"I am not sure that you can hear me. I am not sure if you are still near to me, somewhere in the dark. I am not even sure that you are still alive. Last night, I heard you sobbing. The night before, I heard you scream when they came for you. Perhaps it was your screams, later on, that were punctuated by my own. Perhaps you cannot hear me, perhaps you will not comprehend the words that I am using. Perhaps you are not there at all. Still, I will continue to shout out my confession, to you and to the One God, as long as my voice persists. Would that I could write, but there is no vellum, no ink, no light. My arms are chained to the prison wall, spread above me. It is futile, futile. But, perhaps, if you can hear me, perhaps, if you can comprehend, my memory will live on for another year, another day, another hour. My time grows shorter now. I can hear the drums beating, the drunken peasants cheering. Even in this dungeon there is the sickening smell of burning flesh. They have already begun their festival day. Soon, perhaps, I may be served up for their amusement.
"What they did to my mother was unspeakable, and yet, if we do not speak of it, how will we ever know, ever learn, ever stop that horror? So I will speak of things that should not be spoken, tell of things that should not be told, reveal the mysteries that must remain forever hidden. And you, hanging in the cell next to me, my unseen, unknown companion, you cannot run away from me, you cannot cover your ears. You can, perhaps, scream loudly enough to drown out my exposition. But, I pray you, do not be too hasty to condemn, too quick to turn away, too eager to avert your sensibilities from what I am about to say."
Hanging in a dungeon cell, waiting for the bonfire, Fiona screams out her confession. And what a tale it is. Her sins are numerous and exotic. There is hardly a taboo she has not broken, a forbidden pleasure she has not sampled. She tells it all with intense longing and regret. Her last few months have been full of danger and adventure, loss and discovery, lust and horror, love and loathing, revelation and betrayal. She has learned the dark secrets of the ancients. She has tasted their power, their knowledge, their utter depravity. She has yielded to utter degradation. What has she become -- monster, goddess, slave, assassin, whore, something of all of these? Will her life be a blessing, or a curse, or will it simply end here, futilely, burned at the stake? Brace yourself for A Witch's Tale.
"1111863181"
"What they did to my mother was unspeakable, and yet, if we do not speak of it, how will we ever know, ever learn, ever stop that horror? So I will speak of things that should not be spoken, tell of things that should not be told, reveal the mysteries that must remain forever hidden. And you, hanging in the cell next to me, my unseen, unknown companion, you cannot run away from me, you cannot cover your ears. You can, perhaps, scream loudly enough to drown out my exposition. But, I pray you, do not be too hasty to condemn, too quick to turn away, too eager to avert your sensibilities from what I am about to say."
Hanging in a dungeon cell, waiting for the bonfire, Fiona screams out her confession. And what a tale it is. Her sins are numerous and exotic. There is hardly a taboo she has not broken, a forbidden pleasure she has not sampled. She tells it all with intense longing and regret. Her last few months have been full of danger and adventure, loss and discovery, lust and horror, love and loathing, revelation and betrayal. She has learned the dark secrets of the ancients. She has tasted their power, their knowledge, their utter depravity. She has yielded to utter degradation. What has she become -- monster, goddess, slave, assassin, whore, something of all of these? Will her life be a blessing, or a curse, or will it simply end here, futilely, burned at the stake? Brace yourself for A Witch's Tale.
A Witch's Tale
"I am not sure that you can hear me. I am not sure if you are still near to me, somewhere in the dark. I am not even sure that you are still alive. Last night, I heard you sobbing. The night before, I heard you scream when they came for you. Perhaps it was your screams, later on, that were punctuated by my own. Perhaps you cannot hear me, perhaps you will not comprehend the words that I am using. Perhaps you are not there at all. Still, I will continue to shout out my confession, to you and to the One God, as long as my voice persists. Would that I could write, but there is no vellum, no ink, no light. My arms are chained to the prison wall, spread above me. It is futile, futile. But, perhaps, if you can hear me, perhaps, if you can comprehend, my memory will live on for another year, another day, another hour. My time grows shorter now. I can hear the drums beating, the drunken peasants cheering. Even in this dungeon there is the sickening smell of burning flesh. They have already begun their festival day. Soon, perhaps, I may be served up for their amusement.
"What they did to my mother was unspeakable, and yet, if we do not speak of it, how will we ever know, ever learn, ever stop that horror? So I will speak of things that should not be spoken, tell of things that should not be told, reveal the mysteries that must remain forever hidden. And you, hanging in the cell next to me, my unseen, unknown companion, you cannot run away from me, you cannot cover your ears. You can, perhaps, scream loudly enough to drown out my exposition. But, I pray you, do not be too hasty to condemn, too quick to turn away, too eager to avert your sensibilities from what I am about to say."
Hanging in a dungeon cell, waiting for the bonfire, Fiona screams out her confession. And what a tale it is. Her sins are numerous and exotic. There is hardly a taboo she has not broken, a forbidden pleasure she has not sampled. She tells it all with intense longing and regret. Her last few months have been full of danger and adventure, loss and discovery, lust and horror, love and loathing, revelation and betrayal. She has learned the dark secrets of the ancients. She has tasted their power, their knowledge, their utter depravity. She has yielded to utter degradation. What has she become -- monster, goddess, slave, assassin, whore, something of all of these? Will her life be a blessing, or a curse, or will it simply end here, futilely, burned at the stake? Brace yourself for A Witch's Tale.
"What they did to my mother was unspeakable, and yet, if we do not speak of it, how will we ever know, ever learn, ever stop that horror? So I will speak of things that should not be spoken, tell of things that should not be told, reveal the mysteries that must remain forever hidden. And you, hanging in the cell next to me, my unseen, unknown companion, you cannot run away from me, you cannot cover your ears. You can, perhaps, scream loudly enough to drown out my exposition. But, I pray you, do not be too hasty to condemn, too quick to turn away, too eager to avert your sensibilities from what I am about to say."
Hanging in a dungeon cell, waiting for the bonfire, Fiona screams out her confession. And what a tale it is. Her sins are numerous and exotic. There is hardly a taboo she has not broken, a forbidden pleasure she has not sampled. She tells it all with intense longing and regret. Her last few months have been full of danger and adventure, loss and discovery, lust and horror, love and loathing, revelation and betrayal. She has learned the dark secrets of the ancients. She has tasted their power, their knowledge, their utter depravity. She has yielded to utter degradation. What has she become -- monster, goddess, slave, assassin, whore, something of all of these? Will her life be a blessing, or a curse, or will it simply end here, futilely, burned at the stake? Brace yourself for A Witch's Tale.
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940014640534 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Club Lighthouse Publishing |
| Publication date: | 10/02/2010 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 968 KB |
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