I’m listening to Christ screech on the cross. Crucifixions take a long time. I don’t mind, the longer the better. I’m here for the skull.
He’s trying to make eye contact. “You. Please. Get me down.”
I went to a stoning once. It didn’t go as planned. The crowd was sympathetic to the condemned woman. Three fat legionnaires brought her out, tied her to the stake, then read her charges and sentence. The first stone hit a legionnaire in the face and within minutes all three were mortally wounded, the bodies looted. The woman was cut free. I didn’t dare touch the legionnaires. I was hoping for a hand from the woman. Her crime was theft.
Christ is in way over his head. He continues, yelling, “I’ve changed my mind! Come back! Sir! Please!” I’m surprised he didn’t draw a larger crowd.
It seems to me that martyrs paint themselves into corners.
“I’m sorry, okay?” Listen to him. He was pure when he was carrying that cross, acknowledging the crowd while maintaining stoic distance. But his face changed when he saw the hammer and nails. His manner transformed from fervor to consternation. His look changed from determined-in-the-face-of-hardship to looking like he just shit his loincloth. Maybe he did. I know I would.
I was hoping he would succeed in removing our current oppressors from power. I am only a mason, but I have a vague wish to rise in society myself, get some curios I can keep, open a shop. It would be nice to keep something.
I could pull him down and finish him with a rock—a cracked skull provides intrigue—but I’m no fool. They’d be on me next. Yes, he could have done us all some good. But I’m willing to settle on providence.
The sun will be down soon. This is about the time most people leave. There will be no last-minute reprieve, no miracle, no horde of dedicated followers showing up howling and flailing. When the main attraction starts mumbling—then reduces to gasps and moans—he is no longer relevant. Maybe a cultish following will evolve. That could happen. Maybe someday someone like me will dig up the bones, use them as currency, create stories. But for Christ, he is spent and I am the last one watching.
Last week they had a hanging. The knot didn’t hold. The man fell and both ankles snapped. The hood muffled his screams as he flopped, hands tied, both feet at odd angles.
After a short conference, two legionnaires ran him through and left him to bleed. I took his penis and testicles. He was a rapist. I sold the penis that night. The testicles, I put in a jar and hid within a wall. I hope, one day, someone will find my jar and create a story to go with a pair of dry testicles.
My compulsive habit of writing a note worries me. This is a dangerous practice. I can’t keep my treasures for fear of reprisal, and the thought of being caught hiding these histories scares me. But I can’t bring myself to destroy them. So, I tuck them into jars, add the note, slip them into cavities while I work. Or I go out on dark nights and hide them in crevices. Maybe someday, someone will find my symbol on the things I write and wonder who I am. By then, the artifacts will mean nothing. By then, if I’m lucky, the stories will be about me.
Richard C Rutherford is previously published in The Writing Disorder, Hypertext, Fiction Southeast, Stone Coast Review, Catamaran, and many other fine literary magazines--both print and online. He has a large collection of stories. For thirty-seven years he raised cattle at the edge of the desert. He no longer cares for animals, just humans.