Young Writers Society

I see the whip but do not feel it strike me. I see the mouths of the men moving but do not hear their yells. I do not speak their language but I understand their intentions. The big one approaches me and tries to pry my arms away but I am strong in my anger. He raises something threateningly. I know what this is. I have seen it used on others. I close my eyes.
* * *
My mother, she won’t write to po’ me,
My mother, she won’t write to po’ me,
She won’t write me no letter,
She won’t send me no word,
It make a long, oh, long-a time man,
Oh Lawdy, feel bad.


The bell rang and the men walked gratefully in from the fields. They emptied the large wicker baskets into the storage bins and wordlessly dispersed. Speaking was discouraged.

Jim walked slowly, dragging his feet in the dust, humming under his breath. My mother, she won’t write to po’ me. It was true. He had never heard from his mother. He didn’t even know who his mother was. But he had long since stopped wondering about that. Like as not, she was dead, but one could never know. She could’ve been on the plantation at this very moment. The masters wouldn’t have wanted him knowing, it would give him spirit; given him something to hope for.

Henny was tending the fire in the hut when he arrived. She had had the day off on account of yesterday’s baby. There was something cooking in the calabash that hung from the low ceiling down over the fire. She nodded at him in greeting as he entered. The baby started wailing. Making shushing noises she picked it up and rocked it back and forth while issuing orders to the children sitting on the dirt at her feet.

“Violet, tend the supper. Jacob, more chips on the fire.” Two painfully thin children got up from the ground in response to these words.

There wasn’t much of the thin stew mixed with chunks of animal fat for Jim, and less for Henny and the children. The baby had taken up wailing again and he stamped out of the hut to get away from the irritating noise. Of course, it would be dangerous to leave the circle of huts at this time of night—there was always a night guard standing ready with a gun—but he stood on the other side where the crying wasn’t so loud, looking up at the darkening sky.

Scratching his chin he squinted in the direction of the big house. He couldn’t see anything—the storage barns were in the way of that. Not even a glow from candles or the shouts of children to suggest the presence of spineless pale masters. He had never been inside the house, nor had anyone on this side of the plantation. He imagined it to be a sort of paradise, where there was always good food and never a squabble. Because why would there be discord if there was nothing to want?

That was the way of the world, he mused. And if it proved anything, it was that people were born bad.
* * *
Yes, 'tis sweet to trust in Jesus,
Just from sin and self to cease;
Just from Jesus simply taking
Life and rest, and joy and peace.

Aaron hummed as he sat at the mahogany desk scratching out sentences with his quill. He was copying a letter written by the master, an invitation to the young Mistress’ wedding, in his best handwriting. The master liked him to write formal documents because he formed his letters very nicely, so said the master.

“Supper Aaron,” said Mary, poking her head round the door. “We’re eatin’ in the dinin’ room tonight with the masters. Mistress says to make yourself presentable-like before you come.”

“Thank you, Mary,” he replied, and went to clean up.


“Sit, Aaron,” said the Mistress warmly as he entered the dining room. He made a bow and obliged, taking his seat at the end of the table near to the kitchen. The table was laden with meat and potatoes and vegetables and loaves of bread for the Master, Mistress, and their children. The Master passed his family plates of food and then two plates down the table for Aaron and Mary.

“Aaron, there’s an auction tomorrow at the square. I was wondering if you would like to join me to see if there’s anything of interest.” Aaron knew that “anything” meant slaves fresh from their voyage across the dreaded Middle Passage. It made him sad to attend the auctions. On the other hand, he was the best qualified to pick slaves for his master to bid on.

“I’d be glad to, sir,” he replied politely.

“Very good. Have the horses ready for us after breakfast.”

“Yes, sir.”



The horses were tied firmly to the fence in front of the house. Aaron slung his master’s bag over the smaller of the two and saddled the other. They set off for town, the Master riding and Aaron leading the other horse on a short rope.

The square was full of men when they arrived, straining closer to the raised platform that had been erected for the purposes of the auction. After a few minutes of expectant waiting, during which the boisterous crowd seemed to double in energy, a tall thin man stepped up onto the platform and announced the ship name and where it was coming from. Aaron wasn’t listening; he was trying to get a glimpse of what was going on behind the platform. Then the first slave was brought up to the platform and his attention was diverted.

As the man listed this slave’s merits, Aaron studied him. A good physique, but he had clearly not yet been broken and his eyes flashed dangerously. The Master looked inquiringly at Aaron, who shook his head—this slave would not be suited to a household. The auction took a while because many men were eager to buy the muscle-packed slave. When he had finally been sold, another was brought up to the platform. A pregnant female, pretty far along by the looks of it. Again, Aaron shook his head. The rate of infant and mother mortality was too high. And so it went on, but none of the slaves seemed right to bid on.

The last slaves to be brought out were a sickly young woman, probably about twenty years old and the child that she clutched in her arms. Most of the crowd had dispersed, and the majority of those left turned their backs on the auction. The man on the platform started the bid for the child first. The woman stood there, mute and terrified.

The Master looked inquiringly at Aaron, and he nodded. The child would be feasible. It could be weaned and grow up in the Master’s house. The Master bid on the child, and it seemed as though he would be the only one who would. The man tried to pry it from the woman’s arms, but she held on tightly. He held up a club.

“Wait!” someone shouted. It was a raggedy looking older man who had been standing near the back of the crowd and now moved forward. He bid up Aaron’s master. The Master stared at him but said nothing and did not bid again. The child went to the old man, who then proceeded to bid on the mother who was now wailing in anguish. When he had purchased her, too, he gently handed her back the baby. The woman followed him obediently out of the square.



Aaron’s master was in an unpleasant mood that evening because of the unproductive auction but Aaron’s heart was light as air. He stood outside the house after he had washed down the horses and put away the saddles and stared up at the night sky. That man hadn’t really wanted the woman and her child, of that he was certain. But he had bought them anyway. The rich people had better things to do, but a poor man like that could look at somebody else’s bad situation and understand it. To Aaron, it seemed that being too rich was a bad thing. There was no doubt in his mind that being a poor man was the natural state of the world. And poor men did good things for other poor men.
That was the way of the world, he mused. And if it proved anything, it was that people were born good.
* * *

The man swings the bat towards my head. This time I feel the sickening pain, and my arms loosen around the two boys. The man takes the opportunity to seize them from my arms. I sink to the ground, fighting energy gone, slipping in and out of consciousness as he calls for bidders on them. I watch helplessly as they are sold to two different men, as they are carried away from each other, and from me. They will never know that they are brothers. They will never know what happened. Then I succumb to oblivion.
* * *

When we do meet again,
When we do meet again,
When we do meet again,
'Twill be no more to part.
Brother Billy, fare you well,
Brother Billy, fare you well,
We'll sing hallelujah, when we do meet again.

Hi sarebear! So about this story, I think it's actually nice. The plot, although simple, made my head turn and think about it. I reckon you based it on finding a truth, a knowledge. This is great since I felt it directly. Kudos to your short story!

I did notice the weird italicization and your giant spacing and I find it confusing. Try to fix it up, I know ya can do it!

Keep up the good work!

(reserving to review)

I like how you start telling the story right away. It especially works well with this format. It's interesting how you chose to tell snippets of different people's lives. However, it was a little difficult to understand how they connected. Presumably, it's connected by "When We Do Meet Again". For example, When will the young slave hold her baby again? But this is a little unclear. In the second segment, is Jim wondering when he'll hear from his mother again? How does Jim relate to the slaves? He probably doesn't. And that can work or you might want to make a connection, a way to tie all the scenes together.

Something to think about,

McMourning