#; prayers

Elie Wiesel, Dawn

Petra’s Ghost, C.S. O'Cinneide

Day (The Accident), Elie Wiesel

☧ – ; Diplomatic trips were always made with contingencies for the unexpected, especially of the dangerous kind. Therein lay the problem; sometimes, despite all planning, things went wrong. He was nearly seventeen now, though it didn't really show in any obvious ways. Still youthful in looks and wide-eyed, his befreckled face was soft and his clerical life lent him the lithe frame he'd always had, the only real difference being the slightest broadening of shoulders (this could have been how he'd adjusted his manner of carrying himself), and a few inches grown in height. It had come to be a sort of tradition that when these trips took him to Albion, after Papal duties were fulfilled and Alessandro XVIII had retired, at least one of the evenings would be spent slipped from his rooms and incognito, to go and be amongst the people as just a young man, a tourist blown in from Rome, here only for a night. This evening, however, would not be one of those. News of his arrival in Londinium had circulated for weeks before he had actually gotten here, and it seemed a small group of men had used the opportunity. They were covert in their movements, catching up to Alessandro while he browsed an open-air shop in Covent Garden, the boy Pope barely able to get away, ducking down a dark alley, in his desperation taking refuge in a half-underground stairway, descending it until the darkness overtook him. Still backing towards the lowest wall, he bumped into something --- or rather, someone, breath catching in his throat when he froze, his terror in the moment causing his words to come out in his mother tongue. "Vi prego, aiutatemi, sono in pericolo."* * "Please help me, I'm in danger."

☧ – ; This was not the first time Alessandro had found himself in a situation and wondering how he'd gotten here; yet, here he was, swarmed by Japanese paparazzi, all clamoring for photographs or statements. Some shouted and waved to catch his attention, and some took pictures, their flashes dizzying His Holiness' vision. This walkway, at the back of the gallery (a collection of ancient sacred artifacts that were to be taken back to The Vatican for proper protection), was supposed to be cleared of all interference, but it seemed as if someone had tipped off the press. The simple white cassock he wore made the lights dance even more, and out of these lights, suddenly appeared a man; not one of his own entourage, and not one Alessandro immediately recognized. Blurred recollections of painted golden-robed figures under Bodhi trees raced through his mind when he gripped the stranger's hand, though he was too frazzled by the chaos around him to wonder why at the moment.

Lullabies for Little Criminals, A Novel by Heather O’Neil

Les Innocentes, 2016