Floating along, looking through crusted blood on my eyelashes, I ducked under the spikes as not to inflict agony on my already swollen skull. Past the scarlet lace, I faintly made out the sign “traitors’ gate”. Fresh from the field of battle, Edward I aka “Longshanks” had made sure we felt his men’s full wrath for our feudal uprising.
Once beyond the gate, the moat was once again refilled as I felt our raft rise.
Our leader William Wallace beside me, was alert and continued to shout obscenities at the crown. As we filed off to the gallows,we were met with a storm of rotted vegetables, excrement, and high velocity mucous spat from toothless court funded protesters employed to patriotism. By day these “loyalists”begged in the street for a crust of bread due to over taxation. The irony was that these were the very people we were fighting for.
Waking with the sound of crunching, neurotransmissions from my lower torso told me it was likely a greasy rat having breakfast as I hung from the dungeon wall by my wrists, feet, barely touching the floor. In vain I try to shake it off.
Oh God take me now!!
Written For Sunday Photo Fiction Hosted Special thanks to the host Al Forbes.