CHAINS
I was twelve
when the trader threw my dead mother overboard and kept me for himself.
He sold
the beautiful babies I bore him, then took a younger girl to his bed and sold
me to a rich businessman.
I cooked
and cleaned for them, nursed their children, ate only their scraps. At night
they locked me in the outhouse – on the back of that door I scratched every day
of my years of slavery.
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Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ from whence you can follow the link to read other stories prompted by CEAyr's photograph.
