(Almost) Burned at the Stake and other short (300 word) stories (F)
Posted: Tue Jan 19, 2021 9:00 am
Pleased to meet you
It had only been a few hours since my capture but I was already bored.
Stripped to my shirt sleeves, I was fastened at the wrists by a pair of thick, steel manacles drilled into the wall at head height.
With little else to do I gazed around my prison cell.
It was fairly standard fare, damp stone walls, heavy wooden door, steel bars on the window, that sort of thing - I’d certainly been locked up in nicer places, (for instance, in the Palace of Queen Elanor I’d been bound and gagged with designer silk scarves and fed quails eggs) but equally this was far from the worst,..
Occasionally a grim face would appear at the window to yell at me, or a hooded guard would come by to check on/ tighten up my restraints - but our interactions were minimal, to say the least.
Eventually, after what felt like an age, a young, rather stern looking blonde dressed in a white lab coat appeared in the doorway.
“And how are we this evening?†She asked, barely bothering to look up from her clipboard.
“Oh, you know, mustn't grumble†I said as she unhooked the gag from between my teeth.
“My name is Ms. Richards and I’m your interrogator for the eveningâ€
“Pleased to meet you†I said warmly
“Have you any questions before we begin?â€
“Just one. You look awfully young. How do I know you’re qualified for this job?†I asked
“I’m sorry?†She said, sounding thoroughly put out.
“It’s just, I like to check the credentials of anyone who intends to torture me. Don’t worry, I’m not looking for a full curriculum vitae, just give me the edited highlights - qualifications, reason for leaving your previous post, where do you see yourself in five years? that sort of thing,..â€
And Finally,..
“And, coming up after the break, we go bird watching with wildlife expert Peggy Greenway, mountain climbing with Dame Maggie Haverbrook, and we get bound and gagged with a real life Nancy Drew, teenage sleuth, turned reporter Samantha Ward,..â€
Perched uneasily on the edge of the brightly coloured sofa of Crooksvilles number one (public access) show I nervously fingered the knot of my school tie as I waited to be introduced by the hosts, a perma tanned blonde himbo in a pale blue suit and a kindly Scottish woman with, what appeared to be a birds nest perched atop her head.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,†Diane Matthews, two time daytime Emmy nominee, said with a welcoming grin.
I wasn’t so sure. Unbeknown to my genial (TV) hosts, I’d already sweated my way through one crisp white shirt this morning, and now I was in danger of doing the same to it’s replacement.
“Maybe you should wear your blazer for the interview†the wardrobe lady had suggested, rather diplomatically, when she’d noticed how much I was perspiring.
I glanced at myself in the TV monitor.
The girl on the screen was so pale and drawn she looked like the beleaguered heroine in a Dickens novel - also, was that a spot on her/my chin?
I was feeling faint.
And, was it my imagination, or is the starched collar of this new blouse at least two sizes too small,..?
It was strange, in the last week I’d been menaced by angry robots, strapped to a giant rocket and (almost) fed to a shark, and yet nothing had prepared me for the face melting terror of being interviewed on live television - even if it was only in the “And finally,..†segment that would usually feature a skateboarding duck or a skydiving Granny.
It had only been a few hours since my capture but I was already bored.
Stripped to my shirt sleeves, I was fastened at the wrists by a pair of thick, steel manacles drilled into the wall at head height.
With little else to do I gazed around my prison cell.
It was fairly standard fare, damp stone walls, heavy wooden door, steel bars on the window, that sort of thing - I’d certainly been locked up in nicer places, (for instance, in the Palace of Queen Elanor I’d been bound and gagged with designer silk scarves and fed quails eggs) but equally this was far from the worst,..
Occasionally a grim face would appear at the window to yell at me, or a hooded guard would come by to check on/ tighten up my restraints - but our interactions were minimal, to say the least.
Eventually, after what felt like an age, a young, rather stern looking blonde dressed in a white lab coat appeared in the doorway.
“And how are we this evening?†She asked, barely bothering to look up from her clipboard.
“Oh, you know, mustn't grumble†I said as she unhooked the gag from between my teeth.
“My name is Ms. Richards and I’m your interrogator for the eveningâ€
“Pleased to meet you†I said warmly
“Have you any questions before we begin?â€
“Just one. You look awfully young. How do I know you’re qualified for this job?†I asked
“I’m sorry?†She said, sounding thoroughly put out.
“It’s just, I like to check the credentials of anyone who intends to torture me. Don’t worry, I’m not looking for a full curriculum vitae, just give me the edited highlights - qualifications, reason for leaving your previous post, where do you see yourself in five years? that sort of thing,..â€
And Finally,..
“And, coming up after the break, we go bird watching with wildlife expert Peggy Greenway, mountain climbing with Dame Maggie Haverbrook, and we get bound and gagged with a real life Nancy Drew, teenage sleuth, turned reporter Samantha Ward,..â€
Perched uneasily on the edge of the brightly coloured sofa of Crooksvilles number one (public access) show I nervously fingered the knot of my school tie as I waited to be introduced by the hosts, a perma tanned blonde himbo in a pale blue suit and a kindly Scottish woman with, what appeared to be a birds nest perched atop her head.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,†Diane Matthews, two time daytime Emmy nominee, said with a welcoming grin.
I wasn’t so sure. Unbeknown to my genial (TV) hosts, I’d already sweated my way through one crisp white shirt this morning, and now I was in danger of doing the same to it’s replacement.
“Maybe you should wear your blazer for the interview†the wardrobe lady had suggested, rather diplomatically, when she’d noticed how much I was perspiring.
I glanced at myself in the TV monitor.
The girl on the screen was so pale and drawn she looked like the beleaguered heroine in a Dickens novel - also, was that a spot on her/my chin?
I was feeling faint.
And, was it my imagination, or is the starched collar of this new blouse at least two sizes too small,..?
It was strange, in the last week I’d been menaced by angry robots, strapped to a giant rocket and (almost) fed to a shark, and yet nothing had prepared me for the face melting terror of being interviewed on live television - even if it was only in the “And finally,..†segment that would usually feature a skateboarding duck or a skydiving Granny.
