The monsters are killing us. We were a proud community who made fabric that was appreciated everywhere. We were the pride and joy of our land, not anymore. How can we compete against the monsters that produce cloth at a rate unimaginable compared to our hand-looms?
Raw cotton prices have gone up as most of it are being sent to be fed to the monsters. We cannot buy cotton like before and whatever we produce are sneered at by the agents of the monster masters. I would have liked to write everything down, but they broke our thumbs too.
This is a piece of fiction inspired by the crippling of the Indian Weavers by the British Empire in the 18th and 19th century.
Written in response to the picture prompt provided by Sandra Crook for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle. Please find other entries here.