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Medieval Torture - 9/14 : Writing Prompts and Challenges • Page 2 • Writing Forum | WritersDigest.com

Medieval Torture - 9/14

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kimberly2006
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RE: Medieval Torture - 9/14

Postby kimberly2006 » Thu Sep 16, 2010 4:38 am

It had been crazy to meet this man… this tall, salt and pepper haired man… ocean gray eyes, voice like melted caramel… I had agreed to meet him, but only once. It had been a long time since someone had expressed an interest in me. Me… a lonely housewife, muddling through menopause… graying hair, soft belly, ample thighs… I had sunk into the background long ago… so when this stranger, this gorgeous stranger, asked me to meet him, I agreed, “but only once,” I said firmly, after all, I am a dutiful wife and mother of three, I have responsibilities. “Okay,” he winked, “just this once.”

I find myself handcuffed to the wall, the cool breeze against my bare legs invites goose bumps as I observe the items he has laid out on a small table, a small wooden paddle, some whipped cream, two glasses of white wine, and a blind fold. Wriggling my hands, attempting to break free, he stands before me, “You said, ‘just once,’ remember? You must trust me,” he whispers, his breath is warm and moist against my ear as he slides the blindfold over my head and positions its velvetiness against my closed eyelids. As he smoothes my curly, frumpy hair away from my shoulders, he kisses my cheek, “You are beautiful my love… absolutely beautiful,” then he begins to gently caress my throat, tracing my collarbone to a neatly tied silk bow. My lips open slightly, emitting a soft breath, too weak to really contest his touch, almost more of welcome sigh of anticipation as his musky cologne wafts through my nose and mouth, filling my head with such ravenous thoughts!

The softness of his hands, how capable they appear, the way they trace the outline of my body through my brand new black lace robe. Again, I try to wiggle out of the handcuffs, how desperately I ache to feel his powerful grasp, his control, I have to admit, is something of an aphrodisiac. The way he looms over me, I can feel his intent gaze, the way he seems to be drinking me in, I melt. How long I have waited to be taken as a slave girl!

As he steps away from me, I hear the clang of crystal, then I feel the smooth edge of a glass upon my lips, “taste,” he says playfully, while tipping the wine tenderly to my dry mouth. “Sweet,” I say as I lick my lips, “like apples.” “Hmmm, let me see,” he responds teasingly, as he kisses me delicately on the lips. “You are right, very sweet,” as he trails his thumb along the fullness of my bottom lip. “How about something more sweet,” he says huskily, as he squirts a small dollop of whipped cream onto my mouth. I am surprised by the texture, the creaminess, the stickiness, as it clings to my lips and runs down my chin. I despise stickiness, hurriedly I struggle to free my hands, “No, no, you are going to ruin the fun,” he says sternly, and kisses my lips, my chin, my throat, his fingertips gingerly tracing the black satin negligee I have on under my robe. His kisses are warm, so inviting, intoxicating; I desperately want more of him. Tentatively, I step towards him, placing my calf against his leg, needing to feel his body against me.

Suddenly the doorbell rings, “They’re home,” he says matter-of-factly as he steps away from me, lifting the blindfold. I will get their snack, you clean up in here… maybe we can play again tomorrow. Then he turns and leaves me standing, alone with my pink fuzzy handcuffs; he wielded the best weapon of all from his table of tricks, the weapon of detachment, which is my husband’s favorite weapon of all…. Back to the background, back to dutiful wife and mother…

“I made cookies,” I say as I trot down the stairs, pulling my graying locks into a ponytail.

bolabunz
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RE: Medieval Torture - 9/14

Postby bolabunz » Fri Sep 17, 2010 10:29 am

For a while after I wake up my head hurts so much I don't open my eyes. Curiosity finally overcomes my headache and I force my eyelids open, only to shut them again hastily. It isn't the pain; it's what is lying on the table in front of me.
Must be a neat freak who laid this out, I think, wondering if I should just panic or try and think this through. The implements are shiny, most of them pointed; many with rows of wicked looking teeth or flat clamping surfaces that make my sensitive parts cringe. There seems to be an order to the madness, with the smallest ones to my left, increasing alarmingly in size and cruelty as they progress across the table. I try to twist my head to get a look around the room and find my head is secured in place by a metal band that rubs against my forehead and gives new meaning to the phrase "stars in my eyes." I must have passed out again, for when I open my eyes a second time it's a lot easier. Time is dulling my headache, but time is not my friend here. As far as I can see, I'm alone in the room and I can only conclude that these cold shiny instruments are there for my benefit.
I realize I'm cold. I have not even a scrap of clothing to preserve my dignity and there's was a cold draught playing across the room. Using my eyes without moving my head, I can see that there's a doorway across from me, and a high narrow window a few paces to the right of it, open to the elements. It seems dark in the window slit, darker than the interior of the room and I figure it must be evening or later outside. It was afternoon when I sneaked away from the group, tiptoeing up the stairs of the abandoned tower in the roped off section of the castle we were exploring. I remember stepping on a crumbling stone step and plunging into blackness screaming. Now this.
Goodrich castle in Herefordshire is uninhabited, a decaying ruin that somehow draws visitors because of its association with Wordsworth's poem "We are Seven." At the moment, I am one, and Wordsworth's little maid might soon add me to her list of two dead that so bothered Wordsworth's narrator. The silence is uncanny. I always assumed castles were noisy places, but the room is filled with an almost unbearable stillness, a musty expectance, as if awaiting a familiar presence. The hair on the back of my neck and arms rises as I contemplate this, and at the risk of wringing my own neck I scrunch my head into my shoulders, trying to wriggle out of the restricting band about my head. It hurts like crazy, and I can't emulate a turtle enough to free myself from the constraint, but the grip on my head loosens as my head slips and inch down in the ring. I can turn my head a little now, and see almost all of the room. It isn't large, and the walls are curved around, making me think that I am still in the tower. But this tower is not ruined. The walls are made of solid stone blocks, undecorated and gray to match the gloom that fills the space. What little light there is comes from a sputtering torch mounted to one side and now burnt almost to an ember. My eyes are more adjusted to the dimness now and I can see that a faint stream of smoke trails from the wall and is being drawn under the door. The door. I haven't paid any attention to it until now, but there it stands, massive beams of wood banded with rusted metal, worn almost the color of the walls. I stare at it intently, trying to see if it's locked and to my horror it begins to swing slowly open, making the torch sputter wildly and go out. In the extreme darkness that follows, I can't see what comes through the door, but somehow, I know that I am no longer alone in the room.

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brianefisher
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RE: Medieval Torture - 9/14

Postby brianefisher » Wed Sep 22, 2010 8:00 am

     As soon as I managed to open my eyes, I knew exactly where I was; I had been there before.  However, last time I was not the one cuffed and chained to the wall.  I had been the one laying out the tools, the Heretic’s Fork, the Spanish Tickler. Who was in the leather mask and overalls, and what were they going to do with The Pear?
Laid out before me, were my favorite tools to use.  It had been done so with exceptional care, the way I would have.  The gag in my mouth prevented me from questioning the stranger.  I couldn’t remember how I had gotten here.  The last thing I remembered was cleaning my tools and putting them away.  The last person brought to me was a blonde with a perfect body.  She deserved what she got.
    I left her in the chair behind me, but what happened after that? 
    The stranger approached me and looked up and down my naked body.  I had never shown my scars to anyone.  I yanked at the chains, trying to manage a scream, but only muffled sigh escaped my throat.  The stranger picked up the Spanish Tickler.  Oh God.  It was placed against my chest and dragged downward to my navel.  Three cat-like claw marks remained, bleeding.  This person was screwing with me, the tool can do so much more.  Amateur. 
     The stranger knew how to place the Heretic’s Fork.  It immobilized my head; any thrashing now would result in excruciating wounds.  Then, the Tickler again, dragged across my abdomen with greater force than before, but not enough to be a man.  Could it be?  The stranger replaced the Tickler with The Pear.  I pulled away from the wall; the movement allowed the Heretic’s Fork to pierce my skin just under my jaw.  I settle back against the cold damp moss covered wall. 
     The stranger turned the screw to close The Pear tight.  I used this on the blonde, the screams would forever resonate in the stone walls.  I thought it had killed her.  If this stranger was she, she was not going to be kind. 
     My stomach growled.  How long had I been out, chained to the wall?  I was sure I was not going to eat again.
     Before me, the stranger knelt with The Pear in hand.  Unable to look down, I could only scream.  He/she placed one hand on my thigh for support; the other thrust The Pear.  I nearly passed out.  The worst was to come.  The familiar squeak of the screw told me to prepare.  Nothing would delay the pain to come.  The first tearing nearly caused me to vomit.  The rest was unfelt. 
     I woke again, free of chains.  My eyes could not focus in the darkness.  Cutting pain from everywhere started all at once.  The Iron Maiden.  I was inside, and left for dead.  I knew none of the spikes was hitting vital organs, but the blood.  I could feel a puddle at my feet.  How long had I been there?  How long did I have?
     I rocked the upright casket causing each spike to dig deeper.  More blood puddled.  Without strength to rock The Maiden again, it tipped, and I counted on the faulty latch to fly open.
     I had been left for dead.
     Eventually I cleaned my tools, my own blood swirling down the drain.  I replaced them on the table in their precise order of operation. 

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brianefisher
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RE: Medieval Torture - 9/14

Postby brianefisher » Wed Sep 22, 2010 8:00 am

     As soon as I managed to open my eyes, I knew exactly where I was; I had been there before.  However, last time I was not the one cuffed and chained to the wall.  I had been the one laying out the tools, the Heretic’s Fork, the Spanish Tickler. Who was in the leather mask and overalls, and what were they going to do with The Pear?
Laid out before me, were my favorite tools to use.  It had been done so with exceptional care, the way I would have.  The gag in my mouth prevented me from questioning the stranger.  I couldn’t remember how I had gotten here.  The last thing I remembered was cleaning my tools and putting them away.  The last person brought to me was a blonde with a perfect body.  She deserved what she got.
    I left her in the chair behind me, but what happened after that? 
    The stranger approached me and looked up and down my naked body.  I had never shown my scars to anyone.  I yanked at the chains, trying to manage a scream, but only muffled sigh escaped my throat.  The stranger picked up the Spanish Tickler.  Oh God.  It was placed against my chest and dragged downward to my navel.  Three cat-like claw marks remained, bleeding.  This person was screwing with me, the tool can do so much more.  Amateur. 
     The stranger knew how to place the Heretic’s Fork.  It immobilized my head; any thrashing now would result in excruciating wounds.  Then, the Tickler again, dragged across my abdomen with greater force than before, but not enough to be a man.  Could it be?  The stranger replaced the Tickler with The Pear.  I pulled away from the wall; the movement allowed the Heretic’s Fork to pierce my skin just under my jaw.  I settle back against the cold damp moss covered wall. 
     The stranger turned the screw to close The Pear tight.  I used this on the blonde, the screams would forever resonate in the stone walls.  I thought it had killed her.  If this stranger was she, she was not going to be kind. 
     My stomach growled.  How long had I been out, chained to the wall?  I was sure I was not going to eat again.
     Before me, the stranger knelt with The Pear in hand.  Unable to look down, I could only scream.  He/she placed one hand on my thigh for support; the other thrust The Pear.  I nearly passed out.  The worst was to come.  The familiar squeak of the screw told me to prepare.  Nothing would delay the pain to come.  The first tearing nearly caused me to vomit.  The rest was unfelt. 
     I woke again, free of chains.  My eyes could not focus in the darkness.  Cutting pain from everywhere started all at once.  The Iron Maiden.  I was inside, and left for dead.  I knew none of the spikes was hitting vital organs, but the blood.  I could feel a puddle at my feet.  How long had I been there?  How long did I have?
     I rocked the upright casket causing each spike to dig deeper.  More blood puddled.  Without strength to rock The Maiden again, it tipped, and I counted on the faulty latch to fly open.
     I had been left for dead.
     Eventually I cleaned my tools, my own blood swirling down the drain.  I replaced them on the table in their precise order of operation. 

andersion
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Re: Medieval Torture - 9/14

Postby andersion » Mon Sep 27, 2010 12:48 am

Hello Guys,
Here we are talking about Medieval Torture - 9/14.
You could try recreating miniature models of torture instruments - for example the rack would be pretty easy to complete, all you'd need is a few pieces of balsar wood and some glue. And a knife of course.

Or make a scene up - so grab some clay or plastacine and create a torture chamber, with some people hanging by their wrists from the ceinling, someone on the rack, and iron maiden in the corner etc.... that way you could have everyone come up and see it and get some crowd interaction, which is always good.
Looking at all of those made my stomach turn a little though. Its disgusting how sick and twisted humans are that we ever even used poop unicorns and rainbows like this to begin with.

sorensen.d.ash
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RE: Medieval Torture - 9/14

Postby sorensen.d.ash » Thu Sep 30, 2010 6:53 pm

I awake to my head throbbing. Its the only thing I can concentrate on. That horrible incessant pounding and the annoying sound of water dripping. The last part isn't my head. I wonder, was I drinking last night? Had to be drinking. With great strain I try to piece together the night before. I remember a waitress; buxom, blonde and quick to refill my glass with something that burned all the way down. It was an opulent amber liquid. Oh, delicious nectar of the gods.

Anyway, back to present. I try to sit up and realize its impossible because, technically, I'm already “up”. My arms are even more up, above my head to be exact, and apparently bound by cold metal cuffs. At my back it feels like a wall – a squishy, damp wall – made of stone.

Groggily, I murmur, “****.”

There's no way this is a good situation.

Against better judgment, I pry open my eyes and brace for the sting of bright light that never comes. The room is lit but very poorly, and for that I'm at least thankful. Hangover-friendly ambiance, got to love it. That relief is short-lived, of course, when my surroundings come into, albeit bleary, focus.

I was right about the stone walls and the chaffing manacles biting into my wrists, I also notice that my ankles are similarly bound. The whole room is a stone tomb with the exception being a wooden door across from me that looks very heavy and possibly very locked. Because, you know, chaining me to a wall is never enough.

The truly worrisome part of this whole scenario – because yes, it can get worse – would probably have to be the table I happen to be hovering helplessly over. Well, not the table per se, but the wide array of sharp and shiny objects housed upon the table. Torture devices, so to speak, circa thirteenth century. It's nice that my captor is staying in theme with the dungeon décor, after all, its the little details that really take a room from being plain scary to just-crapped-my-pants-bone-chilling-blood-curdling-scary.

Now, most people in this situation would probably be thinking “Oh, poop unicorns and rainbows, I'm going to die.” Then proceed to cry and blubber and run through all their regrets in life and pray hopelessly to some invisible – or imaginary, depends on who you ask – omnipotent being in the sky. Whereas, my first thought is, “****. I didn't pay my tab last night.”

Then I move on to making a mental list of all those possibly responsible for my current predicament. Because, yes, more than one person would like to see me chained to a wall and screaming for mercy. I have this charming personality quirk that causes nearly everyone I meet want to flay, maim, or generally kill me.

Of course it could also be attributed to the many unscrupulous jobs I've held over the years. Just to name a few; muay thai boxer, mercenary, assassin, and cook for a chain-store pizza restaurant. That last one made me a poop unicorns and rainbows of cutthroat enemies. People are vicious when it comes to cheap junk food. As if I'm supposed to give a **** that they spent ten whole bucks on something to feed their family of four and they absolutely want to make sure that what's in the box looks exactly the same as the melting, gooey, and toxic spray painted food pictured on the menu.

Reminiscing aside, I've been trying to lay low lately, even cut my hair and changed my name, but the rare killer ninja still shows up on my doorstep every now and then. And while I've vowed to never take another life, luckily, I haven't vowed to not break, batter, and abandon in the middle of the desert.

Suddenly – because this sort of thing always happens suddenly – the door swings open and I no longer have to wonder which I have a potty mouth I allegedly wronged in a past life has me chained to this wall as my captor enters the dank room. Actually, its more like he swooshes in, a tidal wave gliding across the coast line. Its a man, by the way. Who didn't see that one coming with the torture devices and the kinky bondage equipment? Sigh, boys and their toys.

“You've finally awoken, my dear,” comes his surreptitious salutation.

“I knew it was you,” I haughtily bark, my words somewhat slurry, then slightly befuddled I query, “Wait...who are you?”

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RE: Medieval Torture - 9/14

Postby DraconisTheory » Sat Oct 09, 2010 10:34 am

Oh no. Really? Are you serious? Jesus H. titty-****ing Christ. Yup, I am definitely in some sort of torture chamber. This is just swell. I mean really, what better way to spend a Monday, right?
Oh and look! They've got all their super sweet torture toys of fun all laid out for me on the table over there! Lets see there's a super cool pear, that's the thing that is shaped just like it's name sake and may be placed in any oriffice of the body and slowly cranked with covinient and fashionable iron turn wheel which causes it to spread open and rip apart whatever human hole it has been placed in. Oh and there's a set of breast rippers! Tongs designed to rip off the accused's breasts between four wicked long spikes. Too bad I'm a dude. Kinda like that dead guy rotting in that cage hanging from the ceiling. Tough break. Wait, is that? Yes! They even broke out the old rat, torch, bucket combo! This is really dandy I feel like a celebrity!
Ooh here comes the man of the hour now! Big one too. Excuse me, sir do you know how long this will take? If you keep me here too long I'll miss the 32nd annual Norvshire hog race and that would realy suck because I got twenty riding on Hogtrocity this year and I need to pay off Smelly Ventrely or he'll... Well not do anything worse than you're about to do to me it appears. Not much of a talker are you? That's cool ya know I'm just hanging out. Chilling as it were.
Hey! What are you doing back there? Woah, what is that thing? Okay Lenny, may I call you Lenny? You've got me a little nervous slash excited over here, what is that thing? A wooden box on wheels with some kind of glass face? Are you going to hit me with that? No, that glass is far too expensive. Whats that hanging out the back? Is that a whip? A whips with prongs! Don't be alarmed Larry but my screams may not be all pain you get me? Oh you just stabbed the wall. The box is glowing? What sorcery is this? There are words on the glass... Twilight? What is this? Oh God... Please stop... No! Oh Jesus, God, no! Please! Aaaahhh! AAAAAAARRRRRGGHH!

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Re: Medieval Torture - 9/14

Postby Birdy369 » Tue Nov 02, 2010 5:19 am

A dull, throbbing pain inside my skull is all I know at first, all awareness of anything else pushed subconsciously out of my sluggish mind in my state of unconsciousness. As if waking from a deep sleep, my brain begins to slowly reacquaint itself with my surroundings; my breathing first; then the hard, damp, frigid floor and walls against my shivering body; my muscles finally begin to respond, and I open my weary eyes to blurry vision and dim lighting. Soon after, the stench of hate and fear join my other senses, and as if a bucket of water were poured on my head, I snap awake, finally realize where I am, and the pain from the past few days returns to me in a flash.
In a panic, I try to move only to realize that my arms are chained to the wall just above my head. The shackles dig deeply into my wrists as I strain against them momentarily; a sense of futility washes over me, and I slouch back against the wall, sobbing at my helplessness. In the cold, damp cell, the hotness of the tears flowing down my grimy face is almost a relief. After a few moments, I calm myself and look around my prison.
The room is rather large, of a rough stone construction, containing only one door, and a singular light situated in the center of the room is the only source of illumination. A window on the opposite wall from me, open to the breeze outside, allows the chill of autumn to fill the room. There are no bars on the window, a taunting illusion of freedom for me, being chained to the wall and unable to escape.
Directly below the only light in the room is a long surgical table, the surrounding floor bathed in what could only be the blood of previous victims. A winch is attached to either end of the table with strong bolts, and on each winch’s wire is affixed a set of iron shackles. Small slits perforate the table every inch or so, the holes about the size of a small steak knife. Underneath the table resides the reason for these cuts: a fixated grid of razor sharp blades fastened to the table on hydraulic rods used to slowly push the blades up through the table and into the unlucky victim perched up there. I shudder, thinking of just how close I had been to becoming Swiss cheese.
Atop a rolling cart, a tray of various surgical tools roost, caked in old, dried blood and rust, though the blades have never been dull by the looks of them. There’s a scalpel, forceps, clamps, a bone saw, a tourniquet, and a few other things. Hanging from the edges of the cart is a lethal looking drill, a set of screwdrivers, and vice grips. These, too, are covered in blood and a thin sheet of rust. On the walls hung a chainsaw, hammers, handsaws, and chisels, all suspended on nails above a water faucet. On the faucet’s valve hung a five-gallon bucket with a musty, old, vomit stained potato sack inside it. All throughout the room, the lingering smells of mildew, blood, rotting flesh, and feces permeates the air. So this is what death smells like, I muse.
Underneath the only source of water in the room, built down into the floor about two feet, is a drainage basin, a stopper chained to the wall and covering the drain. Beside I see a thinly padded table with straps for the arms and legs and supports for the shoulders. Protruding from the side of the table on either side are two wooden handles. Underneath it is a switch used to tilt the table head-side down, the whole contraption rigged to slide back and forth… the perfect device for dunking. What a hellish experience, I think to myself, shuddering.
Built into the opposite wall are two large cages. Inside one are large, sinister looking sewer rats used to torture victims psychologically. In the other cage are three very large pit bulls, each gnawing hungrily on large bones and eying me. What looked to be a device for crushing a victims head while lifting him in the air via pulleys dangles from the ceiling in the corner. This is crazy, I think. My torturer should be here soon. Just as I finish the though, in he walks. To my gut-wrenching stupefaction, I’m staring face-to-face with myself.

mmorrello
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RE: Medieval Torture - 9/14

Postby mmorrello » Mon Nov 08, 2010 2:27 am

I was cold and my head hurt. It was very dark. I sat up, gently rubbing my eyes that were caked shut with blood. The rattling of chains attached to my legs sounded the alarms in my head. I crawled on the stone floor using my hands as my eyes. I was in prison. A nasty, stinking prison.
I tried to open my eyes further and heard them tear apart from the caked blood. The rock walls spun around and I fell backwards, sending the rats squeaking and scrambling to safety. How, why, where was I. No memories came. None.
Eventually, sleep came and I escaped my anguish for a short time only to be awakened by a guard sliding a tin pan under the door with gravy and a stale biscuit. I crawled to the floor lapping at the food like a dog. I shook the gravy from my chin. My room was a little brighter now but my memory was still cloudy. I spent the last few minutes counting my breaths, and watching the rats fight over pieces of left over biscuit.
Desperation became unbearable and I began to explore the chains bound to my legs. I yanked the chain trying to pry it free from the wall. Then I took some straw that pretended to be a bed and tried to pick the lock attached to my ankle. Nothing, no way to escape, no answers, no memories. “Why am I here,” I screamed. I scrambled, jerking, flipping, tugging, until I slipped and feel hitting my head against the wall.
When I woke up, I felt the caress of a woman’s hand across my face. I cautiously opened my eyes, closed them and opened them again. A young lady with light brown hair took a wet cloth and dabbed it across my eyes. I was still chained to the wall, lying on the straw in the corner of my cell. She wore a disheveled blood stained blouse.
“These wounds will heal quickly,” she said in a light voice. “You will be able to leave soon.”
“Who are you?” I attempted to sit up, but she pushed me back down. “Why am I here?”
“You don’t remember,” she pulled her blouse from her neck exposing deep gashes in her flesh. “You did this to me.”
I jumped away, screaming. The vision of the woman slowly evaporated.
A guard pounded on the door, “Shut up in there. You’re disrupting my sleep.”
“Let me out, let me out. Please let me out of here.”
The guard opened the door and I ran towards him only to feel a sharp pain streak through my skull as he crashed a black jack into my forehead. In my unconscious state, I dreamed that I was running through a field with many wild flowers. Like a horse runs, I galloped through the tall grass at an ever quickening pace. It was night time and the moon was bright giving the landscape a washed out appearance. A head of me, I caught glimpses of a young woman running quickly in a blouse and dress. She ran awkwardly and I was making up ground. She fell but scrambled to her feet looking back towards me. She attempted to elude me by making sharp cuts, until I lept from a rock onto her back sending her tumbling to the ground. I slowly circled her while she kicked at me. I snapped at her legs, ripping big gashes into her. The smell of blood made my jowls water. I circled her until I was just in the right position. Then, I pounced onto her chest. She screamed and hit me with her hands to no avail. I sunk my teeth into her neck filling the gush of her warm blood. Savoring the taste of the blood as it ran over my tongue and lips. Shaking her body back and forth. I bounced back awake.

Richard81086
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Re: Medieval Torture - 9/14

Postby Richard81086 » Thu Nov 11, 2010 5:34 am

My head throbbed, and my bones felt distant and loose under the skin. With my unfocused eyes I turned my head, rolling it on the wet rock wall behind me, to try and gain a better perspective as to where I was. Next to me, but too far away to touch was my friend Alfred. He had woken before me and was looking back at me with a nervous smile after noticing the instruments of truth hanging on the far wall, above a table where even more rested.
“You alright?” he asked. We still had our breeches, but our shirts had been cut and hung loosely on our arms.
“Yea,” I said shaking my head to try and clear my vision at the cost of further pain.
“I didn’t see this coming,” he said, trying his hardest not to laugh. Even now, with our soon to be fate about to be brought upon us with sadistic cruelty, Alfred still couldn’t help but laugh. He was a bit daft, but even this surprised me.
“This isn’t funny,” I said dangling my wrists against the rusted iron chains that held me to the wall.
“It kind of is,” he said as he pressed his knees into the hard ground and tried to stretch his back. I heard it crack, before he released a sigh and looked back over at me.
“How is this funny?” I asked, as the blood in my body began to boil.
“Well wouldn’t you consider this a bit of an overreaction?”
“For me, yes. For you, no,” I said trying, without success to wriggle my wrists out. I slumped back, and felt the dirt on the ground being kicked up from my body. It smelled like stale sweat, and the sole bared window was too high up to let any light in.
“That’s just mean. I committed a crime with no victims, while you stole something that didn’t belong to you, so you see it’s not right for me to be tortured.” He looked nervously over at the table where he saw corkscrews, pincers, ice picks, and handheld sickles. “Besides, I’m fragile and have been under a cold.”
“You slept with the Ministers wife, and I was only taking one of his numerous chickens because I figured he could afford it. By the way how long have you been seeing her and how could you be so careless?”
“I don’t kiss and tell, but it’s been long enough. She doesn’t much like him anyway, says he’s boorish, and boring. Besides, none of this would have happened if you would have simply given me the signal that someone was coming.”
“I couldn’t because I was caught first!”
“Alright, no need to get angry, we’ll get out of this.” Alfred said.
“And how do you figure that? Do you have some sort of invisible cloak that will cover both of us?” I asked while hating myself for ever knowing him.
“Don’t be ludicrous, she told me that we’d be fine.”
“Who, who’s she?” I asked looking at him and then at the torture instruments.
“Her,” he said pointing to the darkened corner. Without much light I was able to see a very small figure, she had unevenly cropped hair, but a long dress that was filthy from the surrounding.
“Who is she?” I asked in a violent whisper to Alfred.
“Says her name is Jean, I think she’s the French solider that everyone has been clamoring about. Anyway, she said that God told her we’d be fine, so there you go.”
“Trust a French soldier, one who thinks she hears God, are you crazy?” This was how it was all going to end, with me being tortured all for having gone on one of Alfred’s adventures.
“You’ll both be alright,” Jean said not even bothering to lift her head. “It’s me they want anyway.”
“Well I feel better,” I said sarcastically.
“Don’t be rude,” Alfred whispered back to me. “And besides better to trust in her at the moment then the Church, because I don’t think the Minister is going to look on us too well. And by the way, you’re a true friend and I appreciate that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well a good friend would have tried to escape, you know to save himself, but a true friend would be right where you are. Sitting alongside me, and eventually, when we get out of this, telling me how much fun it all was.”

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