Oracion A La Santa Cruz の小説・ストーリー

"Honored Saint John, I was an Angel Disciple of the Cathedral, 52nd generation." At this moment, Rosemary had not noticed Andrew's arrival at all. Or rather, she was far too focused. She knelt at the center of the altar, praying toward the statue at the far end. "Please, Saint John, grant me the power to purge darkness. I swear, in the name of the Ivory Seraph, eternal loyalty to the Cathedral and to the God of Light. I swear to labor without complaint, forever spreading my Lord's faith."

The most important moment of my life, the image I would never forget in my mind was this, Lanox at the end of the aisle, in his black suit, his hair combed uniquely and perfectly, and his gaze fixed on me, waiting patiently for me to arrive at the altar. Walking steadily towards him, I could hear Silvana saying an incantation to bless my path, to protect me and our children. It was a tradition to bless the aura of the future queen of the Coven, as she walked towards the altar to be crowned. Invocare cuatre nostro elementari Protegeri vuestra reina Protegeri vuestro herederi Protegeri vuestro vedi Ilumnari tua caminare Protegeri vuestro reina Faith

The smell of old incense calming her raging heart. She walked directly to the altar of Santa Muerte, the patron saint of lost causes and dark promises. Ramón was already there, a dark silhouette against the flickering candlelight. He just watched her approach with a bland expression. Lola didn't speak. She just held the letter over one of the candles. The thin paper quickly caught fire and Diego's words burnt brightly. The edges curled, the ink blackened and then turned into ashes. She watched it burn like a silent grim ritual of rejection.

Everyone in the room made the sign of the cross over their bodies, and held their rosaries in their hands as Father Balboni closed his eyes. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ, His only Son Our Lord, Who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. He descended into Hell; the third day He rose again from the dead; He ascended into Heaven, and sitteth at the right hand of God, the Father Almighty; from thence He shall come to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins

He placed his palms flat on the smooth, cool wood of the tabula and with a high, nasal voice intoned: "Aperi, Domine, os meum ad benedicendum nomen sanctum tuum." The monks prayed and chanted in their two ranks, calling and responding, their voices melding and sonorously filling the Sanctuary. How many thousands of times had Josephus given voice to these prayers? Yet today he felt a particular need to call out to Christ for his mercy and forgiveness, and tears formed when he called out the last line of Psalmus 148.

My wiring is fucked up and fighting cures all my evils. A burnt-orange, stuccoed Catholic church sits about twenty feet back from the road. The building is old and beside it is a field with large wooden crosses spaced about twenty feet apart. There are four crosses on two sides with two crosses at either end. It’s the name of the church that makes me turn around. Our Lady of Guadeloupe Mission is spelled out in script letters above the door. Guadalupe is my middle name, though spelled differently from the sign. For some strange reason, the church beckons me.

"Please, can I come? Please, Father—" "Beg for permission," Father Michael commands. "Look up and beg me to let you come on your priest's cock." My eyes find the large crucifix on the wall in front of me. Jesus hangs there, suffering, his eyes cast downward as if watching my defilement. "Please, ," I sob, the words tumbling out between moans. "Please let me come. Please forgive me. Please — I need it — I'm so close—" "Louder. Let me hear you."

Father forgive me for I have sinned. Absolve me of my sins and grant me the strength for today’s work. Thank you, Father. Amen. Tuning out the small voice of doubt, he touches the cool metal crucifix to his heart and then to his lips, making the cross sign. Then he latches his eyes open.

"Try to remember the smells, the sounds, what you expect to find there. And make that gesture with your hands.” It was the sign of the Holy Cross. In the name of the father, the son and the holy spirit. But instead of making the sign up, down and from left to right, it was done from bottom to top and from right to left. Contrary to the Bible and God's teachings. A blasphemy in exchange for power. I concentrated, with one hand I held my necklace and all the infernal power inside it, and with the other I made the movement.

No chain of custody. No closure. She stared at the screen, chest rising slowly. And then she moved. --- La Cruz Cemetery sat just outside the city walls, surrounded by cypress trees that bent in the wind like old mourners. Catalina walked the path alone, head down, scarf wrapped loosely around her curls. No one questioned her. Everyone who visited here was grieving something they’d never get back. The grave was easy to find. Row 14, Column C. Miguel Cruz. Beloved husband. Loyal father. May he rest in power.