"The Broken Man, Jesus" is much less odd than the prose piece below, but it still leaves me baffled why I chose to write it. During another Experimental Writing activity, we were asked to think of a well-known story to strip down to it's key events and consequently reorder. So, feeling especially ballsy that day, I decided to apply the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Now, don't get me wrong; I'm not particuarly religious nor do I actively seek out reasons to offend Christianity as a whole, let alone doctrine. This was purely a whim. And what a dark and vicious little whim it turned out to be...
THE BROKEN MAN, JESUS
"I wash my hands of you."
Pilate dragged the cloth across his red and brown palms. In the distance the whip trailed away. Blood was caked along the path in it's wake, winding outward from the side of the broken man.
Pontius took one last look at him, eyes weary and grey. 'The King' glanced up, pressing his fists against his wounds. The crowd bayed and snarled till the darkness set in.
The soldiers gathered about the garden, marching towards the centre. Their target was knelt in an undergrowth, caressing the flowers of a wilting bush. There was an understanding in his gestures, a deep meaning to his movements. His grip was frail, waning with every sudden twitch.
They swarmed about him; proclamations of arrest amid the hungry roar. The meek figure went willingly but they beat him all the same.
The figure strode out, aglow in the waking sun.
The stone tumbled away as he brushed past it.
An impossibility. A power. A threat.
A pouch of silver clinked as it hit the dusty footprint. The peasant Iscariot glanced up, his filthy crooked fingers snatching it.
"I'll tell you where he is." He spoke, defeat trembling his voice, "He already knows."