Sunday, January 10, 2016

Writing Exercise - Write About A Wound

I'm trying to get back into writing on a regular basis and my idea machine is stuck in the La Brea Tar Pits. So I've pulled out my handy dandy "A Writer's Book of Days" and the January 10 prompt is "Write about a wound." And here for your reading pleasure and so I can remember it years from now is my take on this prompt.

Write about a wound

The pain stabbed into my side and I new the recreation was going too far. But there wasn't much I could do about it. I would bleed out in a few minutes and be dead; still hanging from the cross in nothing but a loincloth.

Everything was going well at first. They didn't spike my hands or feet with nails and the crown of thorns was carefully made so that there were no inwardly facing spikes. There was even a nice little ledge I could stand on so I didn't get fatigued while the passion play continued.

My side still hurt but I wasn't getting woozy. The authenticity of my crying out in pain got the crowd going. I forgot about the bladder that had been strapped to my back during the part where I was tied to the cross. The danged guard had hit me when aiming for the bag. His second jab hit the bag and the blood that flowed realistically from me was enhanced by more fake blood. It made my wound sting.

All of a sudden I realized that things were getting quiet. I looked around and everyone was looking at me. A spotlight started shining right in my eyes. At this point I realized that volunteering to replace a Jesus with a stomach flu was probably not a good idea.

There was something Jesus said at this point and all I could think about was the flesh wound on my side. Don't they know what they're doing? Oh wait, they don't.

“Father, forgive them,” I said and lolled my head around like I was about to pass out. “They know not what they do.”

The bladder on my back had one more squirt of blood as I moved about. It hit my wound and I grimaced in realistic pain. I could tell the audience was getting into it.

“Into your hands, I commend my soul,” I said and slumped down on the cross. I had to grab the ropes holding my arms to the cross or I would have slipped out. It was not long before I realized this was not a good dying place. There were a couple of more minutes before the curtain and I was hanging in a bad way with a stinging flesh wound on my side.

I didn't even hear the last lines of the play but I felt them lower me to the stage to get me off the cross. I was quickly bandaged and the guard apologized for cutting me, he was a quick replacement too. Eventually the director stood over me.

“Good job. Hopefully Jerry will be better by the next performance.”

The end – don't want to write on this any more.


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