"Hello, Pierre."
"Hello, Mary!" The house chef greeted her in his thick accent, he had been brought in from France to cook for the VanShay family when Meriddion's mother was still alive.
"Heard you needed some help."
"Oui, with my boy out in the field I'm a couple hands short."
"How can I help?"
"You're sure you want to?"
"I have nothing better to do," she shrugged
"Those dishes need done."
"I'll get started," she said with a smile.
Meriddion rolled up the sleeves of her simple purple shirt and put her hands in the water. She hadn't washed a dish before she felt a body behind her and hands on her arms. She glanced down at the calloused hands on her bare arms, she glanced back at the body they were connected to. The slave boy had followed her to the kitchen.
"I'll do it."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
Meriddion stepped back and let him work. She spoke at some length with Pierre about the dish he was preparing for dinner that evening, stealing the occasional glance back at the slave, mesmerized by the contraction of the muscles in his back with the motion of his arms. She knew it must hurt after his beating that morning. Soon enough, he finished the kitchen dishes.
"I'll check back with you in a while, if that's alright with you."
"Of course, and my boy will be back around 7, they can't keep them working in the fields after dark. Some of the work can wait until after dinner."
"You'll have to make sure he's rewarded for the extra work, but don't tell my father."
"Of course, Mary. I'll see to it he gets a good dinner and perhaps some dessert, which is going to be divine this evening."
"I can't wait," she smiled as she pulled the slave out the door.
"Has anyone showed you where you'll stay?"
"No."
"The quarters is down this way, I'll take you now. We can get you a new shirt too, it's going to start getting cold as it gets darker."
Meriddion led the way back out into the garden and along the back of the house. On the west side of the house was a warehouse like building that served as the slave quarters for the plantation. It housed the 90 or so slaves that worked to keep the house clean and to plant and harvest the cotton in the fields.
"John can show you your bed and clothes. Can you find your way back to my room from here?"
The slave simply nodded and entered the quarters.
-Photo: Gerald
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The Tattoo (formerly Unbreakable)
General FictionHe who wins the war writes the history books. His war is the only one that is just, anything else is a foolish act of rebellion against power. True power, in 22nd century America is being unblemished and clean skinned. A tattoo on the wrist is the m...
