Oracion A La Santa Cruz Novels & Stories

"Dear Lord! Please keep my daughter safe. I never asked anything from you. But this poor mother is begging you just this time. Please, please!! Don't send me empty-handed." A solitary mother is pleading before the sculpture of crucified Jesus. Venessa stops crying and opens her closed eyes, tilts her head up to look at Jesus with her red, crying eyes. The whole prayer hall is endeavoured by darkness and the light of the candles lit on the altar which is near death, fighting against the darkness giving it all. The white roses kept on the altar have started wilting.

He walked her backward out of the sacristy, through the sanctuary, her dress bunched around her waist, panties torn and discarded. The church was silent except for their footsteps and heavy breathing. When they reached the altar, Father Dominic spun her around and bent her forward over the white marble surface. "Pray," he commanded. "What?" "Pray. Ask God's forgiveness for what you're about to receive." Lucia's pussy clenched. She pressed her palms together, her chest against the cold altar, and began: "Our Father, who art in Heaven...."

I immediately positioned myself in the middle of the pentagram near the piles used by the bereaved we would call. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a moment and felt nature especially when the wind was blowing around then I opened my eyes again. I took the dagger and then wounded my palm so I frowned in pain then I dripped on the tools at the same time pronouncing the incantation. "Da mihi orationis caelum et terram Audi vocem meam dicuntur ab inferno animos suos nobiscum loqui Sive dicas! Sive dicas!"

She spoke quietly, but the microphones picked her voice up well and broadcast it to all corners of the square as well as over the major networks. “Blessed be the goddess,” she said. “Blessed be the goddess,” the crowd murmured in response. “Blessed goddess, we call on you to console us as we grieve. We call on you to bring comfort to the families who face this day with pain. We call on you to guide us to a better tomorrow without pain, without grief.” “Blessed be the goddess,” the crowd murmured again. The Oracle continued, asking for help and succor and peace. Grace and Chloe were very good and did not fidget or speak. I saw people with phones and large TV cameras walking around, trying to

She signaled her team, livestream rolling, and Father Bernard stepped forward, raising his hands. The crowd hushed, heads bowing, a solemn hush falling fast. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he began, voice trembling but firm, cutting through the dusk. He spoke of mercy, of healing, his words raw, unpolished, a shepherd pleading for his lost. “We lift Jeremy and his mother to You, O Lord,” he intoned, tears glinting in his eyes, “grant them strength, bring them back.”

From the backseat, Angela’s brother moaned loudly with pain. “I’m sorry, Rafe,” she called out, glancing back. The spirit wolf’s gaze met the concern in her dark eyes. “Look out, child!” the priest yelled as the truck swerved toward a dense clumping of bushes and trees. They barely avoided the foliage as she pulled sharply back to the road. “Stop and I will drive,” he said. “How do I stop?” “Ave María y Madre de Dios y Parce Domine!” the old man cried in a mix of Latin and Spanish pleas. “Push upon the other pedal at your feet.”

"Can't have a Constantine heir with Romano blood, can we? Elena's children will carry on the legacy." Somehow I dragged myself to the bedroom, leaving a trail of red drops behind me. My fingers found the drawer of my bedside table, wrapping around the small Santa Muerte statue hidden inside. Adrian laughed when he saw it. "Still clinging to your nanny's superstitions? Pathetic." The room spun as I pressed the cold statue to my chest. "*Santa Muerte*," I prayed in Spanish, my voice growing weaker. "*Hear me. See me. Grant me justice.*"

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus." My voice joins fifty others in the morning rosary, the words automatic after six years of repetition. "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen." The prayer cycles again. Rosary beads click softly as we kneel in dawn light filtering through stained glass. I keep my eyes closed, my lips moving with muscle memory while my mind drifts back to why I had another sleepless night. The bridge. Always the bridge in my nightmare.

They were in the middle and the chapel prefect started another range of prayers. “God of heaven!! Unto whom the Spirits of the righteous are made perfect, you gave us the order to raise altars unto you in this citadel; come Oh King!! Come and unveil, expose the satanic vessels you promised to make known their assignments in this citadel, Come!! Come!! Come!!! Jesus Come!!”.

Without a word, they walked quietly toward the small crowd. Mr. Creed made his way to where Mom Maria stood, her hands still wrapped around the rosary. He paused in front of her, bowing his head slightly. “I’m sorry,” he muttered softly. Mom Maria looked up, her red-rimmed eyes meeting his for a brief moment. She gave a slow nod and said nothing... The priest lifted his hand gently and said, “May her soul find peace beyond the waves, where pain and sorrow no longer follow. And may her memory live on... in every kindness, in every smile, in every heart she touched.”