In my dreams he is God’s son, embraced in the leafless branches of an oak tree, motionless and dim.  His vessel hangs as if just born, ropes feeding of his sacred flesh. I stand beneath him lips parched in prayers of blessed history retold, kisses upon his cold feet, blood from his fresh wounds mingling with my saliva.

But I am too eccentric in my beliefs; the crown of thorns bleeds my forehead.Stripping myself of earthly possessions, I rip through my bare chest till color, poisonous and ill pours.

I slice until I’m clean. I repent until he commands.






Some may recognize this from Goya’s Great Deeds Against The Dead. It is The Disasters of War Plate 39. I took the liberty of taking the central figure for this piece. Original here: 


12 thoughts on “Martyr

  1. These microfictions don’t explain much, but you do one hell of a job of visualization in this small piece.

    • Haha funny you say that. I did an experiment, sending one to a friend of mine who has never before read microfiction and she was so very confused. Sometimes I am myself! But some extended version of each piece lives in me so I get to know a bit more.

      Thank you for your words Tom, they bring me joy.

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