Crucifixion Story: Beachwalk ... Or A Week In September

[Tilman]

Sadly I do not have a large country estate with rolling hills and secluded pine groves or may be a dungeon inside a gothic manor house not do I have the willing beautiful models to generate breath taking pictures.
So many thanks to all who provide the marvellous photographs on these pages!

Nor am I able to do fine artwork with pen and paper or more up to date with a good drawing program.
Many thanks to all the artists who give the fascinating drawing to be found here!

All I can do is dabbling a bit with words. So I shall post bit by bit a story written some time ago and I do hope it makes for nice mind-cinema for the one or the other here:



Beachwalk … or A Week in September

Lucius took a deep breath. Life was good to him.

Lucius felt guilty. He always did when here. He always walked on. Mum said; ‘you should not go there’. Dad said: ‘you should not go there’. Aunty Mathild said … well, to be honest dad really did not mean it so much. The navy used the coastal area for firing practice. It was just bloody dangerous to go there. The ground was littered with shells of all types and shapes and sizes. That was one of the reasons why dad was in two minds about his son’s excursions to the coastal strip that separated the rich grasslands of the village from the coast. He ran the small repair shop of the region. Your tractor broke, your tin roof needed mending, the chimney of the stove needed patching – Salvatore was your man. He could do miracles with his hands, a bucket of scrap metal, some screws, nuts and bolts and whatever needed mending came out shining and as good as new. No, make that better than new in most cases.

Lucius once had come back with treasure from one of his forbidden walks: a copper guiding ring from a naval shell; a sturdy, long strip of the finest copper. While mum was around Salvatore had scolded his son. He had promised a good belting, had announced days of boredom to be spend in solitary confinement in his room after school. Well, the moment mum was round the corner there had been 14 Reals and a serious tell-off and that was that. Lucius after that had brought metal home from time to time, always making sure that mum was well out off site.

It was not dangerous. Only the adults thought so. He had once found a shell that had hit bedrock and split. The things were practise shells, filled with concrete. That is – he knew they were practise shells till that day he found a marvellous specimen embedded in the crest of a large dune ridge. He had hammered off the two guiding rings and broken away a kind of brass lid from the bottom of the shell. He then gave the stripped corpse of a shell a good kick, rolling it down the long dune slope. He turned, walked three steps and the blast threw him flat on the ground. He was spitting out sand half an hour later. Only one hour later he realized the cut in his shirt and the graze on his skin where a piece of shrapnel had passed a bit too close for comfort.

He was more careful after that; much more careful. They were not always filled with just concrete.


There was more reason to be careful. The Greycloaks used the area as well. He made very, very sure to keep out of site when their mottled green and grey trucks passed. Do not see! Do not be seen! He was just a pupil, a teenager, a kid. He knew nothing of politics. Obrist Genardy Canigia meant nothing to him. He had no idea what a political coup was and why people got hurt at times. He knew nothing of the firm knock on people’s doors in the coldest hours of the morning just before the first light of dawn. He had never heard of Diego Aristoteles Garcia, head of the Secret Service and the Greycloaks, the long, long arm of whatever passed for law at any given time.

Lucius knew of the weather beaten crosses in secluded beaches along the coastal strip; wood greyed from weather, wind and waves, old bones left wherever the sharp beak of the great seagulls or fancy of the next fox took them. And rarely there were crosses with decaying flesh still on them. They gave him the creeps. Not only the piercing beady eyes of the gulls kept him away.

Lucius knew how to keep out of the way. Today he had delivered the old battered Cadillac to Mr Hernandez. Each time in the last year Lucius had brought back the tattered old car Mr Hernandez sung praises on Lucius dad and every time the handful Reals was ever so slightly more than Lucius dad and Mr Hernandez had agreed. And every time Salvatore took the money nodded approvingly and handed Lucius the difference. A good day! Now Lucius was away to a day of adventure, sunshine, wind in his hair and the tickle of the sand and – who knows – may be a solid 10 inch shell with copper driving bands and a brass lid over the fuse?

 

[RacingRodent]

Nice development, looking forwards to seeing where this leads

 

[Tilman]

Day1

Lucius happily strolled down the long, gentle slope towards the sea. He loved this stretch of coast. Here three long dune chains protruded like forks into the sea, each of them ending in a mile long gently bent hook of a sandbank. The banks broke the worst of the fury of the sea, the dune chains left enclosed tranquil valleys. Tranquil though not in to literal sense of the word. The navy used the valleys for target practise. Lucius had found marvellous specimens here. Usually a long gash in the side of a dune told him of sunken treasure and then – much, much more careful now – he started digging where the beast should have come to rest. The reward was more often than not a glistening shell with fine metal driving bands.
Lucius walked across a small sandy ridge, stopped, froze and then quickly dropped to the ground. Right in the bight ahead stood a fresh cross with … Lucius heart step hopped in fear and excitement … a cross with a girl hanging from it. A girl!

He hardly dared breathing. He hardly dared looking. He stared at the sand in front of him. He looked up. A girl! He looked down, saw the glistening grains of sand, the vivid pattern of sunlight reflecting in granite formed in aeons, ground to sand by millennia. He looked up. She hung slightly turned with her back towards him looking out over the sea. Even from here he could see the two dark spots where her wrists where held in place. He had never really bothered to think how the poor unfortunate souls died on this desolate strip of sand. But remnants had given him enough ideas to form a picture. The arms of the girl had been pulled alongside and back over the top of the crossbeam, her elbows pointing up, her lower arms stretched tight against the back of the beam. Her hands lay with the back against the cross, nailed in place through her wrists. He swallowed hard. That must hurt!

He should have turned. This was not his business, this was not his problem. He should have turned. The girl looked beautiful. He turned, doubled back a bit alongside the foot of a ridge of dunes and then up alongside a steep slope. He went slower, went down on hand and knees, crawled the last few meters. He looked over the ridge, hidden by a tuft of sturdy, wiry dune grass. He was about beside her, a bit above her not 30 meters away. He glanced through the grass. She hung from the cross. They had bent her legs in the knees, pulled her legs up and up and yet a bit further up till her hips were thrust out forward, her beautiful, firm bum hardly touching the wood of her cross and her feet lay soles up on both sides of the cross. They had nailed her through the ankle joints. She hung suspended from her ankles. He swallowed hard. He tried to imagine the pain and then he tried very hard to forget he ever tried to imagine. It must be ghastly. The girl hung there suspended by her pierced ankle joints, her arms stretched back over the crossbar to prevent her falling forward. The way she hung she could not lift herself to ease her feet. She hung helplessly. With her arms not bearing much weight she could breathe freely. She would take long to die. Very long.

She looked beautiful. From time to time she lifted her head, looked around; utter despair in her eyes. She knew she would die and die very slowly and in tremendous pain. She looked over towards him. She could not see him there, surely?! Did she feel his gaze? Did she feel someone was there looking at her lonely, lonely death?

Lucius drank in her picture. His gaze followed her outstretched arms. She was not tall. May be five feet and a bit? She was thin without being spindly. She looked healthy, her skin tanned by this spring’s sun. His gaze rested on her little hands, half open, the fingers curled. From time to time they twitched and flexed trying to alleviate the pain in her pierced wrists. Lucius eyes followed the graceful curves of her arm, her delicate elbow, the strong muscles of her upper arm, twitching from time to time under soft skin; her fine shoulder, her … Lucius swallowed – the cross displayed the naked girl like a piece of art. The way her legs where pulled up, forced her to thrust out he hips, spine curved, presenting her soft belly and her little firm breasts.

Time passed. Every now and then a lone cloud sailing the vastness of the sky cast a fleeting shadow over the naked girl. Time passed. The girl twitched and twisted on her cross. She must be in awful pain. He could see her fingers twitching restless, helplessly trying to find a resting point where her pierced wrists might hurt a little lass. He could see her little toes flexing, trying to alleviate the pain in her nailed ankle joints. From time to time a shudder run through the beautiful, naked body, then the girl winced in pain and then she hung still for a while until her muscles could not hold any longer an the next wave of twitching and twisting brought pain and despair.

The head hung forward. Her blond corkscrew curls hung loose covering her delicate features. Only from time to time she pulled her head up; looked out over the endless sea stretching out in front of her. The sea did not mind. The sea had seen human suffering stretching all the way back to the days of Noah. The waves washed over shingle and sand, creating an endless hissing sound. The wind played with the naked girl, teased her, let her shiver and cry in pain when the shivering rocked her nailed feet. The wind wiped up dancing sand like little ghosts haunting this lonely beach of death. Souls of long departed humans, bones bleaching under collapsed crosses. The sand tickled the girl, itched where it landed, reminded her that her hands would never again touch an itching spot, rub ticklish skin. Her hands were taken from her. They would not grip anything again. Their final use would be to hold her in place to die in agony. The wind played with the girls blond curls. Lucius wondered where she might come from. People here tended to have dark hair.

Time passed. The girl hung nailed to her cross. Lucius drank the sight of the wonderful, delicate naked body. There was no evil in his gaze, no lust. He looked at something beautiful; a little piece of art mastered by mother nature: soft skin, stretchy and yet firm and strong, muscles playing underneath the skin, moving, twitching, strong, elastic, lively; bones to give shape and contour and masterpieces within a masterpiece: eyes, blue like the sky over the sea on a sunny day, a button nose with a milky way of freckles across, a mouth even now in pain a graceful curve in a delicate face, hair glowing in the rays of the sun, dancing in the wind. Lucius watched in awe at the naked body rigidly displayed.

An eternity passed. Lucius did not feel the warm sand, not the gentle breeze. He looked mesmerized. Cute! Beautiful! The sun stood low behind her. Her light blond curls glowed in the light like a halo. Nature can be beautiful and cruel in a single act, a single picture. The dancing golden curls tickling the cheeks, the forehead would one day drive the helpless girl insane but they looked wonderful all the same. The girls’ fingers flexed again and again when a strand of hair tickled the fine skin. Never again would her hands wipe away a hair; a movement so unconscious, so normal, so near a reflex. Not for her. She hung nailed; fixed to die.

Lucius looked at the girl. The sun framed her: a dark outline now against a sea turning from blue to deeper, ever deeper purple. Only her hair glistened in a last sunray now and then.

He walked back in trance, having seen an angel, suspended on an instrument from hell.

Sleep did not come easily this night. Already the family dinner had been a rather subdued affair. Lucius was not only absentminded. He had left his mind two miles across rugged dunes on a secluded beach. He had a run-in or two with his mother but somehow she sensed that there was more than a slightly stubborn teenager ignoring parental wisdom handed out feely at the dinner table and so the dinner quickly became a rather silent affair, everyone in his own thoughts. Salvatore still immersed in the intricacies of a cobbled together combine harvester, Lucius mum thinking church tea and Lucius plagued and blessed by visions of a naked girl on a cross. It was probably rather lucky that his mum did not possess the ability to mind read. The images in her son’s head would not have gone well with thoughts about church teas.

After Lucius had broken a plate his mum gave in and freed him from his usual kitchen duties.

Sleep did not come easily. Lucius thought of the naked girl hanging helplessly on a cross on a windswept beach with nothing but the roar of the waves for company. The beaches between the dune prongs fell pitch dark at night due to the long shadows cast. Lucius had once been out there in the middle of the night. That had been after he knew that not every shell was concrete filled and in the end he had seen sense and spent a rather uncomfortable night. Crossing the land in the dark was a recipe for disaster. The wind covered and uncovered life ammunition in few hours and if one could not see the tell-tale humps or ridges created by solid bodies underneath the cover of sand, then one could as well juggle life grenades.

Still – twice Lucius got up, got nearly dressed to go out, go out to the girl hanging there, alone, helpless. Twice the came to his senses and went back to bed.

 

[phlebas]

Many nice images and passages here, nice imaginative scene setting and internal dialogue

Lucius swallowed – the cross displayed the naked girl like a piece of art.

yes, always

He walked back in trance, having seen an angel, suspended on an instrument from hell.

evocative

Please continue

 

[Tilman]

Many, many thanks! That makes writing fun.

Day2

Lucius got up early. College was thankfully off. Old Helena, who taught the villages youngsters in everything worth knowing, was off to a meeting of church elders. Lucius liked college. He was old enough now to understand the sheer, dumb luck that he and his pals had having the old hag teaching them. Helena Martinez must have been some sort of engineer in a life long forgotten, buried in the sediments of village folklore. Whatever she once was; she had kept a fierce and fiery love for education. Only now meeting his cousins from time to time Lucius did understand the hit and miss life of rural education. He was one of the lucky ones. But today he was even more lucky for there was no college. He sneaked out early. Left his plate unwashed in the sink, accepting mothers scolding that would follow, knowing that she would be pleased to see he had eaten before he left the house.

The path wound through the dunes, a tranquil stroll in the least of the early mornings chill. Lucius shivered. Not from the chill really. Walking kept you warm enough. He shivered from the thought of having to hang naked and immobile in this chill. His pace quickened.
He had half planned to go and look but somehow on an impulse he would not understand all through the rest of his life he did not slow, did not bow down or crouch low when he came to the crest of the dunes. He walked onwards, pulled by a string spun by angels, or devils, fairies or gremlins, spun by forces completely out of his control. Lucius walked down the dunes to where the girl hung crucified. She turned her head as she heard the steps. She did not look happy nor sad, not surprised or excited. She must have figured out in long hours of despair that there was no miracle for her. She looked somewhat expectant, somewhat vaguely interested in what might allow her to pass the time till death would take her.

She did not look embarrassed at being presented naked on a cross. Weeks, even days ago she would have shrieked and turned at the mere thought of a boy her age seeing her improperly dressed. Now she hung exposed and yet she looked with a slight curiosity at the visitor she had. A ghastly week had taken whatever embarrassment she could muster. Now she hung willing to take whatever life had left for her last few days.

Lucius walked slower, slower. What to say? What to say? He did not know what to say if he walked up to a beautiful village girl sitting fully clothed in the sun on the plaza. He tended to be tongue-tied when he approached a girl from class dressed in student clothes sitting on the grass in front of the College building. He had no blueprint in in head for any phrase to say to a naked girl nailed to a gruesome instrument of torture.

“Hi”, the naked girl said. Lucius dropped dead. No, in fact he did not but his heart stumbled through the next few beats rather by sheer luck than by proper function. She had a wonderful voice; ever so slightly lower than one would have expected from a girl her size and age; a wonderful timbre: melodic and deep. Now, now was the moment to say the phrase of one’s life, that one-liner that would be worth remembering for a lifetime, the sentence from which everything else followed fluidly. Lucius knew perfectly well when life handed him these moments. Trouble was he just never knew how to use them.

“Hi”, he said. And then just when the pause began to feel too awkward “I saw you there”.
Another awkward pause followed. Time passed. Time passed in this unfriendly way leaving a somewhat sticky trail in the air just to hammer home that time – too much time – had been allowed to slip past. “I … aehm, well … may be I better go … I …”, Lucius stammered along.

This was wrong!
This was not what he wanted to say. This was not what he should say. This was in fact no sensible sentence to start with. He just could not find words. How can one find words for anything like this?!

“Please stay!” Lucius stammering syllables came to a halt; interrupted by the wonderful, deep melodic voice of the girl. “I am a bad host, I am afraid! I cannot offer you anything on my beach but please stay … aehm, if you like.” The girl’s voice trailed off.

She hesitated a moment. “Do you often find people dying here on a cross?” Lucius shook his head, it took him a moment to find his voice and then gradually the awkward gaps and pauses died away and he found himself able to speak, to tell her of his excursions, to tell her that he knew of the gruesome executions here but he had never seen any living being crucified.

Words flowed easier. Lisa had hung to die a lonesome, cruel death. She was endlessly relieved just to talk, just to be able to talk. Lucius had used all his available courage to walk to a girl condemned to die a cruel death. He had no courage left for eloquent talk but he could listen; he was in fact a very, very good listener; a trait inherited from his father who could with a nod of his head, a thoughtful hum, a supportive grunt, an encouraging gasp keep a conversation flowing for hours. Salvatore could listen and leave people feeling good afterwards. He had passed some of this skill to his son.

And Lisa needed talking. She had not talked for a week. She had screamed, begged, pleaded and screamed again, and again and again. She had confessed. She had begged a bit more but talking; talking she had not. Lisa told of the last horrible week, of being taken out of bed bundled into a waiting van, driven somewhere; her parents standing bewildered.

Lisa hung to die but in a way she had not yet begun dying. She was still strong, she had breath and her body had reserves to burn to keep her alive. The pain in her pierced ankle joints had tortured her, her muscles cramped from being forced immobile under gruesome tension but the pain had not yet driven her out of her wits. She was still very much the intelligent, quick witted girl. They talked.

This was very, very weird. Lucius sat in the sand and right in front of him, right above him hung a naked, beautiful girl, casually talking to him. From time to time she twitched but it seemed as if she was more embarrassed by her discomfort than anything else.

She was from Cessarine, the port city down the coast. Cessarine was the main transport hub for the wine- and fruit-growing areas of the central plains; a wealthy part of the country. Her parents were not really ‘political’ as people called it in whispers behind a covering hand. They were ‘normal’ people, kind people, people interested in other people’s fate and in how things worked and in newspapers views and in other newspapers views. It was only natural that they had passed on that curiosity to their three children, Lisa, the eldest, Max, short for Massimilliano, her brother and the youngest, Ella. The three grew up in an atmosphere where curiosity was not frowned upon.

Curiosity killed fewer cats than humans even in civilised countries. Curiosity right now was outright dangerous. The Obrist regime under Canigia had countered an election that had turned out not quite the way that amongst others the CIA, United Fruit and EXXON had imagined. There had been swift encouragement to rectify things. Other superpowers had been busy elsewhere and the coup had worked to some extent. But the country never came to rest. The paranoia of the military leaders had driven up wave after wave of opposition; opposition branded ‘communist’, ‘Marxist’, at some point a senator from a Midwestern state in the US had even spotted ‘Trotzkyist’ unrest in their poor allied country. US influence reached a point where even France and the United Kingdom protested. The situation was rectified when a deal for 120 armoured personnel carriers went to European bidders and cut price fruit imports to the EU were reduced.

For a girl her age Lisa knew a lot of these things. And she had been brought up to care. It felt natural to write for the College magazine.

For a girl her age Lisa knew little of these things. Grown up journalists wrote more careful than her. When the palace of justice burned down a year ago people joked that Obrist Canigia had torched it himself in retaliation for an incident years ago when he had slipped on the marble stairs outside the building – in front of cameras rolling. It was a joke of course but Genardy Canigia had elevated revenge to an artform.

Lisa had been embarrassed to be taken in nothing but her pyjamas; had thought what they would think of her running around in a spongebob squarepants pyjama at her age. Few hours later she lay naked on a gynaecological chair, dressed in nothing but the straps to hold her. She had very different concerns then. They had shaved her sex, had clamped electrodes to her labials and her clitoris. They had put a strong leather belt around her neck and then it had begun. Gently at first, casual. They had asked who had given her the ideas for the article in the College magazine. They had asked again. And again. And then they had asked while Lisa’s bare sex was raging with electric current. And then they had asked while Lisa was garrotted. She had twitched and turned and bounced on that chair, driven insane by all-consuming lust and at the same time dying, strangled to death. She had an orgasm while her tongue hung dark blue from her gaping mouth. And another orgasm. And more orgasms. And all the time she had felt the belt on her throat there to strangle. She had screamed till she was hoarse. She had begged. She had passed out dying from oxygen depletion again and again and she had been revived again and again only for the next wave of lust and death.

And with cold professionalism they had asked. They made notes. They asked again. They worked through their notes, thoughtful, concentrated. They had compared. They had deducted and analysed and all the time the naked girl had rocked on the chair, driven insane suspended between unbearable lust and death. They had found out everything that was there to be found out about this lamentable affair. A fine job done in just few days.


Lucius listened. He had a way of listening that allowed the tortured girl to talk free of embarrassment, free of guilt or shame. She shuddered as she relived some of the more gruesome moments of her torture. The nails in her feet punished her for her shuddering on her cross. Tears rolled over the freckled cheeks. Yet she seemed relieved to be able to talk. Lucius would not have known where to look if a girl his age had told him anything about sexual feelings, sexual stimulation, behold orgasms. And here he sat in the sand, looking at the beautiful face of a naked young woman telling him how she had fainted strangled half to death after an endless series of belly tearing orgasms. And Lucius calm and gently eyes allowed the girl to talk. Words poured out of her like a river washing away dirt and grime after a long, long draught. She cried as she talked.

Lisa told how after days of pain, fear and torture when they were done with her a red hot iron had been brought. Lisa had lain on that chair, legs strapped tight. One of the guys had brought his hand on Lisa’s left foot, had slid his fingers between her toes, had bent them back, stretched her sole tight and then in one casual move Lisa’s bare left sole had been branded. Lisa had felt the intense heat coming closer, coming closer. She had soiled herself. She had felt the searing heat under her bare sole. And then it had touched. Lisa had screamed that she thought her voice cords would be damaged permanently.

The iron came from some long forgotten cattle farm. The thing displayed a rather plump pretty little dragon. The meaning of the crisp red brand in the bare sole was less pretty: “to be disposed of”. And disposed of she was.

It was only merciful that Lisa did not know what good or not so good had come from her screaming and babbling confessions. Of course the men were professionals. Of course they knew that 95% the convicts confessed was utter rubbish. It was the 5% they were after. Lisa had written the article all on her own. But Agnes Morell, a cute, dark haired girl from year 3 had provided the very good and very nasty cartoon strip accompanying it. Agnes came to regret that when she was picked up on the way home from College, bundled into an unmarked light grey van – everyone knew this shade of grey; you could not buy it; it spelled a message so crisp, so clear as if it had been painted in bright fluorescent letters: Securidad.

They did not even bother to question the frightened student. Totalitarian dictators tended to be paranoid. Their security men were usually not paranoid. They were well aware, that this was not a KGB spy, that this was an unfortunately stupid little girl, ready for a lesson. They drove her straight to a secluded spot beautifully framed by heather covered hillsides and deciduous woodlands. One of the officers checked his watch: Agnes would have about three hours to enjoy the views then her mind would be otherwise occupied. They forced her down on her knees next to a railway track, they rolled up her sleeves and then chained her slender wrists to the track. It took Agnes 10 seconds before she understood her cruel sentence. She still screamed for mercy as the van was long out of sight and hearing.

What followed were the three most gruesome hours of Agnes’ life.
The train driver sighed. The security services regularly used this stretch of line. The manganese ore trains crossing the Benderveere Plains revved up to full speed and yet a bit more to manage the long, long incline across the coastal hills at the deep cut of Kathla Pass. Just before reaching the top of the pass they were down to walking pace. But there was still no stopping a mile and a half long heavy goods train even only at walking pace. Thankfully it was not through the neck today and thankfully only one delinquent. Agnes had time enough to see her punishment coming. She had felt the rails vibrating underneath her wrists for long, long minutes. She had pissed herself. When she heard the drone of the diesel engines she had vomited. Finally she had seen the heavy diesel engine thundering round the bend. Agnes soiled herself in fear just before the train ploughed through her wrists.
Done! She would not draw cartoons any time soon.

While a doctor in a hospital far away later that day finished stitching up Agnes’ fresh underarm stumps, Lisa desperately fought to find a bearable position on her cross. Lucius sat watching in horror and awe as the naked beauty twitched and struggled. Lisa braced herself, forcing herself to hang still for another few minutes. They chatted. From time to time a shiver shook the naked girl. Lisa winced in pain and then, as if embarrassed by her own squeamishness, tried to quickly stick onto the sentence cruelly interrupted by her tortured body. She seemed not to mind Lucius seeing her naked body displayed with nothing, absolutely nothing left to imagination. The way they had nailed her feet forced her to display her soft freshly shaven sex and yet she seemed not to mind. But she seemed to want to hide the pain from him. They chatted; a youth, dressed in a casual shirt, in jeans and trainers, sitting relaxed in the sand and a young woman hanging naked displayed rigidly nailed to a cross. Lucius seemed more embarrassed by this arrangement than she was. A week of torture, a week of having to display her naked, vulnerable body to everyone who cared had taught her that embarrassment is nothing natural. Embarrassment is taught, is earned. Being able to be embarrassed about one’s body, one’s nakedness is a privilege. If this is taken away then there is no use, no need, no hope for embarrassment. They had stripped her first of her clothes and then of taught custom and habits. Now there was nothing left but her. Lucius had never encountered a girl so open, so genuine, so fascinating. There was not a moment when she tried to play a role, display a certain character, fit into a given mould. She had no need for that. Her cross allowed her to die completely herself. She seemed to be determined to make the most of that in the few days she had left. But she was afraid he might shy away from her discomfort. She tried to hide her gruesome suffering from him; gritted her teeth, when her helpless body shivered in cramps, her bare ankle bones scraped her nails and send wave after wave of stinging pain through her twitching body. After what seemed an eternity to her the tortured body calmed and the sharp lines around her eyes, around her mouth softened and she resumed talking. Lucius listened spellbound.

The sun hung low on the crest of the dunes when the healing, the relieving stream of words came to a trickle and then a close. It was not an awkward silence; not the silence that asks for words to fill the gaps. Lisa was at peace. Lucius got up, slowly. What do you say leaving a girl hanging naked on a cross, the night falling, the sea breeze picking up as it did so often with nightfall? Best say nothing much. Lucius left her with a shy wave of his hand and the promise to come back tomorrow.

Sleep did not come at all this night. Lisa. Lucius rescued her. He pulled out the nails and then he carried her home and hid her and then … well – this was when the plan fell flat on its face. He rescued her and … then he rescued her … no plan made in beyond the first frantic stage of getting her off that cross and then there was nothing but despair. He thought forward, backward, upward, sideways, he turned his thoughts, his ideas, his hopes and dreams and yet in the end there was never a way to hide a crippled young woman in the village.

 

[phlebas]

This is developing into a remarkable story, fresh on several levels, with some very moving and some quite surreal scenes. In parts it even reminds me of the book Requiem for a Woman's Soul by Omar Rivabella.
Politics, torture, civil rights, teenage awkwardness, young love, crucifixion, a coming of age story, all in such a small package!

 

[The Fallen Angel]

A small package it may be but enough detail is there to bring a most improbable tale to life in a vivid and captivating manner. A natural talent for story telling is obvious.

 

[thehangingtree]

A small package it may be but enough detail is there to bring a most improbable tale to life in a vivid and captivating manner. A natural talent for story telling is obvious.

...I liked you warmer sensuous side better. This just reminds me of a credit card thief...

...I don't know why...

R. M. Nixon

 

[RacingRodent]

Julia and Melissa are not the same person

So Tilman, yes this is the point at which I tap the table. Hell I might even get up, come around the table, sit on a corner and look you in the eye...no ignore the bare light bulb, focus on me.

So Tilman, it seems you are in fact rather good at this. You have taken us deep inside the central character and broadened our focus to include a wider world ever so familiar to those of us who either lived through or studied the Cold War and in some cases a bit of both and are familiar with wider dictatorships in general. The world is deep and convincing, the characters likewise, the way in which an ordinary domestic existence can become entwined with larger themes driven by powerful currents moving on a national and even international scale works well. All the time though you keep character as central in a way that is compelling.

You keep this up for the rest of the 'week' and this will stand proudly among the truly amazing greats...not to put any pressure on you of course

 

[Tilman]

Oh good! No pressure there
No, really - thanks a lot! I'll try to keep it up.

Day3

Right when he awoke Lucius knew that he must not go back. No! Really not! He was sure of that while he got dressed. He knew that he must not go back to her under any circumstances. This was absolutely clear. He knew it while he quickly splashed some water over his face. He knew it all the time while he congratulated himself on being up early enough to escape parental questions. He really, really should not go back. No! In fact he must not go back! It was only … he knew that nothing in the world could stop him from going. Going was wrong on so many aspects and yet he must. He could not not go back to that girl.

Lucius walked a brisk pace to leave the night’s ghosts and worries behind. How was she? Lisa. Lisa. The name swirled in his head. He tasted its sound. He felt it spoken into the silence of the early morning. Lisa. It sounded nice. Sweet; and yet not diminishing. It was a good name. Lisa. A strong name. He pictured the golden corkscrew curls flying in the breeze. Lisa. He pictured the sun tanned skin, the pretty arms, the fine fingers, the … Lucius mind hesitated – held back from a loving and very traditional upbringing … the firm, little breasts. Lisa. Soft skin. Lisa. A button nose, covered in freckles. Lisa. Deep, deep blue eyes. Lisa …

Lucius was very sobered and subdued when he arrived at the beach. It felt horrible. Normally a boy of his age would go to meet a girl and he would look forward to seeing her and he would be excited and he could never be a 100% sure if she would be there waiting for him and … and Lucius knew that Lisa would be waiting for him, unmoving, helpless, nailed in place.

And he knew that she would not beg of whinge or plead because she had done all the sobering calculations he had done. She knew she would have to die. He knew she would have to die. How … how do you make a dying girl’s last days bearable?

And yet Lisa smiled when she saw him coming across the dunes. It was a weird smile somehow. It was – well – it was so beautifully innocent, so open, and honest, so … so perfectly fitting for a young girl sitting on a park bench waiting for a boy she liked. It was a strange smile for a girl hanging naked on a cross to die. Lucius admired the strength of that girl, hanging from a cross, knowing she would die and die rather horribly and yet able to smile for a fleeting moment, to wipe away the horror and just treasure the moment of their meeting. Lisa smiled an honest smile of someone happy to see a friend, someone happy to spend some time together.

Lucius sat in the sand. It was still slightly damp. It had rained sometime during the night; the fine and gently spring rains they usually got up here – an endless lukewarm drizzle. Good. Rainy nights tended to be warmer. When the sky was clear during the night it could be awfully chilly in spring. Lucius did not mind the dampness. Only – it should have hailed and stormed and being -20 degrees and … and … and it would have helped her to die. Lucius felt tears welling up. Must not cry! The girl was strong! Would be stupid to cry and break everything to bits. He somehow knew that everything would break to bits if he would burst into tears here and now. He felt the lurking horror just beneath thin gauze of pretended normality. Lucius swallowed hard, breathed deep.

In front of him on a surprisingly finely crafted wooden cross hung a naked girl, arms stretched, wrists pierced, legs bend backward, ankles nailed in place. She hung, her body presented to the unmoving, unrelenting elements. And yet she talked. What music did he like? What music did teenagers like in the village? Where there clubs, cafes? What did one do after classes? Was there a college in the villages? Did he have a girl friend?

This question alone would have let Lucius blush toe to ears if it had been asked by a girl his age under any other circumstances. Yet asked by a naked girl nailed to die it seemed a perfectly innocent question. They chatted for hours. At some point Lisa’s voice rasped.

Lucius had brought an old plastic water bottle, had filled it on the way with crisp, clean, fresh water from one of the many little streams that trickled through the coastal dunes towards the sea. The girl drank in deep long gulps. Lucius felt weird standing next to the naked girl seeing her breast heave with the deep gulps of water. He was so … so close to her. He saw her little ear, framed by blond curls. Some of Lisa’s pretty corkscrew curls had matted a bit under the endless onslaught of wind and salt spray. He looked at her rosy cheeks – a bit burned by the sun now – the milky way of freckles spreading out over her face like the stars of a galaxy. He looked at her slender neck, her throat; if you looked closely you could still see the bruises left from when they strangled her with the garrotte.

Lisa smiled – a weak, a weary smile but a smile all along. Lucius placed the bottle in the warm sand, sat down at the foot of the cross, just as he had sat yesterday. There he sat Lisa’s legs just in his line of sight, right in eye-height, her knees dangling on the sides of the cross, Lisa’s legs forced apart by the cross. Whenever his gaze wandered a bit downward from her beautiful face he saw her fine, firm breasts, silky skinned like two firm peaches, further down her soft, young sex, freshly shaven, like a fine, firm plum: a fruit basket displaying forbidden fruits.

Yet Lucius mind was far from the temptations hung out in from of him. It was weird. They chatted. Lucius knew little of what was going on in the cities, what role politics played in a college in a big town, what teenagers did at college, after college, at home. Lisa knew little of what was going on in the countryside, how people made ends meet, how they fed themselves, far away from supermarkets; how rural college life worked, where a very old woman taught the youngsters in one big classroom, taught them everything from maths to cooking, from engineering to knitting.

The two teenagers talked about everything and anything. Lucius had never met anyone who lived in a city. Lisa had never met someone from the country. It was a fascinated exchange made strange really only by the fact that the young girl hung naked nailed to a cross.

May be it was to some extend the cross that granted them this unlimited freedom of speech, thought and word. Lisa knew she would be dead in a few days. Lucius knew she would be dead in a few days. There was nothing they could say to each other that they could come to regret. Teenagers talking found themselves in endlessly awkward positions, shifting uncomfortably on sofas, on park benches on wet grass, trying not to show the other one, that your yeans bottom slowly, slowly soaked through. Lisa and Lucius had none of these concerns. Lisa hung naked to die. She did not need to fret about if he liked her dress, her shoes, if her rouge was smeared of her hair undone. She hung naked on a cross. She did not need to think if she should coyly close her legs and pull the seam of her dress. She was naked and the cross forced her legs apart, presenting her sex.

Lucius could never have talked to Jiulia like this or Marcia or any other girl from the village, not to his cousins, not his friends. Yet here there was no barrier between the two young people. Lisa was naked, nailed to die. She had nothing to hide. He had nothing to hide. There was nothing that was embarrassing to say. How can a naked girl hanging nailed hands and feet find anything embarrassing? The cross stripped her of any custom and tradition. The nails took any privacy from her. There was no thought, no idea she could not say. No one would ever hold her accountable for it. She would be dead.

Lucius remembered how he had turned bright red one day talking to Marcia, the shopkeeper's daughter. She had casually slipped out of her ballerinas. She had sat next to him in the grass in front of the old church building and Lucius had fought a losing battle to follow her words while his gaze and mind were consumed by the look of two beautiful bare girl’s feet. Now he had a girl hanging naked right in front of him and his mind followed her thoughts and talk, her ideas and ideals, her wishes and dreams and not for a moment did it feel awkward or strange that she was naked, that she could and would never again cover her most private areas, that her soft, young body was displayed, her silky, firm breasts shown and she would never cover them with an embarrassed swipe of a hand, for her hands were nailed in place till gulls would release them from their nails and her beautiful little feet would only every touch the ground again when the bare bones would start to fall.

They chatted with a wonderful innocence two teenagers could never have found, had not one of them being nailed to a cross, naked and condemned to die. They chatted. From time to time Lucius stood up and gently put the water bottle to the girl’s lips. He stood, watched transfixed as she drank, slowly. He stood so close to her. His eyes wandered over the beautiful body while he stood close, so close to her, held the water bottle to her lips and felt the light movement when she drank. His eyes rested for a moment on her shoulders, wandered along her slender arm, the elbow, finely formed, gentle, smoothed curves and edges, where her bones joined; wandered to her slim wrists, nailed to the wood. Lisa’s little hands shivered from time to time, her fingers flexed in a helpless attempt to alleviate the pain. He had never been this close to a naked girl. He had in fact never been this close to a girl at all.

What sports did he like? Did they have decent sports facilities out here? What sports facilities? She laughed, then blushed at her own ignorance. Really not? Really not! Life was very different out in the countryside. Shame to learn so much right before the end. She laughed. Lucius could not, swallowed hard, could not laugh, nodded lamely.

They chatted. The sun hung low on the horizon. Lucius got up to allow her the last splashes of water from the bottle. He stood there while she drank in slow sips. Lucius gaze was drawn to her beautiful, little feet. The sun had started burning her arches and the delicate skin of her toes crimson but her soles still looked soft and silky. In a fleeting movement his hand brushed along the soft skin of her foot. She drew a deep breath. He twitched but a gentle, hardly recognisable nod of her head reassured him. His hand rested lightly in her soft arch. Gently he stroked the bare sole. She would never walk again. Her soft sole would never touch the ground again. She must have learned to walk many years back. She must have walked miles on her sweet little feet. She probably had run on her feet, maybe she had danced on them. Now they hung nailed to a cross, never to touch the ground again. Her soles would spend the last living days facing the sky, burned by the sun, cooled by the wind. Lucius hand gently caressed the soft skin. Lisa’s breath was deep, slow, calm, at peace. Lucius stood a long while just stroking the little, bare foot.

It was late when he was finally back home. His dreams about rescuing Lisa became more frantic.

He brought her to the border (How?).
He hid her in a secret shed far from civilisation (Where?).
He hid her in a dugout in the dunes (To die of her wounds?).
He … understood that not everything one wants just happens.

There would be no magic wand. No Father Christmas. No angel just popping in on some godly errant. Life was cruel. Humans were cruel. He cried himself into a troubled sleep.

 

[Wragg]

Tilman - this is fantastic, I didn't think there were any new angles to crux fiction, but you've hit one with this beautifully told story! Thank you

W

 

[admihoek]

Julia and Melissa are not the same person

So Tilman, yes this is the point at which I tap the table. Hell I might even get up, come around the table, sit on a corner and look you in the eye...no ignore the bare light bulb, focus on me.

So Tilman, it seems you are in fact rather good at this. You have taken us deep inside the central character and broadened our focus to include a wider world ever so familiar to those of us who either lived through or studied the Cold War and in some cases a bit of both and are familiar with wider dictatorships in general. The world is deep and convincing, the characters likewise, the way in which an ordinary domestic existence can become entwined with larger themes driven by powerful currents moving on a national and even international scale works well. All the time though you keep character as central in a way that is compelling.

You keep this up for the rest of the 'week' and this will stand proudly among the truly amazing greats...not to put any pressure on you of course

and Julie is her girlfriend.......................years and years.................and Julia is a bit a nun and likes all cruel men

 

[thehangingtree]

extremely well done...

t

 

[Tilman]

Thanks a lot! That makes writing fun.

Day4

Lucius had had a horrible night. He had hardly slept. He was full of self-pity until his thoughts for a moment rested on the idea how Lisa’s night might have been … hanging naked, nailed to a cross. A nearly sleepless night in a cosy bed suddenly seemed like heaven on earth.

Right! Time to save the girl! Lucius carefully choose sturdy pliers. That would do!

Lucius sneaked out early. He was not in the mood for a chat with mum. College was off and his parents knew that he liked to keep himself to himself when time allowed. Better not meet now. His mother had this look that went straight into your eyes and through them and then onwards into your brain. Or maybe he just was a bad liar. He walked slowly but surely along the path that led towards the farms towards the south of the village. He turned into the scrubland that bordered the vast sand dunes. Salvatore stood in the doorway of his workshop, deep in thoughts. He trusted his son. He just was not too sure if he always would trust his son’s judgement on what was dangerous and what not. He stood there long after Lucius slender figure had vanished from view.

Lucius way wound through the long streaks of sand and thin layers of soil, covered in wiry grass and here and there scruffy wild roses clinging on. He knew this land like the lines on his hand. He came more from the North West today, down a long sloping dune towards the beach, Lisa’s beach. He was nearly there when the pliers in his hands suddenly doubled in weight. Useless! Idiot! How on earth should that work? There were delicate wrists and ankles beneath the nail heads. All he would achieve would be crushing hands and feet. Idiot! Lucius realized that he had long stopped thinking in any coherent matter about this. This made no sense whatsoever. Not only would he be completely unable to hide the gravely injured girl. He would not even be able to free her like this. Idiot! He dropped the suddenly very heavy pliers into the sand and walked on like in trance.

Lucius heart stopped. The girl had died. Hanging alone in the dark, tortured by pain and fear, by loneliness and despair she had died. Her head hung forward, her mop of blond curls hanging like a curtain all around her delicate face. He felt tears welling up. Lisa twitched; he saw her neck and shoulder muscles strain to lift her head. He cried out of sheer happiness and then … then he felt really, really guilty for this happiness.

Lisa was not in good shape; her muscles stiff and cramped from the chill of the night. Her skin parched from days of sunshine and yet ice cold from the early morning breeze coming in from the ocean. She struggled for a moment, trying to find a comfortable position hanging from her cross. In vain. She struggled for a while to find a bearable position on the cross. In vain. Her tortured limbs ached after days of strain. Her pierced joints were tortured by a thousand thousand little movements, tweaks and twitches. Lisa shivered on her cross. Her ankle bones rasped on her nails. Her face contorted from the spasms of pain shooting through her limbs. She cried. She tried to speak, a hoarse whisper, tried again, again:

‘Hold me’, she whispered.

Lucius stood stunned for a moment, unable to react, unable to move. He … she was naked! No! He could not … must not! That would not be decent … that … that … Lisa brought her head upright, looked him straight in the eyes. He lost himself in the deep light blue pools, deeper than the ocean, deeper than the sky. Lucius stepped up one step, stepped forward, till he stood next to the girl, his hand moved forward, gingerly, not quite sure. Lisa nodded gently.

Lucius’ hand touched the girl’s tummy. She shivered. She moaned as the gentle movement reached her hands and feet. Lucius’ hand gently, gently wandered over the tight, firm skin, wandered along the fine undulations of her ribs. Lucius hand hovered gently over her firm little breast. She had her eyes closed, felt the warmth of his hand over her quivering skin. Lucius gently touched. The girl drew a sharp breath, Lucius lifted his hand but she shook her head. Gently he touched her soft, firm breasts.

For hours he just stood there at the cross one hand on her tummy, on hand gently caressing her breasts. She breathed deeply, slowly. It was creepy how relaxed, how calm she seemed, hanging nailed by hands and feet, nailed to die and yet at the moment she seemed to live for nothing but the moment, seemed to soak up the gentle human touch.

They had not spoken all day. There was no need for words. Human languages had no words to say in times like this … not any longer. What might priests of long ago have said to little frightened girls waiting for some gruesome sacrifice, girls knowing that their still beating hearts would be carved out of their breasts, girls knowing that a fiery pit awaited them, a glowing phallus or any other horrible death human ingenuity had invented over the millennia only to blame some evil god for it. Words adequate for situation like these had not been passed down through civilizations. Lucius had nothing to say to a naked teenage girl nailed to a cross and suffering. His hands gave the comfort his words could not. Lisa breathed more relaxed now, hung more still. The sun had warmed up the tortured little body the human touch calmed the tormented soul.

Lucius hand gently wandered over the girl’s firm tummy. His eyes though wandered towards the white frothing line where the waves overran the outer sandbanks. The breaking waves looked big, angry. The tide would come far in this evening. Lucius brought his gaze back close. The girl’s head had sunk to the side. Her eyes were closed. She seemed immersed in the touch of his hands, feeling them exploring her naked body, feeling the gentle, loving human touch on her skin. There was the faintest line of a smile on her beautiful lips. Lucius cried softly as he caressed the little, naked body.

The tide had come in far this evening. Lucius stood up to his knees in the water. The waves played with the girls knees. She shivered when a larger one washed up to her upper legs. She moaned in pain when she shivered. There was no need for words. Lisa did not want to see him how she suffered hanging through the night. Time to go! Some things must end while they are still nice, still good. Time to go! He felt her wanting him to leave. He felt her wanting him not to leave, hungry for his gentle touch and yet … and yet she wanted to be alone in her suffering. Please go, her body told him. Words were not needed.

Lucius turned round. The sun was nearly gone. The dunes were casting long shadows. The sea had turned an angry flecked grey. The girl hung helplessly in the waves. She had a ghastly night in front of her; most likely her last night.

Lucius had spent the day standing in the sand, half leaning to a wooden pole. He was stiff. His knees hurt. Lucius mind hurt because his knees hurt just from standing still for a few hours and his mind understood all too well that this little discomfort was worlds away from what Lisa must go through not being able to move for days. Tears ran over Lucius face. He hardly noticed. He remembered the pliers, turned looked, could not find them, turn again, walked aimlessly. Something, something must be there to be done.

Only what?

Lucius walked home slowly. Lucius brain went in overdrive. He must tell his parents. He must not tell his parents. The priest would know a solution. The priest would most certainly not know a solution. His teacher could help. She could not help. She could advise. She was not even here. He must tell his parents. He must not … and it lead nowhere.

The government had decided to execute a criminal. End of story. He was in a position to pity the criminal but that was it. There was nothing he could do. He must do something! Well, what then. Something! Yes, but what something. Well, something … something … something useful. Like what? He did not know.

Lisa would die. She had to die. She was condemned to die.

There was not much of a conversation at the dinner table. His parents knew that something troubled him but when gentle probing got nowhere they were wise enough to leave the topic. Lucius went to bed early a very unhappy boy.

He must tell his parents. He must most certainly and most emphatically not tell his parents. The priest would know … been there, thought that, dismissed it. It did not work out. He spent most of the night looking at it from every conceivable angle. In the past few days he had learned more about life, his country, humans in general then in all the years before. And he did not like it a bit. Not life. Not his country and humans not at all.
He must tell his parents. He must … not again! Sleep was a disturbed affair.

 

[Tilman]

Thanks!
I am afraid time's running out for the poor girl.

Day5

He had hardly slept which was a blessing in itself as his dreams had been surreal and gruesome at the same time. They all spun around a common theme of dying girls on nasty wooden constructs. Lucius saved her fifteen times this night. All attempts coming to nothing.

Early in the morning his thoughts were much more sober. He did not owe her life. He owed her a clean, quick death! He should have killed her the first day he saw her. He should wrap a shawl round her neck three times and pull and … and … he would never, never, never be able to do it. Never. Lucius cried. A knife! Clean through the heart. Lucius knew he would kill part of his soul doing that. Lucius knew he would not be able to do it. Never.
He could not kill her and he could not save her. In his dreams her rescue now came from elsewhere. Years ago the US Navy had tended to come in close to the shore; grey ghosts with vast antenna arrays probing, looking, listening. An American frigate would run aground skirting Point d’Morar. They would have to put a boat out. They would spot her. They would rescue her. They … the last thing the US navy had currently on their mind was gallivanting around this godforsaken stretch of coast. More likely rescue by a squadron of flying pigs. Dead end. Smugglers would come ashore. They would be transporting … they would be transporting … wait – aehm; there must be something – they would be … they would be … a figment of his imagination. Dead end.

Lucius left early and walked briskly to get to Lisa. Once again he had to call himself to order when he nearly walked across a tell-tale hump in the sand. Normally he would have done a quick testdig. He would have marked the spot. Today he just gave the suspicious molehill a berth wide enough to feel safe.

He crossed the dune ride that embraced Lisa’s bay – he swallowed hard realizing that he began to think of it as Lisa’s bay; the name would be with him when her bones would be long scattered. He interrupted his thoughts. Her bones would not be scattered. He would bury her remains somewhere decent; may be even secretly in the Churchyard – he crossed the dunes that embraced …

… and he ran.

Lisa was twitching and twisting on her cross. One of the large milky-white Southern Stormgulls had gotten impatient. Why wait? Fine prey! The bird swooped, hovered, lifted in the sea breeze, turned down again, stopped short of a full sized attack, pecked only lightly, playfully, gained height, hovered again over the helpless teenager. Lisa shook her head. Her blond curls flew, irritating the huge bird. But Mother Nature had meant the stormgulls to sail out to sea for hundreds of miles, take out large – really large – fish and get home all in one go. This bird was a finely tuned killing creature, a match for any bird of prey that roamed the skies and a horror to its prey.

Lucius ran. His mind raced. It was late in the year for a Southern Stormgull to be around. They ventured south into the Antarctic Rim for the summer. May be this one had been delayed? Whatever the reason the fight was rather one-sided. The gull held all the trump cards. Lucius remembered nearly fleshed skulls in the sand. Bad thought! He was not sure if he could run and vomit at the same time. His tummy heaved and he just managed to keep his porridge in. Something to throw! Anything to throw! Lucius hands rummaged through his trouser pockets as he ran. The gull gained height for another attack, balanced gracefully in the wind coming in from the sea – gosh, they were beautiful birds, strong, fierce, free, fabulous … and absolutely evil to their chosen prey – the bird hovered and struck down. Lucius had found an old wheel nut he had put in his pocket helping dad some days ago. The nut had a mangled thread and Salvatore had asked Lucius to bin it. He liked the yard clean and neat. Bless him. Lucius threw. The gull swooped up in one graceful beat of mighty wings. Time was on her side. Prey would not run. The bird wheeled out to sea, cackled as it went. Prey would not run. Food on the wood always stayed in place. Lucius cried when he reached the tormented girl.

The relentless wash of the nights tide had tilted her cross slightly forward. The salt spray from countless waves collecting in her sensitive, burned insteps and then rinsing down the fine curves of her heels till it reached the nail holes in her ankle joints had tortured her beyond sense and reason. She was still there but the sharp, witty teenager was fading; leaving a bedraggled dying little girl.

She hung for five days and nights now. She suffered. She never had begged, never had asked to be saved. She knew as well as he did that there would be no miracle, no happy end to this. A girl, hands and feet crippled, appearing from nowhere … there would be talk, talk would spread, ears would listen, rumour would walk and reach the offices of the security, the police, the militia. No – there would be no happy end for the girl. But her suffering could be alleviated to some extent.

Lucius had brought some bits for white bread and few oranges for her. It felt horribly, horribly wrong. He knew that all he did was to prolong her suffering. He knew that he was the one who had to be strong and withhold these gifts of life from her. She could not. Her body craved so desperately for any and every bit of life that she would eat; eat against better knowledge, eat against better judgement, eat for the few precious hours of life she would gain, eat for the gruesome hours of suffering she would have to endure as a punishment for her weakness … as a punishment for Lucius’ weakness.

Lucius cried. He should have strangled her on the first day he saw her. He could not think of any way to save her. How would, how could he show up in the village, carrying a crippled girl. The police would be there not two day later. During long and restless hours at night he had invented dozens of daring rescue operations. He had managed to get her to the border. He got her away in Hernandez’s old fishing boat. He had hidden her in the nuns convent in Biazaherta. He had … and when the morning sun shone through the window its blazing light had shown the threadbare patches in each and every plan, had cast a cruel light on the frailty of each single idea.

While his left hand was feeding her, his right gently explored the soft skin of her sole. She gently nibbled a bit of the bread he held to her mouth. His hand followed the fine curve of her heel. Slowly, slowly she ate. Gently, gently he stroked the balls of her foot. Lucius was captivated from the beauty of her bare feet. Fixed to the wood they hung like two rare treasures displayed in a gallery. The sun and the relentless salty sea wind had begun to flake away the delicate skin of her arches. Bronzed skin had turned red and came off in patches. Her left foot bore an angry scar burned deep into her flesh just between her finely curved heel and the balls of her feet; right where her arch lay like a gently sloping beach framed by the heel, the outside line of her foot and the balls the iron had left a crisp picture of a rather cute, rather plump dragon burned into her bare skin, burned deep into her flesh; a cute mark of death. The Greycloaks had a queer sense of humour. The sun over days now had burned the skin around her brand a deep crimson. Lucius gently stroked the injured foot. Lisa softly moaned, eyes closed she just endured the little bits of calm in a world of pain and horror.

Lucius peeled an orange. He took his time, carefully scraping away the white bits. He did not really mind the white bits. He did not really dare asking the girl if she minded. It would seem pointless. It would seem banal. He … he just wanted the morsel to be perfect for her. He fed her. Lisa chewed slowly, intensely feeling the endless sensations and feelings of something as normal as eating. She would not eat much more in her life. She felt the firm texture of the ripe orange. The fresh juices: sweet and sour. She swallowed. Lucius watched her swallow. It did not come easy after five days and nights hung on a cross. Her throat was raw and dry. The sun and the wind had parched her little body.

The two had no words left. Lucius knew that Lisa knew that Lucius knew that she had not much time left. Lucius knew that Lisa knew that Lucius knew that there was no way out. Any trick Lucius could muster would only delay the inevitably, would condemn her to days more of false hope and shattered dreams. They both knew that Lisa had reached a stage where she would grasp for every straw to cling on, every straw to prevent her going down. Lucius knew well, oh, so well that it was his duty to keep every straw, any straw of hope away from her. Straws broke.

Lucius fed the dying girl. Lisa chewed slowly, slowly. She had never experienced eating as such a gracious gift. Food! Life! Eating fought off death. Tears rolled over her cheeks as she slowly ate. Not for her. Not for her!

Lucius went home early. She had not asked him to but her eyes had begged him to go. Lucius regretted going away from her only half an hour after he reached the village. A deep rumble from the sea! At every other place along the coast that would have suggested a thunderstorm. Not here! He knew each and every rumble by name. This was fast semi-automatic heavy dual-purpose guns. The shells normally exploded on impact but if one malfunctioned they made nice prey. They were a bit less than an inch in diameter and about four inches long. From the impact traces they must come in in horrible swarms of death and destruction and right now Lisa was hanging right in their path. Lucius shivered. Did they see her? Did they look? Could they look? One seldom saw more than distant flashes on the horizon when the navy did their practise runs along the coast. Did they actually watch? Was there right now someone looking through some target optics spotting a naked teenager hanging right in their target area? Did they even know that the Greycloaks used the area for executions? Lucius had walked five hundred yards back before he came to his senses. The best thing that could happen was a direct hit. Dead. Just like that.

Lucius went to the old village church and prayed; his hands tightly grasping the old, weathered altar rail. His eyes fixed yet not seeing on the beautifully carved likeness of St. Michael over the altar. He must have been very confusing to the Lord for every few minutes he changed his mind and prayed feverishly for Lisa’s death only to pray moments later for her survival. A direct hit. No hit at all. Shrapnel: clean and swift. The vessel far on the horizon aiming elsewhere. It was left to higher authority to make something sensible out of that. It seemed an eternity before the firing stopped. From experience Lucius knew that these firing runs did seldom last more than half an hour but this one lasted for ever and a day. Lucius was completely drained when he came out of the church.

He was completely beside himself. Everything urged him to run back. Everything urged him never to go back. There was no sleep for him this night.
He had invented every single possible rescue stretching from a plane crashing down in the water right off the beach (There was no flight path overhead. A vapour trail in the sky was a really, really rare event.), to a ship aground (Vessels had to give Point d’Morar a wide berth and did simply not come close in shore.) or smugglers making landfall (There was absolutely nothing to smuggle here.). He had saved her himself in every possible way until he remembered how many, many years ago during the Ariocales Regime someone had gone missing around here. He had not been old enough to understand much of it. He had found the cars and light tanks going to and fro most exciting. He had liked the hubbub in the village. Years later somehow talk in the workshop had come back to those days. His father had not been too forthcoming with information but Lucius had understood that some people had helped some other people and subsequently a lot of people had died. Saving Lisa would be no saving at all. He would just spread more misery; much more misery. He should have killed her. It would have destroyed him but he should have killed her.

 

[Tilman]

Day6

Lisa had spent a horrible evening. She did not have the slightest idea what the distant rumble meant and the pale orange flashes on the horizon. They actually looked quite nice. That is – they looked nice until row after row of projectiles came in. The dune left behind Lisa erupted into a frenzy of sand and shrapnel. Then a long row of splashes raced towards her only to stop some fifty yards short of the beach. A shingle bank some bit away burst into a rain of razor sharp splinters. Lisa had no way of controlling her frenzied body. She bounced on her cross. Her bones grated. She had no liquid to spare to soil herself but she did lose any and every control over her dying body. It seemed hours before the horror abated.

Lisa had spent a horrible night. The cramps in her calves had shaken and shaken and shaken her legs, had scraped and scraped and scraped her ankle joints on her nails. The pain was soul destroying. By now there was no bearable position any longer. By now her breath was short and laboured. She would not last much longer. She hung now for six days and nights. She had been waiting for Lucius to come. One last thing to do in this world. ‘Take me’, she whispered.

The Greycloaks liked this way of nailing a girl to the cross. They had made her stand with her back to her cross; her arms were stretched out backwards over the crossbeam and nailed through the wrists. Then her legs were bent backwards till her feet lay - heels just touching her buttocks – on the side of the cross. Nailed through her ankle joints she hung suspended from her feet, the nails in her hands just preventing her from falling forward. She had the cross between her knees preventing her from closing her sex. It gave the girl endless suffering and gave her tormentors easy access.

They had been happily expecting the warm, firm reward around their eager cocks when the job was done. It had not quite worked out. One of the guys had been on the wireless set of the Jeep all the time, talking, shouting, haggling and swearing. In the end both the soldiers had nailed her feet quickly to the cross; had made a mess of that, another nail to fix the right foot than she hung securely. They had gathered their stuff and left; left just like that. No threads, no good byes, no picking the cherry as a reward. They just drove away like two joiners having fixed a farm gate.

Lisa had hung stunned from the excruciating pain in her ankle joints and listened to the ever more distant drone of the engine. She had tried to turn her head, tried to look, to see them going, the Jeep had just raced up a dune and was gone. She saw the wind already filling in the tyre tracks. She heard the distant drone of the engine, the more distant drone of the engine, more distant, … she was alone. She was alone! She hung alone to die.
She had seen the tyre tracks fading in the wind. She had hung alone with her excruciating pains and she had understood that she would suffer for days and days.

She remembered vividly the endless relief as the boy came trundling somewhat aimlessly through the dunes. Not for a second had she thought of him as a means of saving her. She understood perfectly well, that her injured hands and feet marked her beyond help. Better die without much ado than being hunted down, tortured again and then being destroyed. She had heard whispers of people being buried alive. She would live – and die – with whatever her cross would do to her but the idea of company for her last days was a relief beyond all hoping.

She had felt his hands on her body, felt his hands like she had never felt hands before. She hung still, very, very still, hands touching, hands exploring, hands giving comfort in a world of pain. Now she had one last wish, one little request … be allowed to die a women; experience once, once only the feeling of lust combined with something other than sheer horror and death.

‘Take me’, she whispered.

Lucius stood stunned in front of her. He was perfectly aware that this was a teenage woman. It was somehow obvious with her naked body on display for days. He knew that she was a girl his age. He liked girls. He … well, he could imaging to love girls. In fact there had been one or two fleeting moments, when he even thought of loving a girl. And he had a very clear concept of sex. Well, on a theoretical basis that is. Mother Church and mother mum made well sure that nothing happened before its proper time here.

He had held her in his arms. He had felt the beating of her heart under his gentle touch. He had felt the soft, silky skin of her arms, her shoulders, her legs, her feet. He had even felt the gentle touch of her firm, little breasts against his shirt, had wondered, if she felt his heart beating like it wanted to burst the ribcage and go exploring all over the soft, firm body in front of him. It just never, ever occurred to him to take the virginity of a teenage woman nailed naked to a cross, crippled by her nails, hanging to die.

‘Please!’, she stammered, ‘please, I don’t want to die a virgin! Please take me!’ She cried. Lucius did not think. This one moment finally his ever cautious, ever self-conscious brain did not mess up. He just gently leaned forward and kissed her tears from her freckled cheeks. He fought with one hand his unyielding trousers, got tangled up in his shirt, had finally pulled all the clothing out of the way, unbuttoned his shirt to the top and gently, gently leaned forward.

Lucius shivered. He was standing in front of her, her soft sex just inches away. His breast touched the fine, firm nipples of her breasts. She moaned. He gently leaned further, feeling her firm, little breasts, warm on his skin. Lucius hands gently followed the curve of her tormented spine. Six days she hung bend forward, hips thrust out. She shivered under his loving touch but for once she did not seem to feel the pain in her hands and feet. Lucius’ hands kept exploring around her shoulder blades, along her arms. Lisa’s breath had slowed; she seemed only half in this world. Lucius hands went down her ribs, her hips, around her firm buttocks. Lisa moaned as his hands went closer to her loins. She tried to press her hips forward. Lucius felt the soft, wet, warm sex. He .. he never had … he, what if he … his mind faltered under the strangeness of the situation. Young men should have their first sex in their bedroom, when the parents were out, or in a friend’s car on the backseat, may be in a field, a garden, a shed, a yard, … but not with a dying girl nailed to a cross on a godforsaken beach. Mother Nature took him by the hand. Not literally that is but some things just have a dynamic of their own.

Gently he thrust. The girl whimpered. He hesitated. She looked him straight into the eyes. Her eyes urged him on, begging for that little bit of comfort. He thrust, took her in long, gentle strokes. The Greycloaks had been in a hurry, had other business to do. They had nailed her hand and feet yet had left her sweet little sex untouched. They rarely left a virgin to die, usually making sure that she died a ‘proper’ woman. But they had been in a hurry, just had a job to do, quick and clean. Lisa had been crucified a girl and left a girl to die. Lucius felt the resistance, felt Lisa stiffen momentarily under his thrusts, he hesitated, then urged on by Lisa’s deep, deep eyes he thrust, felt something give way. Lisa winced, tears rolling over her face.
Lucius had never had a girlfriend. He had exchanged shy glances with Jiulia but Jiulia was just a little girl really and a friend, just a good friend. Lucius knew well how the good Lord had made man and women a perfect fit for one another. He had tried himself at night under the blanket or in the shower. It had felt – well – nice but not something particularly great really. This was … this was very, very different. The tension, the tingling up and down his spine, his knees going to rubber, with each thrust it felt as if all the strength left in him went into his manhood, leaving him to grasp Lisa’s firm, naked body, hold her close, hold himself close, hold himself upright … feeling Lisa’s heart beating close to his own, so close. His mind doing somersaults Lucius thrust and with every thrust Lisa winced when for a glorious moment the load was taken from her tortured little feet and her helpless naked body was carried by Lucius. He thrust, he felt it building up in him, he thrust taking him from boyhood to being a man; a very young man that might be though. And he made the girl - twisting and twitching on her tortured limbs – he made the girl a woman.

Lisa, dancing a cruel and exhilarating dance of pain and lust, felt her tummy twitching, beating like a drum. She tried to match his thrusts, tried to bounce on him. She screamed. She did not really scream. Her throat did not allow for screaming after days on the cross. She gasped as she thought she could hear her ankle bones scraping on the nails. The pain from her feet and the unbelievable joy from her tummy met somewhere in her brain and carried her away, carried her far from this barren stretch of sand; carried her away to a better time and place, a world intact, a world secure and full of joy and happiness. Lisa’s tortured body shivered shaken by an orgasm wonderful and cruel. Lucius held her close, felt her twitching naked body against his bare skin, felt himself warm inside her. Her beating heart on his skin, her breath tickling his neck.

Slowly the two came to their senses; dropped rather unceremoniously in the harsh reality of an execution ground. Lisa’s naked body shivered from the aftermath of the intense orgasm, her bones grating on the nails, she cried but she smiled; smiled an angelic smile; smiled, ready to die.
Lucius cried. He swallowed hard, he tried to speak, realized he could not, tried again, again until he finally more croaked than said: 'I should have strangled you the first time I saw you. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry! I … I should not have …' The girl smiled. It was still a beautiful smile even now tainted with excruciating pain. She gently shook her head. She swallowed; she took a moment to find the strength for words: 'I would not have wanted to miss a single day with you.' She smiled. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Lucius gently kissed them away; kissed her cheeks, felt the elegant curve of her cheekbone, felt the moisture of her tears and her soft skin under his trembling lips.

Lisa drew a deep breath and then gently, composedly said: 'Please … Please don’t come again. Please remember me as I was. Please do not come again.'

Lucius nodded. He knew she was right. He had no words to say. His voice would have failed him anyhow. He nodded. He turned. He did not look back. He cried the whole way home. He stumbled along. Only when he cut his ankle on a rusting shell, did he keep at least half an eye on the path on the long, long way home.

 

[thehangingtree]

tree applauds...

t

 

[Wragg]

Wragg joins the applause - Bravo!

 

[Tilman]

Thanks a lot!

Day 7

Lucius woke early. In fact he was not sure if he had slept at all. The weird fragments of imagination dancing in his mind suggested tormented dreams but rest there had been none. It was still dark. He looked at the faint glow of his alarm clock; four in the morning. And why not?! He got dressed. Carefully he slid out of the room, ‘cross the corridor, through the side door into the workshop. Idiot! He should have taken the hacksaw blade yesterday before bed! He tiptoed into the silent workshop. He did often help his father cleaning up after a long days’ work. He knew exactly where to grasp in the nearly complete darkness.

“Where are you going?”

Lucius heart stopped … again. This was not an easy week. It probably cost him two or three years of his life expectancy. His father’s voice was warm, calm, lovingly reassuring. Lucius took a deep breath. “I am doing something right!” He left a pause for thought and contemplation. “But I am doing something seriously forbidden.” His dad looked at him for a long time, his gaze hardly visible in the darkness of the earliest morning then with the gentlest of nods he leaned forward, kissed his son on the forehead. “Good luck!”

Thus prepared with the fathers blessing Lucius set off, carefully finding his path in the coldest hours of the morning just before the sun would paint the horizon in shades of blue and lilac. The girl was still alive. Her eyes were closed. Her skin was burned bright red in places, flacking off in patches where salt spray and sun had tormented it. Her once beautiful lips were cracked. Pain had etched grooves into her beautiful face. She was still beautiful. She did not seem to realize he was here. Lucius took out the hacksaw blade. Ready! His hand shook so much he dropped the blade. Something inside his young mind told him he was doing something far, far more forbidden than taking the copper driving band from a shell or sneaking a peek view of the suffering the nation’s rulers imposed on its people. This was somewhere between treason and madness and something most likely in vain. Lucius picked up the blade.

He had taken her. Now she was his to care for.
No, no not quite … she had given herself to him. Now she was his to care for.

He gently fiddled the blade between the coarse wood and her left wrist and started sawing. The nail shrieked. The blade worked. Deeper. And deeper. It took forever. He knew no living soul was anywhere within miles and yet he shivered. He sawed. Deeper. His hands lost their grasp on the old hacksaw blade. He took a deep breath. Concentrate! He sawed. Someone was looking over his shoulders. He nearly fainted from the horror, guilt and shock. He turned. The sun had come up and a lone cloud had cast a brief shadow. The early morning beach was empty and silent bar the muffled hiss of the waves. He took a deep breath. If he continued like this the girl – his girl – would be dead by nightfall. He sawed.

After an eternity the hand of the dying girl came loose. Her arm slid limp from the crossbar. The skin on the underside was worn away by the endless movement of the tortured body.

Ok – right hand. He fiddled with the blade. Come on! Not easy. Finally he had it in. Slowly! He had to calm himself. Slowly, surely. He found his rhythm. The blade rasped through the nail. Deeper. Deeper. He sawed in a fluid, gentle motion. Lisa moaned. She did not seem to grasp what was going on around her. Nearly there. The nail would break at some point. Nearly there! He had expected the crack. When the last bit of the nail broke he dropped the blade and caught the limp body in his arms. Gently, gently did he lower the girl into the sand. Her tortured feet kept her legs dangling from the cruel cross. He wriggled the blade between her left foot and the cross. Difficult! Lisa’s fine ankle was in the way. It took some fumbling to slide the blade in. He cried. Lisa’s ankle still looked gorgeous. He sawed. His eyes caught by the beauty of the tortured little foot. Sun and the cruel branding iron had left the bare sole an angry red wound with a plump dragon picture burned into the fine arch. But even now some of the natural beauty, the wonderful proportions, the gentle curves and lines still shone through. Lucius sawed like in a trance. It was nearly mid-day when the crippled foot came off.

One left to do. He started cutting free the right foot. Cutting was slow to avoid grazing the skin but he made progress. With a convincing crack the last bit of the nail snapped. Only then did he realize his problem. The nail through her right ankle had nearly missed the wood of the cross. They had added one more for good measure. He resumed cutting. And sawed. And sawed. And … then he realized that something was not at all right. May be they had run out of the standard nails? May be they wanted to try something new? This one was different! That was the reason he did not get anywhere with the blade. This thing was quite different from the four nails he had cut. His blade was worn and blunt. He rasped his fingertips along the blade, gingerly at first, then with pressure. Nothing left! There was virtually no bite left in the blade. This one must be tempered steel.
So close. So close! He made a decision. This might not any longer cut metal. It was still sharp enough for softer material. He took a deep breath than he set the blade right below the last nail, right above Lisa’s ankle. He cut. Lisa bled. He cut, cut skin, cut further. He felt the blade biting bone. Lisa moaned. He cut. Lisa bled. He cut deeper and deeper. Lisa’s dying toes twitched. He paused, used his shirt to bind a tourniquet around Lisa’s calf, wiped some blood away and sawed.

After what seemed another eternity Lisa’s right foot came off. It looked gruesome: a girl’s foot nailed to the wood. Blood had stained the side of the cross. Lucius cried. Lisa was free. For the first time in nearly a week Lisa was free from her cross. And she lived! Just.

He held her in his arms. She had curled up in his lap. Her breathing went slow and laboured but she lived; she still lived. Her heart pumped, pumped slowly, laboriously, faltering and yet after each and every frightening pause it started beating again … and again. And while the girl, while the young women, helpless as a baby, lay in his arms far, far away in Cessarine, brave people where throwing flowers at tanks; in Benderveere protesters painted armoured personnel carriers in vivid colours. CNN reporters held their breath waited for machine guns to fire. And when the order to open fire finally came, General Francisco Galileo Santa Anna, head of the national army, hopped out of his light battle tank parked between flower beds in the Plaza de la Republica and went to the Church of the Mother of Christ to pray for sense and guidance. Clocks ticked. A world glued to television sets bored by reality shows held its breath. A paranoid Obrist in the Palace of the Republic waited for orders to be executed. Francisco Galileo Santa Anna, father of four children, husband to a caring wife, commander to 50000 men haggled with God almighty. Many years later people would call him the Saint of Cessarine. Soldiers waited for orders that never came. Clocks ticked yet time stood still.

Lucius took a deep breath, got up with his precious load, her head resting on his shoulder, her stump wrapped in his shirt, and walked back home to face uncertainty.

Not twenty four hours later two men of the Securidad would walk the beach. Eradicate traces! Tie up loose ends! They would pause. They would look at the cross fallen flat on in the sand. They would be concerned at the sight of a nail worn through. Surely that was sawing marks? They would envisage the tedious searching of villages; difficult now at times of great political uncertainty. But then one of the guys swiped away some wet sand to find the gruesome remnants of a human foot still attached to the cross. Bingo! Mother Nature had just feasted on the corpse and the sand and the waves had left those strange marks on the broken nails.

On the way back to the Jeep they were speculating if the girl might have still been alive when she toppled forward into the surf. They enjoyed the thought of the cross leaning further and further and the little beast twitching and twisting on her nails. They were wondering if it might have been high tide when she fell, face first into the surf or if she would have lain flat on her face in the sand with the tide coming in feeling the waves coming closer and closer. The fear of drowning helplessly nailed hand and feet must have driven her insane. They laughed. They did never check properly if all their sick phantasies made any real sense. May be it was a fitting twist of fate that losing her foot and the sadism of her tormentors in the end carried Lisa’s fate over few very unstable days. Villages where never searched.

 

[Wragg]

Jings! Tree & I applauded too early - little did we realise that Tilman had more of this astounding story to tell




W