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Sunday Church




4 members have voted

  1. 1. Do you read furry stories?

    • Yes, often
    • Yes, sometimes
    • Yes, rarely
    • No

He always meant to do good. Always. Even at the expense of others, he'd make the world better. But for who? Himself? He'd never thought about that before. Silas Wilson stood in front of the plate sized mirror on the back of his door, checking his hair one final time before leaving his room and heading out to the congregate in their church pews. The church wasn't far from the compact home he lived in. The community Silas put together out here was isolated but healthy as they got visitors sometimes and were always open to new members. The nearest town had all but forgotten them though still. They'd been written off as a religious cult and nothing more than a bunch of odd believers. And Father Silas was their priest. He wore a red robe that reached midway down his calves so he could walk in black dress shoes down the church aisle to the podium without tripping. A silver cross hung from a leather cord around his neck. He kept his fur trimmed and his hair cut, wanting to be the perfect vessel for God's love. He was making a church full of god food.
The community hushed as Silas came inside and shook the man who was holding the door's hand graciously. Church was beginning. The session was normal perhaps, nothing special to an outsider besides the fact this man was reading out of a revised Bible, till the end. "And as a sign of our undying love, our pure spirits! We will bleed for you, Lord~ As you did for us. May this precious blood guide you to this Church and even deeper into our hearts. Amen," Silas ended the final prayer and reached behind the podium on the singular shelf to grab what looked like a collection plate except a serrated steak knife was balanced on top the open silver bowl holding just enough holy water to cover the bottom.

The congregate started to line up as if they'd all done this hundreds of times before, making a line that curved through the pews and started in front of the carpeted step that led to the podium. Silas held his hand out for all to see, the knife in a firm grip in his remaining hand. He put the knife to the barely healed up wound on his left palm, closing his fingers around the blade before pulling the knife tightly against his skin and back again in a sawing motion. His breath caught a little at the pain, it always did. As often as he repented for his sins through blood, he never had gotten used to sharp pain. He opened his hand, tentatively wiggling his fingers as he flipped his hand over top the collection plate. A few hearty drops of his bright red blood fell into the water and dissipated in murky swirls. Silas straightened, turning to sit the collection plate on the step in front of him and in front of the first person in line. The woman eagerly held her scarred hands out as if she awaited food or money instead of a cut. Silas put the knife blade across both her palms, not aligning it with her current wounds as they seemed to be scabbed over. She closed her fingers around the blade without question, keeping her grip tight as the priest sawed a nasty cut into her hands. She cried out, head falling as she whimpered but she didn't pull away. An obedient pet like all the rest of the women, men and children here. Innocent lambs for Silas to completely and utterly corrupt without ever realizing it. As the blood sacrifice continued, the God it was for kept watch. A fake Saint, the fallen God fed off the pain and suffering of mortal beings and had been whispering new religious bullshit into Silas' ear for years now. Without this creature's help, Silas wouldn't have anything. He knew that. He worshiped a monster believing it to be his miracle worker. And yet? Time was running out for the community on the Hill. The false Saint grew hungrier and hungrier for more by the day. As the people of Silas' little home cried and bled in the monster's name- it was already wondering just how sweet they'd taste.

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