machines as they clicked and sputtered and whirred, huffing and puffing endlessly, filling his ears with so much noise that it eventually became unnoticeable—that is until he finally stepped outside the factory into the dingy streets after the long hand on the clock had spun around fourteen times. What he hadn’t yet familiarized himself with was the profusion of dust and lint that swirled around him, settling a sting in his chest that rose until he had no choice but to cough—only after sending the sweeper beside him a vindictive glare. 

Ms. Peckett, the prim and tidy attendant of the Clark Street Home for Working Youth who always wore a strangling, black collar, had a distaste for his cough, which often seemed to persist well into the evening. At first she speculated it was tuberculosis, but given that the boy hadn’t perished already—and that the doctor was too expensive—she had allowed him to eat supper with the rest of the children. Of course, cold beans and corn was nothing to rejoice about. 

“At least you’re off the streets,” Ms. Peckett reminded with pretentious disaffection as the exhausted orphans filed past, dropping coins into the tin box outstretched in her arms.

It could be worse, Fanny supposed as he watched the girls strut down each tedious row, eyes scanning hundreds of thin white threads. They’d reach over and fix a break, small but dexterous hands briskly tying the two ends together with natural precision before the metal belts could swallow up their fingers. 

Fanny sat back with the other doffers, preparing to replace the bobbins. In a burst of energy he gathered a few fresh spools from the basket and leaped up onto the machines, balancing precariously on a metal platform just inches from the spinning belt so that he could reach the spindles, overalls rolled up so the fabric didn’t catch any of the moving parts and suck him fatally into the machine, all while being extra careful not to drop anything—which would of course result in a treacherous mission underneath the spinning frames. 

“Here.” A small voice was accompanied by an outstretched finger pointing out a spot the boy nearly missed.

Fanny glimpsed a tenuous girl’s dirt-stained apron, worn leather boots, and braided hair that all seemed the same shade of brown. A fetid odor of sweat wafted his way. 

He pretended to ignore her, wondering why she felt it necessary to intervene in another’s task. 

“You’re not to lend a hand,” Ms. Peckett always emphasized, “for you risk failing at your own task, and that task is…” She paused, heels clicking as she executed a sharp, theatrical pivot to face the class.

“All that we must do,” the children responded in apathetic unison.

Fanny corrected his oversight, then retreated to his familiar spot against the barrels lining the wall. He wiped sweat from his brow, unknowingly transferring dirt from the back of his hand. 

As if the children’s greuling servitude wasn’t punishing enough, a man rounded the corner, lit cigar hanging from his lip, prepared to evoke terror in each and every young soul. The vigilant boys and girls straightened their backs and latched their eyes intensely to their work—except for one.

“You,” the sloven supervisor grumbled, arms crossed over his suspenders, belly protruding so that his body formed a comfortable s-shaped slouch that was starkly incongruous with the postures of the children. He paused directly behind the girl with the dirty apron, but she didn’t seem to notice him over the deafening, endless churn of the machines. 

“What’s your name?” he shouted, grabbing her arm violently, maintaining his natural baleful countenance. 

She startled, then paled, furtive eyes brimming with trepidation and glancing no farther north than his chest. 

“Julia.”

The man frowned imperiously, blowing an acrid puff before pointing to a bundle of thread snagged on the machine that was producing a repetitive, clamorous clicking.

“What’s this, Julia?” he interrogated.

Her cheeks reddened penitently. “Sorry, I didn’t—” 

But before she could produce an excuse for her ineptitude, she was thrust to the ground like one of the cotton bales they kept in the basement.

“Didn’t see?” the supervisor bellowed with excoriating, sadistic fervor. “Didn’t hear!” He stared at her for a moment, flames suffusing his glazed grey eyes, then adjusted his cap, returned the cigar to his teeth, and sauntered past her.

She lay in an enervated heap, dress sprawled out along the floorboards, hands still planted inertly where they’d caught her fall a moment ago, eyes fastened morosely to the space between them.

The boy’s gaze lingered on the hem of her dress, which lay just inches to the side of the rotating belts insatiably consuming thread. To the astoundment of the other children, he sprung up from the wall and approached her. 

“You’d better move,” he said with feigned indifference, planting himself at a cautious distance. 

Julia broke from her stupor and swiveled her head to peer up at him. Then she glanced at the hem of her skirt, tucked the folds under her knee, and rose to her feet. Brushing dust and grease from her apron—which had little effect at all—she examined the boy, brows shifting tempestuously as if deciding between shame and skepticality, only to finally settle at an authentic defenselessness. 

She seemed close to speech, then caught a glimpse of the factory clock above Fanny’s head, and instantly a franticness overtook her. 

“I should go,” she said, as if they had been in the middle of something. 

Fanny considered turning away to leave the girl, as she was obviously perturbed by something, but felt as if he might miss something.

“I’d better put on the potatoes,” she continued with a lack of reticence, “It’s almost dinner.” 

She gazed at him expectantly, and for a moment Fanny wondered if she was awaiting permission, but then she lurched to the side and moved swiftly for the door with a rickety, mechanical sidle that rattled the floorboards, probably sending showers of dust upon the workers in the basement—and on the cotton bales they would carry up to load onto the machines, which would spew out more and more dust that would eventually find its way into Fanny’s poor young lungs and accumulate until he had no choice but to cough.

Dim lanterns lined the walls, emulating the smut-covered windows as an insufficient source of light. Fanny stood on his toes to peer over the indefatigable machines at the ravenous children shoving food into their bellies, all crammed uncomfortably onto wooden benches. His spirits rose as they began to stand and scurry back to their stations.
“You lot. Five minutes,” the supervisor instructed languorously. 

Instantly his row sprung from their positions, snatched tin boxes and paper bags from the barrels behind them, and scrambled for the benches with such animalistic frenzy that a few even slipped on the greasy floorboards.

Fanny missed the open seats, and was about to settle smally on the floor when he noticed a leather boot peeking out from behind a column. Approaching, he made out a shadowy figure scrunched meekly behind it. She noticed him and smiled amiably, beckoning him over to the quiet hiding place. Overwhelmed by the raucous din of the childrens’ conversation, he pushed through the crowd to nestle shly beside her.

Julia watched as he opened a pitiful tin box to reveal cold beans and a soggy carrot. She ripped off a piece of her fresh loaf and offered it to him graciously.

“Want some?”

Fanny examined the fluffy golden treat lustfully, then took it from her with a guilty, averted gaze.

“It’s not even mine,” she explained reassuringly, “I took it from the table.” An impish grin overtook her as she admitted the action unscrupulously. “They don’t ever notice.”

“What about your family?” he inquired. 

She sighed, taking a slow, contemplative bite of her rosey-red apple. “Not much of a family if you never see ‘em. No, it's…more a job I suppose. We’re just a bunch of workers.” 

“How so?” the boy asked between lethargic bites. 

“We cook and clean and work so that we can cook and clean and work some more because there's always more little ones to care for—an endless supply actually. Like the cotton. Sometimes I forget how many sisters I have. I never see them all at once anyway,” she added wryly.

Fanny sniffed in amusement, relating deeply to her rueful sentiments.

“If that’s a family, then I suppose I do have one—” he mused with exaggerated sobriety, “—just with about a hundred siblings and one cruel mother.”

They both chuckled, enlivened for an ephemeral moment. 

After a pause, Fanny blurted out a pressing question. “Why didn’t you notice the clog the other day? It was making a horrible racket.” 

She shrugged, a bleariness returning to her gaze. “My hearing isn’t right,” she explains. “Never has been. And the machines don’t help. I was supposed to be a housekeeper like Martha but they thought I wouldn’t hear directions.”

She stopped chewing for a moment and looked up with pleading earnesty. “You mustn't tell them though! Oh they’ll—they’ll kick me straight out the door!”

“Alright. I won’t,” he assuaged. The idea had never even crossed his mind.

 “Good.” She uttered a relieved sigh.

Fanny looked down to see a small slip of paper on the floor next to his knee. His discreet fingers reached out to unfold it:

     I am the cotton

     To be tossed around

     And twisted into what they want me to be

     Until I break in two

     I am the machine

     Working into the night

     Only stopping when I break

     But I am still the one

     Who will break free

“Hey!” Julia exclaimed, flushing. She snatched the slip from the boy and returned it hastily to her pocket. 

“What is that?” he inquired. 

“I wrote it. Do you…like it?” 

“It doesn’t really make sense.”

“It does to me.”

“Alright.”

Just then an unkempt, irascible man with a malevolent sneer and pudgy cheeks appeared from around the corner. “Back to work you two.” A crushing grip fastened to Fanny’s arm and pulled him up with unnecessary force to callously cease the childrens’ conversation and end their fleeting moment of respite.

Fanny was trying to remember the words he had read on that tiny slip of paper when loud footsteps approached his row. He watched as brown pouches were dropped into each child’s eager hands and treated like sacred gemstones.

Soon enough he felt a weight in his own palms—although he couldn’t help but detect that it was significantly lighter than usual… 

Quickly he searched through the bag, brows furrowed skeptically as he counted the coins. 

Emptier. Most certainly less. So depressingly fewer. So enragingly meager.

“It’s not enough,” he blurted out, heart pounding almost in time with the machines. 

The supervisor stopped in his tracks and ever so slowly slipped the chewed cigar from his teeth, its red embers seeming to ignite something malevolent within him that had been desperately seeking an excuse to reemerge. 

“What’s that?” He raised his voice obnoxiously, hushing the surrounding murmurs so that Fanny felt even more alone.

“I won’t—t be able to m—make board,” he repeated, waves of tremors converging like a deluge on his tongue, throat, and eyes as they began to crack under unbearable pressure.

“I’ll be on…the streets,” Fanny managed, swallowing painfully between words.

The supervisor approached to tower over the boy with the most disparaging, berating smirk that soon transformed into an expression of nightmarish, wrathful furiosity. 

“How about you take your pay, kid, get another job, and don’t ever talk back to your supervisor or that’ll be the last sack you ever earn!” 

In an impressive flourish the man scooped up the small brown bag from Fanny’s sweaty fingers and flung it straight under the machines. His heart sank as he watched it disappear beneath the fast-moving belts and gears, swallowed up by the voracious beast.

But it wasn’t gone.

He knew that, for he had seen some of the other children squeeze their nimble frames flat underneath to fetch an expensive mechanical part or two. And they’d returned, their triumph casting doubt on the harrowing stories he’d overheard from the adults’ rows.

His mourning subsided, giving rise to a sudden gallantry.

“No!” a small voice implored as the boy crouched down in resolution. “Don’t do it. Oh please don’t do it,” Julia half-whispered, glancing gingerly back at the supervisor. 

Fanny shrugged her off and laid down, determined gaze scanning the dark, narrow crevasse for an indication of his earnings. There it was—one tiny lump amongst so much chaos and hazard.

“Stop it!” she pleaded, her hesitant tone giving rise to one of emotional conviction. She was torn between speaking to Fanny and his tyrannical persecutor. 

“You can have mine!” she exclaimed desperately, “It’s a little less than yours but I’ve got working sisters and…and I’ll just make it up by selling some of my parchment at the market or—or I won’t buy any apples for a month—or—or I can sell them! That’s it! I’ll sell them too—for a profit! It’s not that big a difference to me, you see? Oh but I just can’t bear to see it happen oh please don’t—”

But Fanny could no longer hear her emphatic cries over the churning of the machines which was now rattling his eardrums, contorting his face into a woeful grimace of excruciating torment. The whooshing, tinny clamber above him rattled his skull concussively as his alternating forearms drug him deeper inside, shoulders rotating as flatly as he could make them. Irrepressible, viscous tears streamed down like blood, stinging his swollen under-eyes. 

The sound seemed to be liquifying him—morphing him—molding him into a haggard creature that ululated screams of urgent distress and perseverance. He could barely see the sack through his blurry, doubled, unblinking vision. He reached out for it, straining every muscle and tendon in his feeble arms as he fumbled blindly about the crawlspace.

Then there was a bang and a shooting pain in the top of his skull. He reached up to protect himself, only to skin his shoulder on something jagged and pulsating. 

He cried out as a deep redness oozed into his eyes. He was under attack, but he couldn’t turn to see his enemy—couldn’t back away for he might risk a third defeating blow. He felt himself slipping, the sound draining away peacefully with his consciousness…  

Something warm and sweaty gripped his ankle, and suddenly he was sliding back through the cave like a limp doll, his trail of blood lubricating the floor to expedite his journey back into the light.

When the boy emerged he sprung to his senses and clutched the gash on his shoulder, panting and sobbing in disorientation. He was swathed in a soothing embrace, and a girl’s voice was crying out in blustering desperation. She backed him away from the machine, pleading relentlessly—helplessly for an indication that the boy would live. 

All he could manage was a pitiful nod as he wiped his face on her dirty apron, painting it with sweat, blood, and tears to form an organic depiction of suffering. 

The girl was so aghast that she released the boy and stood overwhelmed amidst the chaos of the factory children, who were all gasping and screaming, eyes fastened to the macabre scene—even though the boy was quickly coming around and would recover soon enough with a few bandages.

But Julia gazed with gaping eyes at her grotesque apron and trembling hands. She held them out foreignly and stood in petrification, unable to remove her apron or turn away from the boy to relieve herself of the horrific incident. She looked up at the slouching, corpulent figure ambling coolly away with his chipped, blackened teeth and chapped lips loosely holding his cigar in place. 

In a sudden burst of bellicosity the girl bounded over to him, hands tightly fisted, braid slapping her back, knees rigid and powerful. Fanny watched in stupefaction as she thrust herself into the man, her shoulder bearing the brunt of the daring offensive.

The supervisor grunted with surprise and stumbled—and probably would have caught his balance had it not been for the thick layer of grease coating the floorboards in exactly that spot. He plunged for the ground, arms flailing wildly.

His cigar soared through the air, trailing amber embers onto the pile of lint and dust that had settled on the floor—right next to the grease…

In an instant the girl had defeated one malicious beast, only to create another. Small flames sprouted from the floorboards and spread across them fiercely, consuming every clump and particle of perfect kindling in its wake. 

Fanny found his legs and sprung toward the girl, who’s expression had settled back into an uncomprehending daze. He yanked her by the arm as someone needlessly shouted, “Fire!” and the children began climbing over each other, scrambling for the doors at the other end of the factory. They trampled and climbed and lunged over one another with violent grit and liberating exuberance. 

When they finally emerged, there was smoggy air and a desaturated haze—which felt tropical in contrast to the smoke and soot filling the childrens’ lungs inside the sweltering building.

Fanny and Julia didn’t stop until they had nearly reached the pier, where they turned back in awe at a tremendous picture of desolation.

Through the ashes floating gently like snow was an effulgent array of reds and oranges that captivated the destitute children. Shreds of cotton were floating as well, dancing and swirling happily, free at last from their imprisoning ropes and hands and machines—not at all so different from the children themselves.