one year already..........................it was that long ago i was busy with other things
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Amica
- Thread starter Velut Luna
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Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
they are already ninety episodes, one every four days on average ...Luna, it has been a privilege to be a spectator for your Magnum OpusAnd yes, I am aware how much Eulalia has supported you, thank you both!
Tree doesn't remember ever taking a year to write a story...
Tree
...because he can't count twelve months... -Ulrika
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 91
None of the other prisoners approaches me, but in their eyes I see hostility, as if I, the victim, were provoking of the ferocity of the executioners, as if I were the cause of their suffering, past, present and future, lacking pity, 'mors tua vita mea' (‘your death is my life’), but here no-one can save anyone, neither the victims nor the executioners, we’re all chained to an imminent, tragic fate.
Darkness falls, in the silence of the night I only hear my panting breath, noises of furtive night-animals, then around me forms a flaming circle of eyes, coming ever closer, I'm terrified, now wolves will devour me!
A pair of blazing eyes approach, with cautious movements of its head the animal tries to assess the situation. I piss myself in fear, it approaches again, cold breath touches my face. I'm doomed, I smell good, it begins licking my face - it's Moloch! Now I know it, the only one who’s had any mercy on me. Although I’m disgusted by the copious drool slurping down from his jaw, his gesture gives me an unexpected comfort. The other mastiffs witness the scene and wait, moaning, a subdued growling, as if sharing in my pain and my despair.
Moloch withdraws, now, one by one, the others approach. They lick, some my face, others my wounded body. These beasts, seemingly ferocious, that humans only regard with contempt, show me this gesture of mercy.
The flame of a torch announces the arrival of the real beasts, giggling drunkards, straying animals. They grab me by the hair, loosen the chains, greedy hands explore my sex, my rectum, their members invade my every orifice, they unload their balls into my mouth, my sex, how many times I cannot reckon, but the rape lasts until dawn. I lie inert on the ground in a sea of filth and piss, my hair matted with mud and semen, full of the unbearable stench of their urine.
Daylight has taken possession of the sky, they drag me out, prostrate in the mud, hauling me by the chain that’s attached to the collar to the pool that’s located at the side of the square. They drop me in the water and order me to wash away the filth. I obey , sobbing and crying. I try to stand up but I can barely stand on all fours, the pain in my injured leg prevents me standing. After several attempts and useless struggling, I remain in that position like, a broken bitch that no longer has the strength to move her own legs.
Now they drag me into one of the ruined buildings and fix my chains to rings set in the wall. For many more nights I must suffer their rapes, they are the ones who aren’t members of the exclusive elite admitted to the orgies of the camp director, they are the most brutal, the most filthy, those who take most pleasure in degrading their victim to the condition of a beast. I pray the gods for mercy, at least that they, if they exist, will put an end to my life, will free me from this abyss of suffering.
Almost miraculously, with the forced inactivity and the paltry food they’ve chucked down for me - but I’ve eaten it greedily - my poor limbs recover their strength, the wound has healed without festering, perhaps because of the copious saliva of the mastiffs. Now I can stand up, move a few steps independently, as far as the length of the chain will allow...
As soon as they realise that I can get up, I'm assigned to a new task. Chained to a millstone, I have to push the shaft of the moving part. On the opposite side there’s another prisoner, perhaps a new girl, not yet marred by the lashes, her limbs seem more vigorous. We must grind the pozzolan, which, falling from above, pours into the moving stone through a funnel-shaped hole. Ground down to dust, the sand-like material comes out from the bottom and is collected in a stone gutter, from which some blades, fixed to a large metal ring attached to the grindstone, remove it, dragging it into a hopper from which it falls into a small cart that gets taken away when it’s full.
I stumble, I go round and round in an awkward manner, limping lopsided. The other prisoner insults me, accusing me of wanting her to do all the work, dragging me round without me pushing at the grindstone. Inevitably my poor back feels the whip of one of the female guards – yes, there are women who serve as guards, but they’re only other prisoners who, to earn the favour of the male guards, collaborate and earn a loaf of bread at best, a bed to lie on rather than the bare ground. Such women are willing to humiliate themselves to absolute sexual depravity rather than having to sweat, just to crawl out of the mass of the damned in the vain hope of saving their lives.
None of the other prisoners approaches me, but in their eyes I see hostility, as if I, the victim, were provoking of the ferocity of the executioners, as if I were the cause of their suffering, past, present and future, lacking pity, 'mors tua vita mea' (‘your death is my life’), but here no-one can save anyone, neither the victims nor the executioners, we’re all chained to an imminent, tragic fate.
Darkness falls, in the silence of the night I only hear my panting breath, noises of furtive night-animals, then around me forms a flaming circle of eyes, coming ever closer, I'm terrified, now wolves will devour me!
A pair of blazing eyes approach, with cautious movements of its head the animal tries to assess the situation. I piss myself in fear, it approaches again, cold breath touches my face. I'm doomed, I smell good, it begins licking my face - it's Moloch! Now I know it, the only one who’s had any mercy on me. Although I’m disgusted by the copious drool slurping down from his jaw, his gesture gives me an unexpected comfort. The other mastiffs witness the scene and wait, moaning, a subdued growling, as if sharing in my pain and my despair.
Moloch withdraws, now, one by one, the others approach. They lick, some my face, others my wounded body. These beasts, seemingly ferocious, that humans only regard with contempt, show me this gesture of mercy.
The flame of a torch announces the arrival of the real beasts, giggling drunkards, straying animals. They grab me by the hair, loosen the chains, greedy hands explore my sex, my rectum, their members invade my every orifice, they unload their balls into my mouth, my sex, how many times I cannot reckon, but the rape lasts until dawn. I lie inert on the ground in a sea of filth and piss, my hair matted with mud and semen, full of the unbearable stench of their urine.
Daylight has taken possession of the sky, they drag me out, prostrate in the mud, hauling me by the chain that’s attached to the collar to the pool that’s located at the side of the square. They drop me in the water and order me to wash away the filth. I obey , sobbing and crying. I try to stand up but I can barely stand on all fours, the pain in my injured leg prevents me standing. After several attempts and useless struggling, I remain in that position like, a broken bitch that no longer has the strength to move her own legs.
Now they drag me into one of the ruined buildings and fix my chains to rings set in the wall. For many more nights I must suffer their rapes, they are the ones who aren’t members of the exclusive elite admitted to the orgies of the camp director, they are the most brutal, the most filthy, those who take most pleasure in degrading their victim to the condition of a beast. I pray the gods for mercy, at least that they, if they exist, will put an end to my life, will free me from this abyss of suffering.
Almost miraculously, with the forced inactivity and the paltry food they’ve chucked down for me - but I’ve eaten it greedily - my poor limbs recover their strength, the wound has healed without festering, perhaps because of the copious saliva of the mastiffs. Now I can stand up, move a few steps independently, as far as the length of the chain will allow...
As soon as they realise that I can get up, I'm assigned to a new task. Chained to a millstone, I have to push the shaft of the moving part. On the opposite side there’s another prisoner, perhaps a new girl, not yet marred by the lashes, her limbs seem more vigorous. We must grind the pozzolan, which, falling from above, pours into the moving stone through a funnel-shaped hole. Ground down to dust, the sand-like material comes out from the bottom and is collected in a stone gutter, from which some blades, fixed to a large metal ring attached to the grindstone, remove it, dragging it into a hopper from which it falls into a small cart that gets taken away when it’s full.
I stumble, I go round and round in an awkward manner, limping lopsided. The other prisoner insults me, accusing me of wanting her to do all the work, dragging me round without me pushing at the grindstone. Inevitably my poor back feels the whip of one of the female guards – yes, there are women who serve as guards, but they’re only other prisoners who, to earn the favour of the male guards, collaborate and earn a loaf of bread at best, a bed to lie on rather than the bare ground. Such women are willing to humiliate themselves to absolute sexual depravity rather than having to sweat, just to crawl out of the mass of the damned in the vain hope of saving their lives.
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Too much!
Quiet Paul
Tribune
I'm exhausted just reading it
Me too, QP, shaking like a leaf!
But look at this, there lies Amica, injured, abused, soaked in every kind of disgusting fluid, and, what's the next line? "Daylight has taken possession of the sky."
Only Luna can do this. The beauty of a new morning contrasted with the depravity below. Terrific.
P
Pia
Guest
Thank you Luna - this is a wonderful, magical, terrifying, absorbing journey you are taking us on. It's amazing. Thank you!!!
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
It's my style, the most strong contrast!Me too, QP, shaking like a leaf!
But look at this, there lies Amica, injured, abused, soaked in every kind of disgusting fluid, and, what's the next line? "Daylight has taken possession of the sky."
Only Luna can do this. The beauty of a new morning contrasted with the depravity below. Terrific.
Thank you, PK. I write for all my reader.
NO, NO, NO!!! Tree is just notorious for can't keeping a story short even when he swears it will be a short story!It is a reprimand for having taken too long time for a story from nothing?
Carry on!
We wait for each segment!
Tree
and remember my great-nephew is a dumb-ass
NO, NO, NO!!! Tree is just notorious for can't keeping a story short even when he swears it will be a short story!It is a reprimand for having taken too long time for a story from nothing?
Carry on!
We wait for each segment!
Tree
and remember my great-nephew is a dumb-ass
View attachment 261235
See... he double posted!!!
Velut Luna
Sibilla Cumana
Amica 92
My fear is that I’ll be assigned to work at the kiln, the antechamber of the most terrible death, but for now I'm set to work at a small mill where whitish, gravelly kaolin (china clay) is ground, to be mixed with pozzolan and other aggregates to produce the Roman cement.
Each day brings its new pain, and every day fear grows for the earthquakes that in recent months have plagued the land. Strange phenomena have been seen, lightning appearing by night around the summit of Vesuvius, no-one knows why.
They say the gods are angry with the Christians, who want to dethrone them and put their one God in their place, and with the Romans for not doing enough to eradicate this plague that has infected the Empire, and with the Jews, who are the source of all evil.
Today in the prison yard there is great agitation, the guards are kneeling on the ground tearing their hair and their clothes, emitting moans like howling wolves. We prisoners look on astonished, our hope is that the director of the camp has at last fropped dead, but then some of us who’ve overheard the talk among the guards, say it’s the old Emperor who’s died. Someone says he died of some illness, but others think instead he’s been murdered by the Praetorian Guard, tired of having to deal with an old drone.
But one dead emperor only makes room for another, for us nothing changes - well, typically it’ll change for the worse, the new emperor, wanting to assert his authority, will order new persecutions, and those who suffer will be the innocent, the poor, the destitute, the marginalised.
The heat of summer, worse than it’s been for years, with the exhausting work, have reduced me to a ghost of myself, my skin marked by countless lashes, burnt and wrinkled by exposure to the sun. I still walk with difficulty, though a little better than before. I don’t know how I’ve managed to survive in this hell.
Now earthquakes are following one another without interruption and causing great fear, more strange signs have occurred, some springs no longer give water, others emit a foul-smelling liquid like rotten eggs, others a corrosive fluid that burns the skin on contact. In ravines the rocks are often seen to give out clouds of vapour, if anyone approaches it burns their eyes, whatever’s in the steam makes them sore, and burns their throat as if they’d drunk inflaming poison. All around the vegetation looks burnt, even the animals which are normally abundant in these areas have disappeared, the snakes are no longer seen in the streams where they would ambush the birds on their way to drink water, the birds don’t fly any more in the skies above, strange rumblings come from the depths of the earth, and a constant trembling, though almost imperceptible through the ground, animates the surfaces of ponds with ripples that come and go from bank to bank.
Then a strange manifestation appears also in our compound, a lake has formed in the clay pit - the water is clean and fresh, but it prevents the slaves from excavating the clay to form into bricks. Around noon comes a horseman, he rushes to the lake saying that in Pompeii they’re getting no water from the 'Aqua Augusta', as they call it here the aqueduct.
He hurries off back to Pompeii, the guards make us gather in the central square, we remain for hours kneeling on the ground surrounded by mastiffs and supervised by guards who will not be distracted even for a moment, they rush across to whip fiercely any of us women who, overwhelmed by fatigue, collapses or just tries to rest on her heels.
In mid-afternoon comes a squad of the Militia of the Imperial Prefect.
Their leader, sitting on his black horse, pulls out from under his cloak a papyrus scroll, and begins reading the text. It’s the edict of the new Emperor, Titus, Vespasian's son, the one who destroyed Jerusalem and drove out the Jews. The Emperor commands, as if it were something new, another fierce campaign of persecution against Jews and Christians, then, having proclaimed the Imperial Edict, he reads another papyrus, this one’s from the Prefect: it’s an accusation against us, we sabotaged the aqueduct, and the judgment on us can only be one - crucifixion.
A chorus of groans rises, many fall fainting to the ground, others, more fortunate, die of fear. I remain as I am, kneeling with my hands clasped in prayer, silently invoking the gods to let me die before I have to face the shame of that most horrible form of execution.
My fear is that I’ll be assigned to work at the kiln, the antechamber of the most terrible death, but for now I'm set to work at a small mill where whitish, gravelly kaolin (china clay) is ground, to be mixed with pozzolan and other aggregates to produce the Roman cement.
Each day brings its new pain, and every day fear grows for the earthquakes that in recent months have plagued the land. Strange phenomena have been seen, lightning appearing by night around the summit of Vesuvius, no-one knows why.
They say the gods are angry with the Christians, who want to dethrone them and put their one God in their place, and with the Romans for not doing enough to eradicate this plague that has infected the Empire, and with the Jews, who are the source of all evil.
Today in the prison yard there is great agitation, the guards are kneeling on the ground tearing their hair and their clothes, emitting moans like howling wolves. We prisoners look on astonished, our hope is that the director of the camp has at last fropped dead, but then some of us who’ve overheard the talk among the guards, say it’s the old Emperor who’s died. Someone says he died of some illness, but others think instead he’s been murdered by the Praetorian Guard, tired of having to deal with an old drone.
But one dead emperor only makes room for another, for us nothing changes - well, typically it’ll change for the worse, the new emperor, wanting to assert his authority, will order new persecutions, and those who suffer will be the innocent, the poor, the destitute, the marginalised.
The heat of summer, worse than it’s been for years, with the exhausting work, have reduced me to a ghost of myself, my skin marked by countless lashes, burnt and wrinkled by exposure to the sun. I still walk with difficulty, though a little better than before. I don’t know how I’ve managed to survive in this hell.
Now earthquakes are following one another without interruption and causing great fear, more strange signs have occurred, some springs no longer give water, others emit a foul-smelling liquid like rotten eggs, others a corrosive fluid that burns the skin on contact. In ravines the rocks are often seen to give out clouds of vapour, if anyone approaches it burns their eyes, whatever’s in the steam makes them sore, and burns their throat as if they’d drunk inflaming poison. All around the vegetation looks burnt, even the animals which are normally abundant in these areas have disappeared, the snakes are no longer seen in the streams where they would ambush the birds on their way to drink water, the birds don’t fly any more in the skies above, strange rumblings come from the depths of the earth, and a constant trembling, though almost imperceptible through the ground, animates the surfaces of ponds with ripples that come and go from bank to bank.
Then a strange manifestation appears also in our compound, a lake has formed in the clay pit - the water is clean and fresh, but it prevents the slaves from excavating the clay to form into bricks. Around noon comes a horseman, he rushes to the lake saying that in Pompeii they’re getting no water from the 'Aqua Augusta', as they call it here the aqueduct.
He hurries off back to Pompeii, the guards make us gather in the central square, we remain for hours kneeling on the ground surrounded by mastiffs and supervised by guards who will not be distracted even for a moment, they rush across to whip fiercely any of us women who, overwhelmed by fatigue, collapses or just tries to rest on her heels.
In mid-afternoon comes a squad of the Militia of the Imperial Prefect.
Their leader, sitting on his black horse, pulls out from under his cloak a papyrus scroll, and begins reading the text. It’s the edict of the new Emperor, Titus, Vespasian's son, the one who destroyed Jerusalem and drove out the Jews. The Emperor commands, as if it were something new, another fierce campaign of persecution against Jews and Christians, then, having proclaimed the Imperial Edict, he reads another papyrus, this one’s from the Prefect: it’s an accusation against us, we sabotaged the aqueduct, and the judgment on us can only be one - crucifixion.
A chorus of groans rises, many fall fainting to the ground, others, more fortunate, die of fear. I remain as I am, kneeling with my hands clasped in prayer, silently invoking the gods to let me die before I have to face the shame of that most horrible form of execution.