Stations of the Cross
She had seen those nutjobs who carried Jesus-sized crosses around the Old City, walking the stations of the cross in their self-serving piety. They were worse than the Haredim, the hard core Jews with their goofy hats and bald wives. Each hat told where its wearer was from, although she didn't know which hat went with which place. She imagined the big fur ones were from Poland, or some other frigid clime.
There it was—a cross, leaning in the corner against the ancient wall. She had often wondered how heavy they were. She picked it up and felt its weight—lighter than she imagined. A stone in the wall of the Via Dolorosa showed the symbol VII. She had no idea what the seventh station was—an Arab shopkeeper across the narrow cobblestone walkway said, “Jesus fall the second time.” He didn't look up from his newspaper.
“What?” she asked. His coffee smelled like cardamom.
“Jesus fall the second time. You want a map? Ten shekels.”
“No thanks,” she said. “Can I just look at one?”
He shook his head.
“Do you know where the eighth station is?”
“Around the corner. By the souk. Jesus meet the daughters of Jerusalem.”
She picked up the cross, put it on her back, and walked towards the scent of cinnamon and cloves.
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Author's Note
This is the first flash fiction published on http://52250flash.wordpress.com/2010/05/17/maggie-sokolik/.
Other stories by Maggie Sokolik
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The notion of "trying on" a cross and tracing the route of people she considers "nutjobs" is amusing and clever, and the the shopkeeper’s attitude and comments (and the souk that lies ahead) really establish the story’s sense of place. "Jesus-sized" as a unit of measurement is just brilliant! Glad to see your work here!
Amazing contrasts of scent, commercialism, disdain and curiousity. This could be the perfect beginning of a perfect novel ... or simply what it is.
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Agree with both Stephanie and James. Wonderful details, and oh yes, the attitude.
Loved..."She picked it up and felt its weight—lighter than she imagined." Deftly balanced between the mundane and mystical, invoking the trans-formative energy of spices as context in the city of eternal pilgrimage (walked towards the scent of cinnamon and cloves....a perfect ending, all of this under the 52-250 limit too!)
Nice story full of rich details. Each sentence just adds more depth to what's come before.
I can smell that coffee, that souk. So much happening in such a short encounter. nice!
Great story.
Every detail, every observation, every piece of dialogue situated just right here. Great read, didn't want it to end!
oh i've been here: it is contagious. perfect ending to a gem of a piece.
that's gorgeous irony.
The last grafs cracked me up with their spot-on dialogue. Loved the last line too. But - and this is just a matter of taste - a story in which the main character makes such an abrupt apparent reversal leaves me with more questions than I'd like about who she is, why she is where she is, why the change, if there even is one, etc.
Wonderful details, all the senses used. And the voice -- a slight sardonic edge, an unbeliever... maybe? Peace...