Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: SLANG (05/14/20)
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TITLE: Word | Previous Challenge Entry
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05/20/20 -
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The man of words struggles past the inn where I watch the spectacle unfold. He drags a great weight of tree on his back. Whatever his crimes, I’m never eager for anyone’s departure into eternity. Others are. A mob yips at his heels.
I grip the innkeeper's wrist. “What’s all this fuss? Who is that guy?”
“You live under a rock or something?” He hooks up his chin. “There goes Jesus. Now shove off. Or pay for another night.”
“Jesus, huh? Never heard of him. What’s the word about? What did he say to get everybody—”
“You want to know? Ask him.”
“No trouble, brother.”
I lay down coins to soothe the innkeeper's temper and step outside. I’m jostled along like a leaf atop a churning river and come within a rock’s toss of Jesus. He’s no big man that his frame should drag such a burden. Folks might have smashed tomatoes all over him. Except that’s not juice. He stumbles onto a knee. As he rests, his chest heaving, he turns and meets my gaze.
He’s getting his due because of his mouth, but it’s not his tongue that slays me. His eyes are swords that slip between my gaps. I’m naked and exposed to myself—how? I muscle to the road’s edge.
I’m a man who knows better than to vex volatile governors. Yet, I bear a stump. I also know better than to stand too close to dead men walking. Nevertheless, I reach out to Jesus—this man who sees me.
A Roman centurion grasps my hand. I back peddle—or try—and gasp at the absurdity of my dark fingers entwined with the soldier’s olive-colored ones. The Roman rips me into the street. Abuse rises like a wave. I want the dirt to crack apart and the depths to consume me.
“Carry the tree,” the centurion orders.
Oh.
I try to speak. The mob’s mockery is lurid, like something from a traveling show. The centurion’s helmet plume dazzles. I shut my mouth and obey his sword.
Bending, I lift the wood onto my back and steady it with my one hand; my shoulders and forearms do the rest. I trudge on with the barefooted Word Man at my side. Dung explodes against my temple. The odor makes me tear up, and I search for the thrower. I’ll squeeze his neck. But Jesus—his face isn’t twisted. He doesn’t tremble or rage as I do.
The innkeeper said to ask him about his gum-flapping and now seems fitting. He’s a good talker. I have two ears, but all of me listens. The mob fades to blank space. Blood runs in my body. My heart does the work of angels, so I’m told. I’m no man of learning or the heavens, but a sort of fire ignites behind my ribs. I’m not pained by carrying Jesus’ tree; it is a fire that comes from hearing his voice. The words are relentless, sharp, and pierce me to my hidden parts. As he talks, I see myself as I am—and I break inside.
Through the shattered places, a light shines on whose I can be and what I can become. I ask him how, and he tells me to believe in him, and to keep his words on my lips and in my heart.
We arrive at the stinking skulls, and our blank space seems to pop. The mob surges. From atop his horse, the centurion commander orders, “Move on, heathen.”
Jesus takes up his tree for all the poor souls, including me, I think, that ever were or ever will be. But I can’t move on. I’ve heard the Word for myself, and I’m His forever.
END
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You have a fantastic take on the redemption story. Excellent writing. Keep on truckin'.
Congratulations on your 9th place finish. It was definitely a fav in our family.
I really liked your perspective on writing a well known story with a fresh perspective.