NydiaC
Tortured Soul
- Joined
- Nov 20, 2025
- Posts
- 19
i have an idea for a story but i am not sure if it would be allowed, it is totally fictional but and is meant for entertainment.
Brief outline.
Daughter of a disgraced Indian family is sold at auction to pay off debts of her late father. she is white even though the remainder of the family were of pure Indian stock.
Anyway this is the start of the story.
The air in the Gallery of Dār al-Baydā was heavy with scent of aged mahogany and expensive tobacco, brandy and the faintest metallic tang of fear from the sweat of the patrons, thick with the. Dust motes that spun lethargically in the high shafts of afternoon sunlight piercing the arched windows, illuminating the tiered leather seats where the bidders sat like predatory shadows.
Behind the staged area Lydia stood upon a pedestal. Her hands were clasped tight in her binding enough that her knuckles had gone white, the only physical outlet for the tempest raging inside her as she hung from a rusty chain above her head, stretching her so that only the balls of her feet were in contact with the surface of the pedestal. Lydia was swathed in the late afternoon sunlight that shone through the dirty glass of a bared window. She was clad in a plain, sleeveless white shift of coarse linen, a garment contrived for display, rather than concealment.
any ideas or comments are welcome
Brief outline.
Daughter of a disgraced Indian family is sold at auction to pay off debts of her late father. she is white even though the remainder of the family were of pure Indian stock.
Anyway this is the start of the story.
The air in the Gallery of Dār al-Baydā was heavy with scent of aged mahogany and expensive tobacco, brandy and the faintest metallic tang of fear from the sweat of the patrons, thick with the. Dust motes that spun lethargically in the high shafts of afternoon sunlight piercing the arched windows, illuminating the tiered leather seats where the bidders sat like predatory shadows.
Behind the staged area Lydia stood upon a pedestal. Her hands were clasped tight in her binding enough that her knuckles had gone white, the only physical outlet for the tempest raging inside her as she hung from a rusty chain above her head, stretching her so that only the balls of her feet were in contact with the surface of the pedestal. Lydia was swathed in the late afternoon sunlight that shone through the dirty glass of a bared window. She was clad in a plain, sleeveless white shift of coarse linen, a garment contrived for display, rather than concealment.
any ideas or comments are welcome
Why?
