A Supernatural Canadian Shoeplay Adventure
Posted: Sun Dec 31, 2017 7:13 am
NOTE: This belongs in the Dreams, Stories, And Reality section, but, for some reason, when I click on "Post New Thread" in that section, it instead takes me to the forum's main page, so I'm posting my story here instead. I humbly request that a moderator move it to the proper section, and thank said moderator in advance.
A SUPERNATURAL CANADIAN SHOEPLAY ADVENTURE
PART I:
By OceanWaves3947
It was the first time in my life that I had ever visited Quebec. I was now on a charter bus, having crossed the U.S.–Canadian border on a field trip with my college. We were going there as a part of a project for my French class, as Quebec is the only Francophone province of Canada, owing to its history of colonization by France and subsequent takeover by the English. While the bus clambered on, I was listening to a local radio station on my iPod. It was a talk show, on which the local legends and traditions of the region were being discussed. There was one, in particular, that caught my attention. It was a legend with shades of the supernatural intermingled within it. The story went something like this: Back in the 1700s, a woman had murdered two of her husbands, and was then hung, with her corpse later being displayed publically in an iron cage shaped like a human body to decompose, a gruesome practice called gibbeting that was commonly done to the remains of hung criminals back in that bygone day and age. Stories were then spread wide and far of werewolves being seen whispering secrets in the dead woman's ears, and of the skeletal remains coming to life at night and cavorting with tiny demons of a sort with a sharp horn, like that of a rhinoceros, on its nose. Eventually, the cage, with the skeleton still inside it, was taken down and buried, only to be rediscovered by two gravediggers nearly a century later. It was then taken by the famed circus showman Phineas Taylor "P. T." Barnum and put by him into his museum, where a fire destroyed the last of the bones of the fabled murderess. However, the cage survived, and, indeed, could now be seen on display at another museum.
Enthralled by the story coursing through my earbuds, I did not notice when we finally reached our destination. It was a museum showcasing unique artifacts of the natural history of Quebec. Inside, it was a well-furnished space with couches and recliners present, showing that the managers had spared a thought for the convenience of the guests. It was full of fascinating artifacts. There were a pair of wooden shoes, similar to clogs in appearance, that were worn by the French-Canadian farmers of old Quebec, known in the native tongue as the habitans of the land, back in the 18th century. Then I saw something that sent a chill down my spine. I gazed on a well-riveted metal cage shaped superficially like a human body, with a round receptacle for the head, an oval enclosure for the torso, and metal 'arms' and 'legs' jutting out of it. I knew at once what this was. By sheer coincidence, I had stumbled upon the very museum that I had just heard about on the radio; the one that housed that fateful cage that once held the mortal remains of that one wretched woman of yore.
It was just then that I noticed a funny, tingly feeling. It felt like a buzz of static electricity, coursing all over my body. All of a sudden, I was enveloped in a haze of purplish fog. It started out light, but gradually became so thick that my visibility began getting progressively impaired. At last, it got so bad that I could barely see my fingers in front of my very eyes. Then, the fog began to die down, and I was able to see my surroundings once more. Only, when I gazed around me, I at once pinched myself, because I was sure that I must be dreaming or hallucinating. The museum was gone. Completely, entirely, utterly gone. I was now in some kind of strange village, surrounded by people clad in old-fashioned attire. Apparel that had gone out of style, not years, nor decades, but centuries ago. I pinched myself once more. Nothing happened. Realizing that my situation was actually very real, adrenaline surged through my blood. I quickly walked around, checking out my newfound environment. A man dressed in a hat and buckled shoes was selling a gaggle of turkeys at the market.
"Twelve shillings a head!" he called out at the top of his lungs. No one took heed.
While walking along, in the dense crowd, I found that I had bumped into something -- hard -- and the breath was knocked out of me. I shook my head, took a step back, and looked at what, or who, I had bumped into. To my surprise, I saw that it was a girl. She was about a head shorter than I was, had piercing dark brown eyes, and auburn hair. She seemed to be in her early twenties or so in age. My first thought was that she was extremely pretty and cute.
Putting her hand on her forehead and rubbing it, she immediately began pelting me with an endless barrage of apologies.
"Oh, I am so terribly sorry, my dear sir! I implore you, to accept my sincerest apologies! 'Twas not my intention, my good lord!" she muttered in a wailing tone.
"No, no, it's perfectly fine, madame," came my reply. "What's your name?" I asked her.
"I am Isabelle Sylvain, alias, Elizabeth Marguerite Veau," she responded. "Are you sure you have accepted my apologies, sir? Can I compensate your most grievous injury in any other fashion?"
"No, no, trust me, I'm fine," I responded. "Say, you look lonely. You think you could take me over to your place, and we could enjoy a cup of tea together?" I asked, wanting to change the subject.
She was taken aback. "Why, um…" Her eyelashes fluttered. "Why, yes, sir, that would be a fabulous notion! Let us be on our way now! I promise you, my lord, I will serve you up a cup of tea that will melt away your aches in no time at all! You will see!"
We walked down the rest of the winding dirt road, until we made it to a rude brick dwelling, with a low roof. She entered first, and I followed. It was only then that I gazed down at her feet, and saw that she was wearing a pair of wooden shoes, somewhat of a cross between clogs and slippers, seemingly sockless, judging by the exposed part of each foot that jutted out of the back of each shoe. My eyes widened. They looked exactly like the pair of shoes I had seen in the museum. A crazy thought came to my head, but I tried to push it away as hard as I could.
I was pulled out of my stunned, dazed reverie by the sight of Isabelle plopping herself down on a cushioned rocking chair. "Aaahhh!" she exlaimed with a sigh as she sat down, visibly relieved. Soon after sitting down, she crossed her ankles. I was transfixed on the elegance of her figure when she was in repose. I sat down on a chair opposite hers, and we made small talk as I kept my eyes focused on my very generous host's lower extremities. It was then that a slight movement in that general region caught my attention. I could see that the foot that was crossed on top of the other was popping its heel, ever so slightly, out of its shoe. Isabelle kept flapping her shoe back and forth on her foot. Then something mouth-wateringly unexpected happened.
I had to keep my mouth from visibly dropping open, agape, as Isabelle's sockless foot slowly emerged from her shoe. Eventually, with an audible *clunck*, the shoe dropped to the floor, and Isabelle's entire bare foot, now free of it, was free to wiggle around in the air. Then, this turn of events was shortly followed by Isabelle sliding the shoe back on, uncrossing her ankles, and then proceeding to stomp her feet up and down on the floor like crazy, before slipping both of her shoes off entirely, and pressing on the backs of them with her toes, causing them to be lifted up into the air. She continued playing this game for some time, pressing on the backs of the shoes with her toes and the balls of her feet, causing them to rise up and down, up and down, repeatedly, incessantly.
I was close enough to be able to see the visible sweat marks on her shoes, where the heels had been. It was clear that, in the July heat, her feet had become quite hot inside her wooden shoes, shoes that were apparently designed more for winter than for summer climes, and she had sweat quite vigorously while walking outdoors in the market. As she had been walking on a dirt road, and her shoes were quite open and easily admitted foreign debris, the dust had additionally gotten inside her shoes, and, with the aid of the sweat, which trapped the dust to the skin of the girl's feet like glue, was now visible between her toes, and on her arches. A curious odor wafted through the air. It was a beautiful one to my nostrils. I recognized it, at once, as the smell of Isabelle's feet. Apparently, the sweat and dust accumulated from walking on the dirt roads in the summer had taken their toll, and now that the girl was sliding her feet out of her shoes, the scent of her cooped-up dogs was now escaping.
(To be continued)…
A SUPERNATURAL CANADIAN SHOEPLAY ADVENTURE
PART I:
By OceanWaves3947
It was the first time in my life that I had ever visited Quebec. I was now on a charter bus, having crossed the U.S.–Canadian border on a field trip with my college. We were going there as a part of a project for my French class, as Quebec is the only Francophone province of Canada, owing to its history of colonization by France and subsequent takeover by the English. While the bus clambered on, I was listening to a local radio station on my iPod. It was a talk show, on which the local legends and traditions of the region were being discussed. There was one, in particular, that caught my attention. It was a legend with shades of the supernatural intermingled within it. The story went something like this: Back in the 1700s, a woman had murdered two of her husbands, and was then hung, with her corpse later being displayed publically in an iron cage shaped like a human body to decompose, a gruesome practice called gibbeting that was commonly done to the remains of hung criminals back in that bygone day and age. Stories were then spread wide and far of werewolves being seen whispering secrets in the dead woman's ears, and of the skeletal remains coming to life at night and cavorting with tiny demons of a sort with a sharp horn, like that of a rhinoceros, on its nose. Eventually, the cage, with the skeleton still inside it, was taken down and buried, only to be rediscovered by two gravediggers nearly a century later. It was then taken by the famed circus showman Phineas Taylor "P. T." Barnum and put by him into his museum, where a fire destroyed the last of the bones of the fabled murderess. However, the cage survived, and, indeed, could now be seen on display at another museum.
Enthralled by the story coursing through my earbuds, I did not notice when we finally reached our destination. It was a museum showcasing unique artifacts of the natural history of Quebec. Inside, it was a well-furnished space with couches and recliners present, showing that the managers had spared a thought for the convenience of the guests. It was full of fascinating artifacts. There were a pair of wooden shoes, similar to clogs in appearance, that were worn by the French-Canadian farmers of old Quebec, known in the native tongue as the habitans of the land, back in the 18th century. Then I saw something that sent a chill down my spine. I gazed on a well-riveted metal cage shaped superficially like a human body, with a round receptacle for the head, an oval enclosure for the torso, and metal 'arms' and 'legs' jutting out of it. I knew at once what this was. By sheer coincidence, I had stumbled upon the very museum that I had just heard about on the radio; the one that housed that fateful cage that once held the mortal remains of that one wretched woman of yore.
It was just then that I noticed a funny, tingly feeling. It felt like a buzz of static electricity, coursing all over my body. All of a sudden, I was enveloped in a haze of purplish fog. It started out light, but gradually became so thick that my visibility began getting progressively impaired. At last, it got so bad that I could barely see my fingers in front of my very eyes. Then, the fog began to die down, and I was able to see my surroundings once more. Only, when I gazed around me, I at once pinched myself, because I was sure that I must be dreaming or hallucinating. The museum was gone. Completely, entirely, utterly gone. I was now in some kind of strange village, surrounded by people clad in old-fashioned attire. Apparel that had gone out of style, not years, nor decades, but centuries ago. I pinched myself once more. Nothing happened. Realizing that my situation was actually very real, adrenaline surged through my blood. I quickly walked around, checking out my newfound environment. A man dressed in a hat and buckled shoes was selling a gaggle of turkeys at the market.
"Twelve shillings a head!" he called out at the top of his lungs. No one took heed.
While walking along, in the dense crowd, I found that I had bumped into something -- hard -- and the breath was knocked out of me. I shook my head, took a step back, and looked at what, or who, I had bumped into. To my surprise, I saw that it was a girl. She was about a head shorter than I was, had piercing dark brown eyes, and auburn hair. She seemed to be in her early twenties or so in age. My first thought was that she was extremely pretty and cute.
Putting her hand on her forehead and rubbing it, she immediately began pelting me with an endless barrage of apologies.
"Oh, I am so terribly sorry, my dear sir! I implore you, to accept my sincerest apologies! 'Twas not my intention, my good lord!" she muttered in a wailing tone.
"No, no, it's perfectly fine, madame," came my reply. "What's your name?" I asked her.
"I am Isabelle Sylvain, alias, Elizabeth Marguerite Veau," she responded. "Are you sure you have accepted my apologies, sir? Can I compensate your most grievous injury in any other fashion?"
"No, no, trust me, I'm fine," I responded. "Say, you look lonely. You think you could take me over to your place, and we could enjoy a cup of tea together?" I asked, wanting to change the subject.
She was taken aback. "Why, um…" Her eyelashes fluttered. "Why, yes, sir, that would be a fabulous notion! Let us be on our way now! I promise you, my lord, I will serve you up a cup of tea that will melt away your aches in no time at all! You will see!"
We walked down the rest of the winding dirt road, until we made it to a rude brick dwelling, with a low roof. She entered first, and I followed. It was only then that I gazed down at her feet, and saw that she was wearing a pair of wooden shoes, somewhat of a cross between clogs and slippers, seemingly sockless, judging by the exposed part of each foot that jutted out of the back of each shoe. My eyes widened. They looked exactly like the pair of shoes I had seen in the museum. A crazy thought came to my head, but I tried to push it away as hard as I could.
I was pulled out of my stunned, dazed reverie by the sight of Isabelle plopping herself down on a cushioned rocking chair. "Aaahhh!" she exlaimed with a sigh as she sat down, visibly relieved. Soon after sitting down, she crossed her ankles. I was transfixed on the elegance of her figure when she was in repose. I sat down on a chair opposite hers, and we made small talk as I kept my eyes focused on my very generous host's lower extremities. It was then that a slight movement in that general region caught my attention. I could see that the foot that was crossed on top of the other was popping its heel, ever so slightly, out of its shoe. Isabelle kept flapping her shoe back and forth on her foot. Then something mouth-wateringly unexpected happened.
I had to keep my mouth from visibly dropping open, agape, as Isabelle's sockless foot slowly emerged from her shoe. Eventually, with an audible *clunck*, the shoe dropped to the floor, and Isabelle's entire bare foot, now free of it, was free to wiggle around in the air. Then, this turn of events was shortly followed by Isabelle sliding the shoe back on, uncrossing her ankles, and then proceeding to stomp her feet up and down on the floor like crazy, before slipping both of her shoes off entirely, and pressing on the backs of them with her toes, causing them to be lifted up into the air. She continued playing this game for some time, pressing on the backs of the shoes with her toes and the balls of her feet, causing them to rise up and down, up and down, repeatedly, incessantly.
I was close enough to be able to see the visible sweat marks on her shoes, where the heels had been. It was clear that, in the July heat, her feet had become quite hot inside her wooden shoes, shoes that were apparently designed more for winter than for summer climes, and she had sweat quite vigorously while walking outdoors in the market. As she had been walking on a dirt road, and her shoes were quite open and easily admitted foreign debris, the dust had additionally gotten inside her shoes, and, with the aid of the sweat, which trapped the dust to the skin of the girl's feet like glue, was now visible between her toes, and on her arches. A curious odor wafted through the air. It was a beautiful one to my nostrils. I recognized it, at once, as the smell of Isabelle's feet. Apparently, the sweat and dust accumulated from walking on the dirt roads in the summer had taken their toll, and now that the girl was sliding her feet out of her shoes, the scent of her cooped-up dogs was now escaping.
(To be continued)…