Word Of Honor Novel By Priest Novels & Stories

It was more than I expected , there were so many people ,the poor , the rich , The old , the young . The whole place was filled up ,I couldn't help but think that wasn't the only crowd . I walked up to the stage where the priest stood with a book in his hands,dressed in a long white robe with a cross imprinted on it . The two guards who beat me up days ago ,came behind me with the same blue tuxedos on ,I couldn't believe they were my best men. What was I expecting when I didn't have any friends? My friend was already dead so I should be grateful for their help.

he muttered—meaning terrifying—and ran to bully the bells into silence. Alone, I leaned on the parapet. In the seam, the new thread pulsed with the patience of a thing built to outlast opinion. The first time a priest took my sword, he said it was for the world’s good. The first time I gave away my light, the world didn’t improve. Tonight I gave nothing away. I built. Blasphemy, and prayer. Chaos hadn’t threatened. She had corrected the record. At her door, I kissed her knuckles. She said later like a blade being named. I believed her.

I could feel his presence at my back—tall, warm, the faint rustle of his cassock as he moved closer. I kept reading, line after line about denying the body, about offering suffering to God, about the dangers of self-indulgence. My voice shook on the parts about “touching oneself in secret” and “fantasies that defile the soul.” By the time I reached the end of the first page I was breathing faster, nipples tight against my dress, the ache between my legs worse than it had been all day. Father Chris stepped around the table so I could see him. He leaned down, one hand resting on the open book, the other hanging loose at his side. His eyes locked on mine.

I snapped, my voice sharp enough to cut through the room. “Spoke softly to me?” I repeated, letting out an angry scoff. “Didn’t he speak softly to you? He spoke softly to Grandma too, and to every other church member there. You saw it! He even asked about your wellbeing—despite you being a sick psycho trying to crawl into his head, trying to make him spill stories about his life before he became a priest. What kind of person does that? You wanted to know if he played dirty, if he probably fucked half the girls he’s ever met! Is that it? And now you want to know if he still plays dirty… even while being a priest?”

Her voice was sharp and I turned to look at her. "You want to back out then back out." I kept my tone flat. "I'll do this alone and you can wait with Carlo and tell yourself you kept your hands clean." "That's not what I meant." She grabbed my arm. "I'm just trying to understand how you reconcile what we're about to do with the man who wore a priest's collar and offered confession." "I don't reconcile it." The truth came out harder than I'd intended. "Father Damien Cross was a lie I told myself because I wanted to believe redemption was possible, but some sins are too deep to wash away with prayer and good intentions."

Orphanage Home: 213 Lukward Street, Los Angeles. She was shocked and didn’t put it into consideration until she saw another familiar writing on the paper. The old priest stated: “Fred and I. May the Heavenly Father forgive us.” Her eyes widened, confusion hit her hard. “Why would the old priest demand forgiveness from the Lord for him and Fred”? “What’s going on?” she gasped. The room became thick, each walls held secrets of decades. Tension grew. As Secrets are about to be unveiled.

Reese as supportive as she could squeezed my hand and then walked out opening the door for me. The High Priestess stopped speaking to the Red Priestess and they both looked up to see me come off the porch and approach them. I could see by her eyes there was complete and utter fury looking at me while the Red Priestess grinned and nodded approvingly. I lowered my head bowing to them both. “Mother, “ I acknowledged her and then bowed to the Red Priestess, “This is truly an honor Red-”

The vivid characterization, meticulous attention to detail and a surreal sense of place makes me want to believe these stories happened, but I know they couldn’t have, and am ready to dismiss them as nothing more than fiction . Except for Father Ward’s story. Father Ward, priest at All Saints church and headmaster at All Saints High. Casual childhood friend and more recently: my former boss. The story depicting his return from military service overseas supposedly took place eight years ago, when I was still teaching at Seton Catholic in Binghamton, so I wasn’t around when those events supposedly happened. And by the time I came to All Saints, most of my fellow teachers were newer like me. So

If she was right to dare him into molesting her. “What?” the priest was marveled at her guts. As a priest, he had never been disobeyed before. “Why do you men feed on the pain you create on us? Not minding the damage it might cause us.” Dale lectured in a commanding tone. An unmistakable gleam of justice shone on Dale’s face. “I’m disappointed in you, a priest well respected. I’m ashamed that you could think to do such a thing!” She concluded and stood still, her hands hung around her chest and her head turned away from him. Dale was not sure of what she had said, but it was better than giving in.