fic: Upon the Burning of Our House
Upon the Burning of Our House
Original fiction; OFC; pg-13 (for themes and imagery); 1,054 words
The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory takes up three floors of the Asch Building.
This was what I wrote for a history project. Posting it here because it's fic and because my word count for this month is sad.
~*~
You rise before dawn, before sun can begin to warm the freezing room you share with six other girls. Rebecca cries for her family, as she does every morning--she’s only a child, not even ten, sent off to work to pay her eldest brother’s tuition at university--but you and the others have been taking turns comforting her, and yours was yesterday, so you dress quickly, your fingers trembling on the buttons. The factory owners won’t turn on the heat (a ploy to get you to start your workday earlier, some say).
Breakfast is tasteless oatmeal, eaten quickly to avoid the unsavory texture. The walk to the factory is short, and shorter still at this time of year, when everyone hurries out of the freezing air and into a cramped room. Your desire to leave the factory increases every day: with people buying more clothes, the machines are being sped up so much it’s dangerous--a few months ago, Hattie got her hand caught in one of the cutting machines and lost two fingers. The overseer had said it didn’t amount to anything, and sent her home. Just the other day, Layla, a pretty girl of twenty, died after her hair tangled in the sewing machine and it took her scalp. Everyone coughs frequently, the stuffy air filled with dust and lint, which ends up in your lungs, and other people’s. You work nine hours a week on weekdays, and seven on Saturdays--fifty-two hours a week--for such meager pay that a beggar might have a better chance at profit. It's not easy work, but it's mindless, and you're fortunate to have a job when so many back home didn't.
You've been working for eight months, since you arrived on Ellis Island with your family. They were "sick", but no one explained with what; you and Isabella were allowed to stay. You tried to keep her out of the factory, but there wasn't enough money to keep both of you fed and clothed, so to work she went.
The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory takes up three floors of the Asch Building. Supposedly, there are five hundred workers, but in the tiny rooms, there seem to be more, speaking many languages that blend together into one you all seem to understand. Most of you are immigrants: girls trying to support their family, or girls who can't marry. They'll be working here long after you leave.
When you arrive, you work straight through the lunch hour (you're allotted a five-minute break--not enough time to eat, and the doors lock from the outside, anyway), machines buzzing loudly over the litany of coughing, and occasionally, small talk. There's the sound of cloth being cut, metallic click against soft fabric; you hope no one loses any fingers today. Your own fingers ache after awhile, but you push on, knowing you can rest tomorrow. Sundays are for church, and for reading at the local bookstore.
“Hey!” the overseer yells, his sharp voice cutting through the dull white noise of the room, harsh in your ears. “Get back to work! You’re not getting paid to just sit there, girl.”
You sigh, and do. You need this job, but the factory could easily fire you and hire someone for less pay.
The afternoon sun’s beginning to fade when a burning blaze of light arrives--fire. Your first thought is of Isabella, all alone with the other younger girls on the tenth floor, and then, like everyone else, you panic. Someone desperately tries to open the door to the Washington Square stairway, but of course it’s locked. Others rush to the window, craning their necks to see if there’s any rescue waiting for you; they see girls jumping from the tenth floor, rush back into the thick cloud of black smoke screaming. You pray Isabella’s safe, that the firemen reach her, at least. One girl falls, or jumps, lit ablaze, he hair and skin and clothes scorched by the fire. You hope she goes quickly, doesn't suffer too much.
You can’t breathe, though not for lack of trying, and know that you must not have much time. Prayers in English, Hebrew, Russian, and languages you don’t know, for life, mercy, peace. Their prayers are answered in the form of the elevator operators, Joseph Zito and Gaspar Mortillalo. It’s a miracle the elevator even works, but everyone clamors for a spot on it, and Mr. Mortillalo promises to make sure everyone gets out alive, a promise he probably shouldn’t be making. The flames are licking at stragglers, having already consumed the workroom and eating the shirtwaists you’ve risked so much for--a reward that doesn’t seem worth the trouble, now.
On the way down, whispers start to spread about how the fire started--one of the cutters on the eighth floor was smoking, and a cigarette butt or match fell into their scraps bin; an engine running one of the sewing machines; a possible arson by one of the factory owners' children--but there's no way to know. The elevator lurches on its track, metal bending with the heat, but you make it down alright, and Mr. Zito insists on another trip up. “For the others,” he says, accent thick.
You watch from the ground--girls who think rescue is impossible jumping from the top floor, alone or wrapped in a hug, little boys running from the elevator the safety of the pavement, onlookers crying. That same week, the death toll of 146 people is announced, and the public is horrified.
Many months later, there’s a trial. They ask you to be a defendant, and you agree. At the court, the company owners’ lawyer, Max Steuer, asks you to repeat your testimony a number of times, then claims that your statement was memorized, that the prosecutors told you what to say.
The $75 awarded to the victims’ families doesn’t matter. There’s no justice for the dead. The jury acquitted Mr. Blanck and Mr. Harris, and the insurance company paid them $60,000 more than the reported losses. You quit your job, and find one as a teacher. It's much safer.
Original fiction; OFC; pg-13 (for themes and imagery); 1,054 words
The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory takes up three floors of the Asch Building.
This was what I wrote for a history project. Posting it here because it's fic and because my word count for this month is sad.
~*~
You rise before dawn, before sun can begin to warm the freezing room you share with six other girls. Rebecca cries for her family, as she does every morning--she’s only a child, not even ten, sent off to work to pay her eldest brother’s tuition at university--but you and the others have been taking turns comforting her, and yours was yesterday, so you dress quickly, your fingers trembling on the buttons. The factory owners won’t turn on the heat (a ploy to get you to start your workday earlier, some say).
Breakfast is tasteless oatmeal, eaten quickly to avoid the unsavory texture. The walk to the factory is short, and shorter still at this time of year, when everyone hurries out of the freezing air and into a cramped room. Your desire to leave the factory increases every day: with people buying more clothes, the machines are being sped up so much it’s dangerous--a few months ago, Hattie got her hand caught in one of the cutting machines and lost two fingers. The overseer had said it didn’t amount to anything, and sent her home. Just the other day, Layla, a pretty girl of twenty, died after her hair tangled in the sewing machine and it took her scalp. Everyone coughs frequently, the stuffy air filled with dust and lint, which ends up in your lungs, and other people’s. You work nine hours a week on weekdays, and seven on Saturdays--fifty-two hours a week--for such meager pay that a beggar might have a better chance at profit. It's not easy work, but it's mindless, and you're fortunate to have a job when so many back home didn't.
You've been working for eight months, since you arrived on Ellis Island with your family. They were "sick", but no one explained with what; you and Isabella were allowed to stay. You tried to keep her out of the factory, but there wasn't enough money to keep both of you fed and clothed, so to work she went.
The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory takes up three floors of the Asch Building. Supposedly, there are five hundred workers, but in the tiny rooms, there seem to be more, speaking many languages that blend together into one you all seem to understand. Most of you are immigrants: girls trying to support their family, or girls who can't marry. They'll be working here long after you leave.
When you arrive, you work straight through the lunch hour (you're allotted a five-minute break--not enough time to eat, and the doors lock from the outside, anyway), machines buzzing loudly over the litany of coughing, and occasionally, small talk. There's the sound of cloth being cut, metallic click against soft fabric; you hope no one loses any fingers today. Your own fingers ache after awhile, but you push on, knowing you can rest tomorrow. Sundays are for church, and for reading at the local bookstore.
“Hey!” the overseer yells, his sharp voice cutting through the dull white noise of the room, harsh in your ears. “Get back to work! You’re not getting paid to just sit there, girl.”
You sigh, and do. You need this job, but the factory could easily fire you and hire someone for less pay.
The afternoon sun’s beginning to fade when a burning blaze of light arrives--fire. Your first thought is of Isabella, all alone with the other younger girls on the tenth floor, and then, like everyone else, you panic. Someone desperately tries to open the door to the Washington Square stairway, but of course it’s locked. Others rush to the window, craning their necks to see if there’s any rescue waiting for you; they see girls jumping from the tenth floor, rush back into the thick cloud of black smoke screaming. You pray Isabella’s safe, that the firemen reach her, at least. One girl falls, or jumps, lit ablaze, he hair and skin and clothes scorched by the fire. You hope she goes quickly, doesn't suffer too much.
You can’t breathe, though not for lack of trying, and know that you must not have much time. Prayers in English, Hebrew, Russian, and languages you don’t know, for life, mercy, peace. Their prayers are answered in the form of the elevator operators, Joseph Zito and Gaspar Mortillalo. It’s a miracle the elevator even works, but everyone clamors for a spot on it, and Mr. Mortillalo promises to make sure everyone gets out alive, a promise he probably shouldn’t be making. The flames are licking at stragglers, having already consumed the workroom and eating the shirtwaists you’ve risked so much for--a reward that doesn’t seem worth the trouble, now.
On the way down, whispers start to spread about how the fire started--one of the cutters on the eighth floor was smoking, and a cigarette butt or match fell into their scraps bin; an engine running one of the sewing machines; a possible arson by one of the factory owners' children--but there's no way to know. The elevator lurches on its track, metal bending with the heat, but you make it down alright, and Mr. Zito insists on another trip up. “For the others,” he says, accent thick.
You watch from the ground--girls who think rescue is impossible jumping from the top floor, alone or wrapped in a hug, little boys running from the elevator the safety of the pavement, onlookers crying. That same week, the death toll of 146 people is announced, and the public is horrified.
Many months later, there’s a trial. They ask you to be a defendant, and you agree. At the court, the company owners’ lawyer, Max Steuer, asks you to repeat your testimony a number of times, then claims that your statement was memorized, that the prosecutors told you what to say.
The $75 awarded to the victims’ families doesn’t matter. There’s no justice for the dead. The jury acquitted Mr. Blanck and Mr. Harris, and the insurance company paid them $60,000 more than the reported losses. You quit your job, and find one as a teacher. It's much safer.