Priesthood

Art by Peter

 I prostrated myself in front of the priest.

A heavy silence blanketed the catacomb.

The air was thick. The cold stones pressed into my forehead and elbows and knees. The crenulated piece of wood that separated the consecrator from the consecratee seemed like a two-story rampart. Then he spoke.

I dutifully listened to his words.

Father, Son, Holy Spirit.

Tripartite. Singular. Three leaves of a clover. Three points of a triangle. Three arms of a cross.

The cross. The sacrifice. The mystery.

How does the Almighty inhabit flesh? How does an immortal die?

Questions wrestled for my attention with the more pressing issues in my body. A pose, held, becomes its own torture. A mortification. A requirement for purification.

Hoarse Horse

Art by Wyatt

"Hoarse," he said raspily.

"I see," I said. Was this horse a Pokémon or something?

"No, hoarse," he said again with emphasis. "Water?"

"Sure?" I said, confused. "What about it?"

"Where?" Another single syllable spilled from his lips.

"Oh, just around the corner." I jerked my thumb in the direction of the self-service jug.

"Thanks," he said, trotting off in that direction.

After a moment or two, he was back in front of me.