Tear Stained Prayer Book Novels & Stories

I shook my head, clutching the book to my chest as his fingers wrapped around it. I could practically hear the withered book groan, my heart along with it. Dean's sly smile was wider now, realizing he had just what he needed to get to me. I could feel the book slipping from my fingers, a strangled whimper leaving my lips. The book was torn from my hands, a quarter of the paper cover fluttering to the floor. "This book special or something?" Dean cackled, dangling it in front of me like bait. Tears stung my eyes, but they often did. Every emotion I had seemed to be wired to my tear ducts, making the waterworks form all too effortlessly.

I whispered. I stepped closer, the herb’s sting already making my skin prickle even through the cloak. My hand shook as I pulled the book down. The cloth burned my palm, but I didn’t let go. “Shit,” I hissed, clenching my teeth against the pain. I ripped the cloth off, throwing it aside. The sting didn’t stop, but when I looked down, my heart stopped altogether. The leather cover was old. Dark. Stained. And burned into it was one word.

I was so mad. I don't know where that madness was coming from. But I feel so heavy that I feel like I might shrink under the ground. I wanted to shed a tear, but nothing is coming out. I wanted to burst into tears, but there was something inside me saying NO! A single tear is not worth it to give to this woman. Raven got near me, and she held my hands while the old woman was shaking in tears.

Rosalind was unusually quiet that night, playing the part of a devoted spouse. It wasn't until the third course arrived that she suddenly said, "Do you know what a marriage certificate looked like, Mr. Stevenson?" Before Peter Stevenson could even reply, Rosalind pulled ours out of her handbag and tore it into pieces in front of everyone. "Just like this." She scattered the pieces over the table. "As long as I'm happy, I can tear it apart anytime I want." The private room went dead silent. A scrap of paper clung to a slice of fatty tuna, making an absurd, grotesque decoration.

"A book?" Hugh immediately raised his voice. "A book? This is a treasure! A handwritten prayer book by a monk from the Abbey of Saint-Germain in Paris, dating back to the 13th century--complete with gold illumination. Fewer than ten copies still exist. I had someone camp out at a Vatican manuscript auction for half a year before I managed to get it!" Liam lifted a brow, looking at him with faint amusement. "You came all the way to the hospital just to show me this?"

He brought it forward, the weight of it feeling strangely heavy in his hand. Silas didn't wait for Caleb to open it. He snatched the bag, upending its contents onto a mahogany side table. A cheap rosary, a pack of tissues, and a worn prayer book tumbled out. And then, with a sharp, crystalline clink, something else hit the wood. The Heaven’s Tear. The diamond brooch caught the morning light, refracting it into a thousand mocking shards of color. It lay there, a glittering accusation amidst the meager belongings of a nanny.

With one glare at them from Arles, they compose a stern look on their face. After the Head Priest is done speaking, he faces me. Another priest comes to him with a golden book resting on a red velvet cushion in his hands. He takes the book and then looks at me. “May I?” He asks gently as he bows his heads before me. I nod at him before he gently hands me the book. It’s quite heavy.

Yet she sat in silent prayer, her womb weeping, the feel of Harrow’s knee pressed close leading her down a treacherous path of impure thoughts. Nearby, Mrs. Clark stared toward a stained-glass window, her prayer book clutched in her gloved hands, a ubiquitous peppermint candy clicking against her teeth as she repeatedly tucked it between cheek and gum, cheek and gum. Toward the front, a man, a stranger she didn’t recognize, sat as if in prayer, his raincoat stained and wrinkled, his hair matted and greasy. His grief obvious but quiet, he bent low, his forehead resting on the back of the pew in front of him, shoulders shaking, knuckles gripping white as, with a long, wet sniffle, he dragged h

He finds the passages that confirm it. Bonded pairs may share pain and fear. His breath stutters. He throws a book across the room. It slams into the wall with a violent crack, pages fluttering like wounded birds to the floor. In my library, my vision blurs. My fingers curl around the fragile page, and before I can stop myself, I tear it in half. The sound is soft. Final. I stare at the torn edges, at the truth bleeding through the room around me. Books lie open everywhere, their words screaming the same conclusion in a dozen different ways.

She looked proud as she explained this, but deep down, I had a feeling her father used these as leverage. She walked over to the end of the bookshelf, pulling out a black leather-bound book tied with a thin rope. Carved into the leather were the words ‘Book of Transcendents’. Maleigha motioned to a small round table and the three of us sat down. She handed the book to Kai and he opened to the first page.