Iron & Cotton

Frank has a very peculiar job. He’d been working for Securities & Defenses for the past 15 years. S&D’s wages were decent, enough for his family to live a comfortable life. The benefits, though, were a cut above. Medical, dental, company car; all these were great but the real benefit came from the company’s products. Securities & Defenses was a company that had been around for ages, under many different monikers. Its products had always been the same though. S&D specialized in the manufacturing of emotional security devices: security blankets, defensive walls, emotional armor, things of that nature. Surprise is the first reaction, well after disbelief, when Frank tells people what he does. They never gave their emotional security a second thought. “Someone had to make it.” as Frank always tells them.

Frank worked in the blanket-weaving department. He’d been there since he started. He’d gotten, quite exceptional at it. Weaving grandmother’s nightly prayers with Christmas mornings, grilled cheese sandwiches, Saturday morning cartoons, and stitching it up with old bedtime stories. His blankets were the best; providing countless people with a comfort of home and old memories. Not a soul could guide the shuttle as divinely as Frank. Frank was an ambitious man. He knew he had done all he could with the blankets and had aspirations to become a smith in the armory. He would watch them as he’d spool mother’s songs to some father’s wrinkly hands. The smiths would walk by franks loom, black from head to toe with soot. They had a dignified air about them a regal silence, as well as steely grey eyes. Frank knew not what went into the making of armor. Hushed whispers during breaks by the water cooler mentioned horrible things being melted down and processed in production. This intrigued Frank. He had to become a smith.

“You know Frank, you’re the best weaver we have. I’d hate to see what your absence would do to our quality reports.” Said Frank’s boss, a friendly man, who always took his family to the lake on Sundays for picnics.

“George, you have to transfer me. I’ve been here 15 years. I need a change or I’m leaving.” gambled Frank, who had no intentions of leaving. He just couldn’t stand not being at the top with the elite.

“I don’t know Frank.” George sounded weaker this time. All he needed now was a push. One of the perks of working at S&D was understanding what made people tick.

“You owe me George, remember when I made your daughters blanket when she went away for college. I tripled stitched it with boating, music, and your wife’s cookies. You know it’s against policy to give those out.” Frank could see the resolve slipping out of George’s eyes.

“What about a transfer to the Wall department?” Georges last attempt at appeasing Frank. George knew what went into making armor.

“No matter how well those walls are made they always fall. I want to make something lasting, something intricate, something tough. It’s that or bust, George.” With Frank’s last push George had given in.

Frank worked the next 6 years in the armory. His skill apparent he rose to the top. Making works of art from the blast furnaces of despair; Frank learned what went into making armor. The whispers from back then didn’t have a dark enough black to paint what went into these pieces. He once used kittens, old couches, stuffed animals, and back scratches. Now, his tools consisted of horrors; rape, death, loss, heartbreak, and lies, amongst other unmentionables. As Frank left the forge for his break he would pass the looms. Trying to avoid the weavers’ inquisitive stares, he would unfix his gaze and walk silently like the smiths had when he was a weaver. Frank understood now that the steely eyes were instead hollow from not focusing on the visions used in smithing. The soot covering him from head to toe carried with it an acrid black lament. What once appeared to be regal silence was in reality a muteness that sunk deep into bones and silenced even marrow. A voiceless mourning in prayer, asking forgiveness for what he’d seen.