He cranks hard on some kind of wooden scree thing, really putting his weight into it. A grey loco of hair slips free and dangles under his sweaty face.
“There. Can you move?”
“No”
“Try to get out”
You pull your foot. It’s rough compared to the nylon rope of the time you left yesterday. Your own time. It’s rough-sawn wood this screw is clamping down on your ankle, and it’s scratchy. But you can’t move. You try to retract your leg, but it won’t budge.
Franklin suddenly shouts “Come on, try dammit!”, and his fingers dig into your ribs, a mischievous smile on his face.
“What, no! Don’t!”
He’s a masterful tickler. “A minute a day practice on the pigs and hens was suffice to endow me with a reasonable skill at tickling” Franklin would later scratch out of his memoir, “and a mere minute per week since then has permitted me to reach divine heights of tickling prowess”
It’s unbearable. It feels like he’s going to grab one of your ribs and jostle it right out of your mind. Your brain shrieks right along with the rest of you and you’re suddenly full of adrenaline.
Your foot, drenched in sweat, finally rips free of the clamp. Without the slightest input from your convulsing consciousness, it plants itself squarely on his sternum and launches him backward across the room.
He’s pliable for a grey haired dude, but he still grunts when he hits the bookcase. He’s laughing though, as he slowly gets to his feet. Your other three limbs are still trapped. Your free leg hovers warily, like a cobra waiting to strike him. He’s still grinning.
“You see? Not so trapped as you thought you were”
You tense up as he approaches, your foot rearing back to kick him in the face.
“Easy, easy. Hey, easy” He’s holding up his hands to protect his face from your cobra foot. “I’m not gonna tickle you”
His hands are soft and warm. He uses a gentle touch to calm the quivering. It’s like water rolling over a fire. Your muscles relax, and he caresses the calf. “I’m sorry. I won’t do that again”. His glasses being totally fogged up completes the picture of the doused fire spewing billows of steam, and you’re calm again. He smiles warmly behind the white circles.
“Here we go” He directs your now-pliant foot through the rectangular opening of the clamp. “No more tickling I promise”
You’re staring at his face. He seems godlike almost. Like a huge slab of concrete meat. It’s fear and curiosity, but it feels like an insane obsession with something golden shining through his face. The rest of the room is forgotten.
He cranks the vise clamp down again. It creaks as waxed wood tries to flex under the florece and instead only vibrates and slips down the thread. He grunts, leaning his full weight against one of the lever arms.
“I’ll be right back”
He closes the door, and he’s gone. The heavy door muffles prevents all sound from passing, and you’re left in silence.
You realize your neck is hurting as you keep
your head raised, your eyes still watching the door. You realize your head hasn’t touched the pillow since he first started tickling you. You relax your head back into the down pillow, and take a deep breath.
It’s warm. Outside, you can just barely hear a horse go clopping by. It’s hard to tell how far away it is. Then it’s fully silent. Dust motes swim back and forth in the sunbeam that spills over your foot.
It’s hard to believe you’re actually here: the 18th century! You flash a bewildered smile to the ceiling. Nobody will believe you of course, but that’s a requirement.
I better submit this before I lose all the text or something. Maybe I’ll finish this later. Don’t worry, Franklin may crush your ankle yet. We’ll have to see where this goes.
He cranks hard on some kind of wooden scree thing, really putting his weight into it. A grey loco of hair slips free and dangles under his sweaty face.
“There. Can you move?”
“No”
“Try to get out”
You pull your foot. It’s rough compared to the nylon rope of the time you left yesterday. Your own time. It’s rough-sawn wood this screw is clamping down on your ankle, and it’s scratchy. But you can’t move. You try to retract your leg, but it won’t budge.
Franklin suddenly shouts “Come on, try dammit!”, and his fingers dig into your ribs, a mischievous smile on his face.
“What, no! Don’t!”
He’s a masterful tickler. “A minute a day practice on the pigs and hens was suffice to endow me with a reasonable skill at tickling” Franklin would later scratch out of his memoir, “and a mere minute per week since then has permitted me to reach divine heights of tickling prowess”
It’s unbearable. It feels like he’s going to grab one of your ribs and jostle it right out of your mind. Your brain shrieks right along with the rest of you and you’re suddenly full of adrenaline.
Your foot, drenched in sweat, finally rips free of the clamp. Without the slightest input from your convulsing consciousness, it plants itself squarely on his sternum and launches him backward across the room.
He’s pliable for a grey haired dude, but he still grunts when he hits the bookcase. He’s laughing though, as he slowly gets to his feet. Your other three limbs are still trapped. Your free leg hovers warily, like a cobra waiting to strike him. He’s still grinning.
“You see? Not so trapped as you thought you were”
You tense up as he approaches, your foot rearing back to kick him in the face.
“Easy, easy. Hey, easy” He’s holding up his hands to protect his face from your cobra foot. “I’m not gonna tickle you”
His hands are soft and warm. He uses a gentle touch to calm the quivering. It’s like water rolling over a fire. Your muscles relax, and he caresses the calf. “I’m sorry. I won’t do that again”. His glasses being totally fogged up completes the picture of the doused fire spewing billows of steam, and you’re calm again. He smiles warmly behind the white circles.
“Here we go” He directs your now-pliant foot through the rectangular opening of the clamp. “No more tickling I promise”
You’re staring at his face. He seems godlike almost. Like a huge slab of concrete meat. It’s fear and curiosity, but it feels like an insane obsession with something golden shining through his face. The rest of the room is forgotten.
He cranks the vise clamp down again. It creaks as waxed wood tries to flex under the florece and instead only vibrates and slips down the thread. He grunts, leaning his full weight against one of the lever arms.
“I’ll be right back”
He closes the door, and he’s gone. The heavy door muffles prevents all sound from passing, and you’re left in silence.
You realize your neck is hurting as you keep your head raised, your eyes still watching the door. You realize your head hasn’t touched the pillow since he first started tickling you. You relax your head back into the down pillow, and take a deep breath.
It’s warm. Outside, you can just barely hear a horse go clopping by. It’s hard to tell how far away it is. Then it’s fully silent. Dust motes swim back and forth in the sunbeam that spills over your foot.
It’s hard to believe you’re actually here: the 18th century! You flash a bewildered smile to the ceiling. Nobody will believe you of course, but that’s a requirement.
I better submit this before I lose all the text or something. Maybe I’ll finish this later. Don’t worry, Franklin may crush your ankle yet. We’ll have to see where this goes.