Untitled

This is only part of a much larger story. It is broken into smaller sections, the torture of a young lady, who is taken prisoner in her country by an invading force.

“It is time to confess.”

Myrra felt a chill run down her spine as she heard the words.    

She was in one of two halls inside the temple next to the small stone house where she’d been questioned the week before.  It more like a dungeon than a house to worship and give thanks to the gods in.  The hall had been gutted of all relics and symbols having anything to do with Lécaiian deities, and was empty except for a large wooden structure in the middle of the room, about ten paces away and a table in the corner behind where Myrra stood.  The structure was made of two thick, bisecting beams in the shape of an X, mounted on a metal frame that leaned at a slight angle.  On the top two arms of the X were wrist restraints, attached by chains nailed into the beams.  Large dark stains saturated the stone floor beneath the structure.

The air in the temple heavy.  There was a scent, sweet and almost metallic, that seemed to come and go.  It would linger for several moments and then disappear.

Myrra had been standing on the cold stones in the large empty room for some time, facing the wooden structure.  She did not know how long she’d been there, and the windows in the temple had been boarded shut after the glass, which had been painted with symbols of the gods, had been smashed, so she could not judge where the sun was.  The guard who had escorted her into the temple had instructed her to stand where she was and not to move, and then left her there alone.  She was unable to shake the feeling that for whatever reason she’d been brought here, it was not going to end well.  Her stomach churned, and she had to swallow several times to keep from being ill.  With nothing in the room to look at but the large wooden structure in front of her, she tried, in vain, not think of what it was used for, or what the stains on the floor beneath it could be.

She wasn’t sure if she felt cold because she was barefoot on the stones of the temple floor or because of the growing sense of apprehension inside her.

The sound of a heavy wooden door closing behind her echoed through the hall, causing her to flinch.  Myrra bit her lip and closed her eyes for a moment, fighting the urge to turn her head in the direction of the noise.  Footsteps behind her echoed in the hall.  Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes to see two priests in black robes walk past her, one on either side.

Both men had short, cropped hair.  They walked past her, their eyes forward.  They did not say anything or look around, but walked, almost in step with one another until they were within a few paces of the X-shaped structure, and then turned in unison to face her.  Their eyes were dark and lifeless, their faces expressionless as they stood facing in Myrra’s direction, but showing no sign of acknowledging, or even seeing her. 

Her heartbeat pounding in the base of her throat, Myrra folded her hands in front of her, glancing back and forth between the two large-framed men.  Her stomach lurched and she swallowed hard, waiting for the priests to move or say something, but they stood motionless, staring forward.

The sound of yet another set of footsteps behind her, caused Myrra’s skin to crawl.

“Young lady, you may begin your confession.” 

Myrra inhaled sharply.  The voice was much closer to her than she had expected, as if the owner of it were speaking into her ear.  She was almost sure she could feel the speaker’s breath on her neck, and the muscles along her spine clenched, almost painfully.

Footsteps again echoed as the speaker, a third priest, circled around in front of her, standing with his back to her, facing the large wooden frame.  He, like the other two, wore a black robe, had a large build, and a shaved head.  At the base of his skull, just below where his hairline would have been, there was a scar, in the shape of a double cross, a brand of the symbol of his faith.

“Confess.”  The bald priest did not turn around.  He looked up at one of the restraints, and then the other, and then reached forward and touched one of the two thick beams.

Myrra bit her lip and looked from one of priests facing her to the other.  They remained motionless, not acknowledging her at all. 

“Have you nothing to say?”

“I… I do’na know what you want me to say…”  Myrra’s mouth was dry, and had to swallow again.

“It has nothing to do with what I want,” the priest said, still facing away.  “You must confess your sins… You must be purged of your evils so that you may then turn to Eyhïn, in a blameless state, so that you may obtain his mercy.”

“But I have’na anything to confess.”

The priest turned around and strode to Myrra, until he was standing face to face with her, a hand’s width between them.  He stared into her eyes.  The colour of his eyes were so dark that she could not make out his pupils   “You have much to confess, young lady,” he said, “and you will confess, before you leave this building.”

Myrra shook her head.  “I have’na… done anything…”

Turning briskly, the priest took two steps, then turned to face her again.

“You’ve done nothing?”  The priest shook his head.  “You are blameless…  You have already given yourself to Eyhïn, the one and true god?”

Myrra bit her lip.  She shook her head again.

“Then you cannot claim to have done nothing.  All have transgressed.  All have trespassed.  None can hope to make the measure in that, his day of judgment, who have not turned to Eyhïn.  All must repent in order to come to Him.  All must give confession in order to repent, for without confession, there is no repentance.  And without repentance there is no chance of salvation.”

Myrra felt weak.  Her bare feet were cold, and her legs ached.  As she listened to the priest, she felt helpless.  Tears sprang from her eyes, and she sobbed.

“I do’na know your god!” she cried.  “He is not one of our gods!”

“No, child,” the priest said.  “Eyhïn is not one of your gods.  He is the only god.  The one, true god.”

Myrra put her hands to her face, cradling her head in her hands as she wept.

The priest stepped towards her and touched her elbow gently.  “Child, I can see that you are distraught.  You are tired.  You need to rest.”

“Please…”  Wiping the tears from her face, she looked up at the priest.

“Yes, child,”  the priest said softly.  “You may rest.  You may find the relief you need.  There is bread and wine on the table there.”  He gestured to the corner behind her.

Myrra turned her head and saw a table.  There were two chairs on either side of it.  In the middle of the tabletop was a large pitcher with several goblets around it.  There were two large bowls with many small loaves of bread in them, and a smaller bowl containing fruit.

Myrra looked back at the priest, who gave a small nod toward the table.  She gave a sigh of relief.  As she started to turn towards the table, the priest touched her elbow again.  Her chest constricted, and she bit her lip, turning back to the man.

“You may have as much as you like, and rest as long as you need…” he said, glancing at the table, then to Myrra, meeting her gaze, “…once you have made confession, and beg Eyhïn for his absolution of your sins.”

“…please…”  Myrra looked again at the table.  Her legs felt as though they would give from under her and her only with was to sit in one of the chairs at the table.

The priest tilted his head.  “Will you confess your sins and declare Eyhïn to be the one and only god, having no others before him?”

“No…”  Myrra whispered.  She clenched her jaw as a tear rolled down her cheek.

She looked again at the priest, and then lowered her gaze to the floor.  For twenty-one years, she had lived without worshipping or even acknowledging any of the Lécaiian deities.  She’d been told all her life that she was a punishment, a curse from the gods, on her parents.  Those gods had never done anything in her twenty-one years to prove otherwise…  But neither had Eyhïn, or his son…  She could not, and would never follow or worship any god who would allow her to have been cast out and treated like a she were a plague… 

“I see…”  The priest grasped her elbow, turning her away from the table, and again towards the center of the room.  “You are Lécaiian.  You are a wytch, just as the others of your race are witches.  You stand accused of not only being a witch, but of using your sorcery to try and deceive a priest, the servant of Eyhïn.  And you lie and say you’ve done nothing…”  The priest met her gaze.  “You will be purged.  You will confess.  You will accept Eyhïn…  Or you will die.”

“I am not a wetch,” Myrra said softly. 

“What was that?”

“I’m not a wetch,” she repeated.  “I… I have’na ever used sorcery…”

The priest raised his chin, looking down at her.  “That is not what I have been told…”  He squeezed her arm tightly.  “It is said that not only are you a wytch, but that you used your wytchcraft to change your appearance and hid amongst those prisoners foreign to this land, in order to evade capture.”

“…no!”  Myrra’s eyes welled, and she felt herself start to sway.  “No…”  She collapsed to her knees.

“Was it your plan to escape to another land so that you could spread your evil there?”

“I’m not a wetch…” Myrra gasped.

 

•    •    •    •

 

 

Author's Note

My grammar is a bit off. I just want to know how this piece catches the reader, if it is something that the reader would continue to be interested in.

Reviews

[JayG]

First, your writing skills are up to the task. So anything I say has nothing to do with that, the story, or, your talent. And since you like writing, I have good news. I see lots of structural problems.

Obviously, you have to be wondering why that’s good news, but the answer is that none of those problems are either unique, or your fault. And since learning what’s necessary to eliminate them is a lot like going backstage at the theater, and the practice is writing better and better stories, what’s not to like?

The thing is, like everyone else, you learned, and perfected, a skill our teachers called writing. And over more than a decade of school you wrote an endless succession of reports and essays, to prepare you for the kind of writing that future employers required: essays, letters, and reports.

The structure of that kind of writing is designed to inform the reader of the relevant facts, in an outside-in, author-centric and fact-based way. You, the all-knowing author, report and explain. But reading a detailed description of the roller coaster ride is never as exciting as taking the ride.

Obviously, the reader can’t hear or see you, so any emotion in the narrator’s voice, for the reader, is limited to that suggested by the punctuation, which is far too general to provide the fine nuance of a character’s behavior we’d hear and observe in a live performance. And while you, who know the character, the situation, and the setting before you begin reading, have intent guiding your understanding, the reader has only the words. So when you report that someone unknown, in an unknown place and time, told someone equally unknown, “It is time to confess.” What does a reader hear? Anger? Warmth? A snarl? How about a priest addressing a young man while pointing to a confessional? Those words could represent an infinite number of events. But, by reading the line, what are the odds that the reader visualizes YOUR setting and situation as-they-read? And remember, there is no second, first-impression, so figuring out what’s going on halfway down the page wont work—especially if the reader turns way before reaching clarification.

You have a picture, and you hear the tone being used. You know what planet we’re on. But do I, the reader?

• Myrra felt a chill run down her spine as she heard the words.

Ahh, you mean that this unknown female, notices a chill on her back? Seriously? Someone has just seemed to threaten her and she's focused on her back? Naaa. You might be, but she's gor more important things on her mind. You have her discovering the chill, as-if-it-matters-to-her. But in reality, the chill is the result of what she’s focused on. Make me focus on that in the same way she does and maybe I’ll FEEL the chill for the same reason. And doesn't that beat being informed that it happened?

See the problem? The words she heard don’t cause the chill. It's the situation, in total. But we have only a dispassionate report of the words and zero knowledge of the situation.

And AFTER she notices that chill, you—as yourself—stop the action, step on stage and say, “So...hang on for a minute, folks, and let’s go back a week for an info-dump of backstory. Then we’ll get back to what’s happening, till the next digression.” How real can that seem to a reader?

You don’t see that problem when you read, of course, because you know all the relevant data and have full context. So think about it. You know what’s going on. She knows what’s going on. The one speaking knows, as do lots of people in the story. Shouldn’t the one you wrote this for know?

In other words, true to your training, you’re explaining the events to the reader as if you’re writing a report. But that can’t work because the goal of writing isn’t to inform the reader. As E, L. Doctorow puts it, “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”

Problem is, no way in hell can you do that with the nonfiction skills of report-writing. Fiction requires the emotion-based and character-centric skills of the profession we call, Fiction-Writing. And that’s something that none of us realize when we leave school because we learned a skill called “writing,” and assume that because the same word is part of the profession’s name it’s the skill being pointed to. But, an engineer drives a train, and, an engineer designs a bridge, and and engineer…

See the problem? It’s what I call The Great Misunderstanding. And we never catch on till it’s pointed out, because of the name confusion, and, because we have context when reading our own work and never realize there’s a problem.

Can it be fixed? Absolutely. Every successful writer faced the same problem, and conquered it. And while you’re doing that, you’ll often find yourself saying, “But that’s so damn obvious, why didn’t I see that, myself?” That’s fun the first ten times, or so. 🤣

Since I’m pretty certain you don’t have four years to spare to earn a degree in commercial fiction writing, a handy alternative is the local library’s fiction-writing section, where you’ll find the views of pros in writing, publishing and teaching. So, time spent there is time wisely invested. And the good news is, no tests, no pressure, and you learn at your own pace.

And to help, the best book I’ve found to date—the book that got me my first contract offer—is available for download, free, at the address just below:

https://archive.org/details/TechniquesOfTheSellingWriterCUsersvenkatmGoogleDrive4FilmMakingBsc_ChennaiFilmSchoolPractice_Others

And for what it might be worth, many of the articles in my WordPress writing blog are based on that book.

So jump in. I think you’ll find learning about the field as much fun as writing. The book won’t make a pro of you. That’s your job. But it will give you the tools and knowledge. And like the proverbial chicken soup for a cold, it might not help, but it sure couldn’t hurt.

So, hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/

[Dante]

Thank you so much! this is exactly the kind of feedback I am looking for. I am downloading the content that you suggested right now. I will be reading it as soon as I am finished here. Thank you again for the feedback, and hopefully things posted will be better in future. :)