His feet were lost to numbness, but he still felt the cutting grasp of the thongs, the sharper bite of the nails, the thorns at his head, the rough wood at his back.
The sun baked his naked body. They’d all left now, even rock-hard Peter, poor shamed Mother.
All but those fixed to left and right. One a mere criminal, but the other… by his loincloth he shared in the Mystery. “Truly,” he gasped, “you will be with me now, in Paradise.” He squirmed, thrusting his hips outward.
As he’d prophesied, they came to Paradise together.fiblet, fiction, Writing