Friday, February 22, 2019

The Dungeon

Credit: User Thesteve on en.wikipedia
Description The dungeons of Blarney Castle

Around 1618 the dungeons of YorkShire mountain was in its prime, fully operational with guards casing the towers every ten minutes, and massive Great Danes, ferociously roaming the castle.

Cool air swept briskly over the plains of the Shire, while the descending moon, [she] appeared to be saying; good night to the sun, who upon rising he replied, good morning. Why do you always have to run?

I remember vividly that all important morning, every moment of it, still playing around in my mind, like an unforgettable tune. The village populous began their early chores relatively slower than usual. The cattle hadn't even awoken, not even a dog barked or made its rounds. It never occurred to me that this late start was entirely unusual for the people of YorkShire. It was this particular morning that would irrevocably change my life, in a way that I had never expected. Because of the events of this special morning, I would meet my heart's desire, my soul mate, on our way to the Dungeons of YorkShire Mountain.


Our ride to the hidden prison was incredible, amongst the stench and the fear, we fell head over heels in love. Looking into each others eyes we both realized, that we would never leave this confinement. Never to see the moon descend into the embrace of night, or another sun rise to shine on all YorkShire life. Would they ever believe the truth of our innocence? No! I'm afraid not. They had already made up their stiff, warped minds. Condemned without a trial, though it was nothing unusual during these times, we went on our merry way to jail.


When the henchmen tortured the prisoners, we could hear the devastating screams emanating from down the narrow corridors. Paths that blanketed the long dungeon halls the guards transversed daily. After being there a few weeks, we had to do something to rest our fears. So we quietly sung songs to ease the terror and tension, that stained the air within our cells. I suppose we'd sing to one another till our final day, it was our only form of comfort and love making, that we secretly shared between one another. All the time we were there, we could smell burning flesh; it was a horrible stench, a dreadful aroma, I suspect we'd soon get use to it.

The cells dawned iron hooks, rings, wrist locks, chainsaw hung from the ceilings, stocks sat in the corner of the room, and spikes hung from the dark surface of the dingy walls. I began to reminisce when we were free, (this helped me survive the torture). That first moment I saw her at the cottage end, she was so ravishing, my eyes were no longer my own. From that moment on, I could see nothing else in my mind's eye, besides her. I thought of all the opportunities I'd let wonder by us, in light of my fear of rejection and being so shy. Maybe we could have gotten acquainted, fell in love, gotten married, and had a couple of goats, had I not been so afraid of her beauty. No woman that beautiful would ever go for a guy like me, I thought. Then I began to consider the events that lead up to our imprisonment.


A fair maiden and I happen to be the only ones unaffected by the poisoned water. Most of the town folks had died, men, women, children and animals. Some one planted a wine still, filled with the same toxic poison in the backyard of the end, where we were staying the night before. Sense Rosette and I were the only two people that wasn't contaminated by the poison water, we became the villager's greatest suspects. The king's guards searched our rooms, and found in both rooms incriminating evidence (the wine stills behind our rooms filled with the poison, and dropping of the poison on our bedroom floors) to support their misguided beliefs. Chained and quartered, we were stranded in legal limbo together, left to prove our innocence. (There appeared to be no hope)


We shared a table spoon full of water, they'd made us chose who would drink it. But because I wouldn't drink it she refused to drink it too, so I told her that I would drink the next time, only if she would drink her's now. This was the ward keepers way of torturing us, watching us die slowly.

Weeks flashed by in seconds I'd guessed; We never knew what time it was, whether it was dawn or dust, because there were no windows, no light and no outside sounds drifted inside the cells.. My legs began to buckle underneath me as I had been beaten one too many times. My body was decaying from all the torture and going without food. Yet we continued to sing to one another touching fingers together every chance we could to sustain ourselves. I could only imagine the ordeal she was facing.


YorkShire's hidden dungeon was so mysterious, it was secluded deep within the inner core of the mountain. The great king Zador of the sixth dynasty had it built their in order to kidnap and secretly kill those political rivals who had the audacity to buck up against his tyrannical policies. So the hidden dungeon was very old and ancient, not many people knew that it existed. Mildew ran freely on the walls of the dungeon like sweat ran off the backs of prize fighters. Sort of similar to caves, the walls were very hard, cold and smutty, it was even sound proof. Dungeons usually had a gloomy and chilly atmosphere. The hall lights used were fire torches or lanterns that lined on the walls with some distance apart from each other. If they needed light in the cell they would tote torches. The dungeons were mainly used for torturing people. There were separate prisons which existed to lock up prisoners. There may be a near by cemeteries, where all the dead bodies are thrown, and decayed as skeletons.The dungeon (diseased ridden) had a notorious reputation, once you entered those Castilian gates, well let's put it this way, no one ever returned.

As I write these final words in this journal of sorrow, it contains tremendous anguish and pain. Our eyes filled daily with sour tears, bitter memories, of lost time. Nevertheless I wrote deep and hard, "love would survive the Dungeon". These thoughts that I had inscribed on rock paper would undoubtedly be my final words, in reluctant conclusion to our lives. Perhaps some day, someone will see our memorial of love, as a testament written on the walls, of the Dungeons of YorkShire Mountain.

About the Writer

Credo is a writer for BrooWaha. For more information, visit the writer's website.
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7 comments on The Dungeon

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By Barbara MacDonald on September 06, 2013 at 08:47 pm

This pulled at my heartstrings....but I loved the ending...yes, love always survives, even in the worst of times and places. Very well written.

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By Coach Phatty on September 06, 2013 at 10:42 pm

OW!!! This was a tremendous article!! It was very descriptive and showed the emotion and environment that so many unfortunate people experienced. WELL DONE!!!

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By Credo on September 07, 2013 at 05:00 am

Barbara MacDonald

I'm experimenting with the craft, writing has its growing pains, and I figure it was time to try something new. Didn't know how well it would go over, but I am happy you enjoyed it. Oh! I didn't forget my poetry nor my conspiracy tracks either, they will be back up and running soon.I'm ever most grateful for the props...

Thank you....


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By Credo on September 07, 2013 at 05:11 am

Coach Phatty My new mission is [in short], "improvement", the question is; can I make the essential changes for my new initiatives? There is absolutely no better measuring tool for improvement than the compliments one receives from great inspiring artist such as yourself. I'm most gratified that my article has moved you to such ovation. Thank you... :)Credo

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By Credo on September 07, 2013 at 05:38 am

the misprint was "chainsaw", it was suppose to read "chains".

Back then there were no Chainsaws..


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By JennyT on September 10, 2013 at 07:00 am

You have brought the imagery to me the reader, placing myself in the dungeons of dark and bitterness. I admire you wanting to broaden your horizons in to the writing world. Kudos to Credo.. sorry that was terrible.... I was wondering about the chainsaw - I had visions of the guy in Chainsaw Massacre bursting through the dungeon door yelling 'right whose next!'


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By Credo on September 10, 2013 at 01:09 pm


I'm still not there yet, but as I hope to be someday, I will continue to work towards my goal. Becoming a better writer has to include self criticism above all else, that is why I am not afraid of being critiqued by others. I feel it's the only way to grow as a writer.

I cherish your opinion very much, and I express my appreciation the only way I know how.By offering you my sincere and humblest...

Thank you


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