Just Passing By: A Short Story Compossed by T. Kifle

Hello Faithful Readers, was just on The Kifle Chronicles and I read this post by T. Kifle and I was compeled to post this so if you havn't read it there hear it is. Comment for part 2.

"It all happened so quickly", he thought to himself. He tried to the best of his ability to grasp the weight of the day's events. Now as he sailed across the Mediterranean towards the now ancient city of Cyrene, he couldn't help but replay the gruesome images he had seen just hours earlier. He was trying hard to sleep, he was tired, and his coat still bore a few red stains. But the images kept coming back; he even heard the voices, the wailing. He was trying to shut it all out of his mind. He couldn't. There was something he had to figureout, but where was he to start. Amidst such pain and agony, he couldn't understand why he felt so wonderful after it was all said and done.

He tried to steer his thoughts in a different direction. The Passover was great, he thought. After all, that was why he made the journey.

The images began to play again.

He reunited with his family members, and rekindled old friendships.

The voices.

The food was great, and the memories of past Passover celebrations flooded his mind.

The wailing.

He was disappointed that his two sons –Alexander and Rufus- weren't able to come.

The clanging of brass on a roman centurion.

He missed their mother – she had passed some years before.

The crowd , the commotion, the hammering.

The involuntary recollections were coming in fragments and they were hard turn off, but he was trying. He thought of home: the great city of Cyrene. Cyrene was located in northern coast of Africa, tucked into a lush valleyintheJebel akhdar uplands. It boasted a school of philosophy, founded by Arisitippus, a disciple of the great Socrates himself. The "Athens of Africa", he thought.Hewas lucky to live there; he worked hard and made it big. After all, he was an heir of the Abrhamic blessing. But something big was missing from his life.

He fell asleep. Now, he wouldn't be able to stop the images or the sounds.

He felt entirely conscious in this dream, like he was just reliving the current day from the start. It was so real. In this dream He walked down a rough, stony street . He was just passing by, on his way back home. He saw the crowd again. Hundreds, maybe even thousands. Men, women, boys and girls. Some looked angry, others wept in agony. Some were clueless – like himself."A post-Passover celebration maybe", he thought. "Maybe not". He had to find out what on earth could attract so many people after the previous night's festivities. He pushed his way through the crowd with his two pack bags providing extra bulk with which he could use to plow through tightly woven blanket of stubborn bystanders. He finally broke through the crowd. The emotion was more intense here. It seemed that those who felt more strongly about whatever was happening had made it a point to obtain front row seats. Those who wept were weeping more bitterly than ever. Those who were enraged shook their fists more vehemently, more violently. The wailing and the shouting combined made the most horrific noisehehadever heard in his life. It was deafeningly loud. But there he was, looking completely lost, and feeling very uninvited.

Everyone seemed to be looking to the left, waiting for something or someone. In this instance, it would be fine to "follow the crowd". He looked left. He thought of asking another bystander what commotion was all about. He turned to his nearest neighbor; a man red in the face from yelling what seemed to sound like obscenities. He was screaming something about a blasphemer; he couldn't make out the rest. The man was yelling with such intensity he didn't notice that the spittle that had accumulated at the sides of his mouth had now turned to white foam. "There's no asking that man", he thought. He resumed looking left, waiting for something to happen.

Finally, he saw spear tips floating high above the heads and flailing arms of the crowd. Upon this sight the crowd let up a roar of cries, some sounded joyous almost celebratory. That's awkward, he thought. He turned, and as he did, his eyes locked on a petite woman whose eyes shed tears like a fountain of water. Her eyes bloodshot, her clothes soaked with sweat and tears. She caught his gazeand he quickly looked away. He turned again to see a man who had buried his face in his hands, trying to hide the tears. But the tears found their way through narrow gaps between his gnarled fingers. The tears ran down the backs of his hands, down his wrists, and onto dirty, tattered clothes. The man could pass for a beggar, for he once was.

The roman soldiers were now in sight, and they were trying there best to control the crowd. The crowd was going to explode. He braced himself forwhathewould see next. He watched intently. Maybe it was royalty, a politicalfigure, Cesar himself maybe. Maybe not. He heard clanging of glittery armor and accessories the soldiers wore. They moved about trying to maintain the ever shrinking pathway formed by the crowd on either side of street. Another roar from the crowd. He struggled for position as the sight was made its way toward him. He braced himself once again. Finally the thought crossed his mind: what in world am I doing here. He wanted to leave, but he had already seen so much, and it would haunt him if he never discovered what was coming down the road. "I'll just stick it out until I discover the reason for strange ordeal", he said to himself.

It caught him off guard. The beam of a wooden cross leading down to the arched, bloodied back on which it rested, a trail of blood following. The crowd was so loud now he thought his ears would burst. The figure, a man, was barely recognizable as live human being. Drenched in blood from head to toe and possibly seconds from death. As the man bearing the cross neared, the curious traveler felt irresistibly drawn to the torn and bloody man. Now he was within feet. He had never seen a man so beaten and bruised. His back was striped by a vicious whipping that left loose pieces of skin to move freely and become entangled in the strings of torn clothing. And to top it all off, a thorny bush was placed atop the man's head piercing his scalp and the skin on his forehead. There was a thorn that pierced the skin right under the center of his eyebrow, exiting a hair's width above his eyelid.

The curious traveler had not realized how close he was to Jesus and his disciples who followed behind. A disciple named john approached the traveler, and motioned for him to bring his ear. John trembling and on the verge of bursting in to lamentation, asked the curious traveler his name. The curious traveler replied: "Simon, Simon of Cyrene". John then asked if Simon wouldbewillingto bearthe cross for the man named Jesus. Before Simon could answer, he was face to face with Jesus who looked up at him from under the weight of cross. He couldn't say no. as the cross lifted from off the back of Jesus, the rough grain of the wood took some flesh and blood with it. In the split second that Simon and Jesus made contact in the transferring of the cross, Simon felt an unbelievable surge power, or virtue maybe.

As he the bore the cross walking toward Calvary, Simon wondered who this man named Jesus was. Was he a criminal, a condemned political leader, was he being wrongly condemned. This man named Jesus could have done no wrong, he thought to himself. Simon didn't know why, but he felt that Jesus was righteous and innocent, even though he had never heard of Jesus. For some reason the cross felt light on Simon's back. The cross left blood stains in the patterns of wood grain on Simon's neatly clothed back. Simon gripped the cross at the same point Jesus had. Simon could feel the blood of Jesus on his hands. He kept on, with Jesus, the disciples, the soldiers, and the others convicts in tow.

What must have been ten minutes passed in what seemed likeseconds, but Simon remembered every detail as if had stopped to take notes along the way of the short journey. They reached the top of the hill, were there moreroman soldiers waiting. The soldiers tore the cross away from Simon. He wanted to bear the cross for as long as he could, he felt so good in the few minutes he bore the cross. He was confused, yet he felt peace. But what was to happen next was inevitable. The soldiers crudely thanked Simon by not cursing at him, and then they motionedfor him to leave.

The weight of what was to happen finally hit Simon like a falling mountain, he wondered again how he ended up in such a strange situation."I was just passing by", he said to himself. He wouldn't be there to see it end. He turned to take one last look at Jesus, who was already looking back at him. Without words Jesus seemed to communicating something to Simon. Simon felt that overwhelming peace and strength again. Simon nearly ran back down the hilldodgingmourners and mockers. In the distance behind him he could hear the sharp pounding of roman hammers into crudely crafted stakes, and corresponding cries of pain that echoed over hill after each strike. He ran faster.

Simon awoke slowly, not with a startle, but as usual. He thought he would be sweating or trembling but he wasn't and it wasn't a nightmare, but reality replayed in a dream. The other passengers on the vessel were sound asleep, and it was near midnight it seemed. For the first time since Simon bore the cross earlier that day he was able to peacefully put all the gruesome images into correct order. Simon new what he was to do next.

Little did he know it, but that day, Simon had altered the course of destiny for himself and his people.