I’m posting this to lift up Wragg, who is proving to be as talented with his art as he is with his prose and faithful reporting. He presented me with this lovely little manip via PM last night. I thought I should share it with everyone here, along with a little back story I put together for it (Other interpretations or comments are welcome):
It’s over … all over, but the hanging and dying!
Why? Why, I ask myself, as I hang naked on the cross, do I always have to be the contrarian? … rebellious by nature … always questioning authority and convention … paying no heed to the small print, the subtle signs of danger? It does me no good, only brings me misery and suffering. Yet, I keep doing it.
And, now I have really done it. I should have known better than to take on the likes of Wraggius, First Consul of Rome, and Governor of Roman Cruxonia. One would think that I would somehow be smart enough to recognize real power when I see it, and not be so foolish as to trifle with it. But no, I had to publicly criticize him … ridicule him … and then went right ahead and repeatedly called upon the Gods to chastise him and shower him with Godly demerits.
I should have known that he would seek revenge … revenge of the worst kind … that he would in time have me arrested, tried as a rebel, and condemned to a humiliating death before thousands in the arena.
And I should have known that there would be no mercy along the way … that I would be mercilessly ridiculed on the streets of Rome … nakedly carrying my patibulum all the way to the arena, bent over under its weight, weaving and staggering under the lash, pummeled at every step with ribald insults and taunts, as well as with bits of garbage of every imaginable kind. That on arrival, I would be led out on to the sun-baked sand floor of the arena, to the sound of trumpets blaring, the thunder of drums, and the cheers of a crowd risen to its feet to welcome the main event of the day … the crucifixion of the self-proclaimed rebel leader, Barbaria!
And then, as the crowd seated itself and drew quiet, my aching shoulders would be relieved of the weight of the patibulum and I would be secured … arms over head … to a nearby post. And, as my cross was being assembled, I would be subjected to a brutal scourging … the crowd rising once again to its feet to call out the number of the strokes as they were meted out … one after another, all up and down by bare back … 1 … 2 … 3 …. 4 … 5 … applauding enthusiastically as first blood was drawn … 6 …. 7 … 8 … laughing at my antics as I twisted and turned under the lash, slamming my bare breasts against the rough blood-stained post, and crying for mercy … 9 … 10 … 11 … 12 … and on to a total of 20.
At that point, Wraggius himself would come out to inspect the damage, tracing with a finger over the reddened and blood-flecked stripes, then turning to the crowd and raising his arms to proclaim to the watching thousands that I was ready.
“Crucify her! Crucify her!” The cruel chant of the mob would swell and continue unabated, echoing back and forth across the closed space of the packed arena … until … Wraggius, with unabashed glee written all over his face, would turn his thumbs down and brusquely order me to the cross.
Strong hands would eagerly free me of the bindings that held me outstretched against the whipping post, drag me to my waiting cross and throw me down upon it. My arms would be seized and outstretched, bound in place, the blunt tips of iron nails pressed to my slender wrists, and driven through by a series of powerful hammer blows … my hysterical screams of horror and pain drowned out by the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd.
Strong hands would bend my knees so as to place the sole of first one foot flat against the stipe, and then the other on top of it. A third nail would be hastily produced and driven straight through both feet, its blunt point burying deep in the soft wood … causing me to arch my back, throw my head from side to side, and scream … before falling back hard against the unyielding wood, faintly aware of warm blood gushing from the wound in my shattered feet.
They would waste little time in raising me, nor in mocking me once I was raised, as I struggled … twisting and writhing … restlessly pushing myself up and down … dancing the “dance of the crucified” … over and over … naked, my womanhood shamelessly exposed … until exhaustion set in, compelling me to hang listlessly, arms fully outstretched, knees bent, tailbone pressed the wood … miserably panting and sweating, baking under the unforgiving midday sun.
Bored and restless, they would devise ways to prompt me into further movement … by whip and hot iron, and by water or wine applied sparingly to my parched lips … the crowd bellowing its approval each time I strained to push myself and fall back one more time.
So, it’s over. It happened just as I have said. And here I am, as you can see … crucified in the arena, my head lolled off to one side, eyes closed … too exhausted for further struggle, doing my best to ignore the jeers of the crowd … and wondering why I was so foolish as to have challenged and riled a man of such power and influence as Wraggius, First Consul of Rome and Governor of Cruxonia.
It’s over now … all over but the dying.
The only question is how long must I hang? Do rebels last longer than innocents? Do the Gods still shower demerits upon the all too powerful and unjust … even when the rebel who requested them is gone? Who knows?
Only time on the cross will tell.
IT’S OVER
It’s over … all over, but the hanging and dying!
Why? Why, I ask myself, as I hang naked on the cross, do I always have to be the contrarian? … rebellious by nature … always questioning authority and convention … paying no heed to the small print, the subtle signs of danger? It does me no good, only brings me misery and suffering. Yet, I keep doing it.
And, now I have really done it. I should have known better than to take on the likes of Wraggius, First Consul of Rome, and Governor of Roman Cruxonia. One would think that I would somehow be smart enough to recognize real power when I see it, and not be so foolish as to trifle with it. But no, I had to publicly criticize him … ridicule him … and then went right ahead and repeatedly called upon the Gods to chastise him and shower him with Godly demerits.
I should have known that he would seek revenge … revenge of the worst kind … that he would in time have me arrested, tried as a rebel, and condemned to a humiliating death before thousands in the arena.
And I should have known that there would be no mercy along the way … that I would be mercilessly ridiculed on the streets of Rome … nakedly carrying my patibulum all the way to the arena, bent over under its weight, weaving and staggering under the lash, pummeled at every step with ribald insults and taunts, as well as with bits of garbage of every imaginable kind. That on arrival, I would be led out on to the sun-baked sand floor of the arena, to the sound of trumpets blaring, the thunder of drums, and the cheers of a crowd risen to its feet to welcome the main event of the day … the crucifixion of the self-proclaimed rebel leader, Barbaria!
And then, as the crowd seated itself and drew quiet, my aching shoulders would be relieved of the weight of the patibulum and I would be secured … arms over head … to a nearby post. And, as my cross was being assembled, I would be subjected to a brutal scourging … the crowd rising once again to its feet to call out the number of the strokes as they were meted out … one after another, all up and down by bare back … 1 … 2 … 3 …. 4 … 5 … applauding enthusiastically as first blood was drawn … 6 …. 7 … 8 … laughing at my antics as I twisted and turned under the lash, slamming my bare breasts against the rough blood-stained post, and crying for mercy … 9 … 10 … 11 … 12 … and on to a total of 20.
At that point, Wraggius himself would come out to inspect the damage, tracing with a finger over the reddened and blood-flecked stripes, then turning to the crowd and raising his arms to proclaim to the watching thousands that I was ready.
“Crucify her! Crucify her!” The cruel chant of the mob would swell and continue unabated, echoing back and forth across the closed space of the packed arena … until … Wraggius, with unabashed glee written all over his face, would turn his thumbs down and brusquely order me to the cross.
Strong hands would eagerly free me of the bindings that held me outstretched against the whipping post, drag me to my waiting cross and throw me down upon it. My arms would be seized and outstretched, bound in place, the blunt tips of iron nails pressed to my slender wrists, and driven through by a series of powerful hammer blows … my hysterical screams of horror and pain drowned out by the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd.
Strong hands would bend my knees so as to place the sole of first one foot flat against the stipe, and then the other on top of it. A third nail would be hastily produced and driven straight through both feet, its blunt point burying deep in the soft wood … causing me to arch my back, throw my head from side to side, and scream … before falling back hard against the unyielding wood, faintly aware of warm blood gushing from the wound in my shattered feet.
They would waste little time in raising me, nor in mocking me once I was raised, as I struggled … twisting and writhing … restlessly pushing myself up and down … dancing the “dance of the crucified” … over and over … naked, my womanhood shamelessly exposed … until exhaustion set in, compelling me to hang listlessly, arms fully outstretched, knees bent, tailbone pressed the wood … miserably panting and sweating, baking under the unforgiving midday sun.
Bored and restless, they would devise ways to prompt me into further movement … by whip and hot iron, and by water or wine applied sparingly to my parched lips … the crowd bellowing its approval each time I strained to push myself and fall back one more time.
So, it’s over. It happened just as I have said. And here I am, as you can see … crucified in the arena, my head lolled off to one side, eyes closed … too exhausted for further struggle, doing my best to ignore the jeers of the crowd … and wondering why I was so foolish as to have challenged and riled a man of such power and influence as Wraggius, First Consul of Rome and Governor of Cruxonia.
It’s over now … all over but the dying.
The only question is how long must I hang? Do rebels last longer than innocents? Do the Gods still shower demerits upon the all too powerful and unjust … even when the rebel who requested them is gone? Who knows?
Only time on the cross will tell.
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