Iron crosses hung above the head of Saul. His hands were bound firmly in copper, shackled to stone in the center of the square. It was going on the ninth day of his punishment, and he dreaded the thirteenth. That would be the day that the crosses fell.
There were crosses along the side of the windy road, many draped with wreaths of synthetic silk flowers, faded from the sun, where motorists had experienced their last moments careening around the mountain before facing their death.
She crosses herself – she doesn’t believe in God, doesn’t believe in anything “higher power” like really – because she needs all the help she can get right now. She wishes she did believe, wishes she could, for whatever comforts it could provide. But some combination of pessimism or realism and skepticism makes her pause too long when someone asks, “What do you believe in?”
One of those curb-side evangelical nut bars once tried to stop her on a walk from her hotel to a coffee shop somewhere. He asked her “Where do you think you go when you die?” And without a hesitation, somehow surprising even herself, she replied, “In the dirt.” He didn’t say anything and she hadn’t even stopped walking, so she kept moving. She’d run over the interaction a few more times in her head while she walked. It felt off somehow, but not wrong. It was an unfiltered version of her usual very-filtered mode of communication.
But right now, almost about-face from that little exchange, she crosses herself. She doesn’t look up to God or out to the Universe or down to… whatever. She just looks at her surroundings, the faces she doesn’t recognize (though maybe that one dude is familiar) and wades in.
We cross so many people every day in our daily monotone and boring life. Whether they are strangers, neighbours or of our best friends. These crosses define out lives in a way, they all are little memories that will stay with us forever. Faces that we will forget, and faces that will change us forever.
Crosses by the side of the road- what happened to them? You have no way of knowing. What will happen to you? Will you one day be another cross?” Are you one already? Keep walking.
Slashed, stacked and scratched across every square inch of the cell – even the long-dead body was in the middle of scratching another one into a small space between two larger forms.
She gently crossed herself and slid into the pew, trying not to make any noise. She shook the stress of traffic from her mind and tried to listen to the words in the first reading. She glanced around the church, watching the mildly attentive faces and the closed eyes of prayer. Right. Focus. This isn’t about you. Focus on the message.
this is a really difficult one. not much comes to mind other than church and the multiple crosses around the church. i am having a really difficult time coming up with something for this one. hmmmm
She crosses the road carefully, although not so carefully. The red car comes speeding down the road, honking his horn angrilly, yet not so much as slowing for the blonde girl who had no idea he was coming. Was this it? Was this the moment that fate finally played it’s horrible toll to this girl?
In the center of the wheel the spokes cross. If I turn the wheel, they blur. Suddenly, the spokes blend. Or not so suddenly. What I have now, is a full circle. A filled circle. Pouf.
The cross, no crosses, I am carrying today are the heaviest I have ever been burned with. It is the first day back at work leaving my two precious babies at home with a pagan caregiver.
The most important step as a mother is to show up and by leaving my boys today I feel like I have failed, dismally.
She crosses the street stepping foot into a restaurant. it smells of fresh bread and as she looks around she resists making eye contact with the customers. wondering what life would be like if she were sitting in their place. she turns around and crosses back to the other side of the street.
it wasn’t for his sake that i threw the rosary into the pit with the rest of him. he didn’t believe in god no more. hadn’t in six years after soaking up all the sin he could, the fucking sot.
no, i threw my rosary in because i figured my prayin’ hadn’t done a thing to stop it.
She stood on the hill, overlooking the cemetery with her text in hand. She could feel them– the restless spirits of the dead. They couldn’t move on without her; she could feel it. So she descended into their midst, already reciting the rites. Soon, they would sleep.
The church was creepy as fuck and he didn’t know how to tell her that without offending her so he just kept quiet. Someone was obviously super passionate about collecting crosses because there must have been a couple thousand of them hung up on every bare inch of wall space.
Cutting crosses in the pavement with a blowtorch. Burning cigarettes’ screaming faces into your front porch. You’ve got the brain of a poet but the body of a war horse. You don’t believe in God, but you’ve got Odin’s blood from the North. You’re ready to heckle anyone who stands in your way, not even caring about the souls that you were meant to save.
Crosses as in plural of cross?I know no other definition, yeah for real, cross my heart. You can also be cross-eyes. My mum would tell me that I’d stay cross-eyed if I crossed my eyes too often.
Iron crosses hung above the head of Saul. His hands were bound firmly in copper, shackled to stone in the center of the square. It was going on the ninth day of his punishment, and he dreaded the thirteenth. That would be the day that the crosses fell.
one
There were crosses along the side of the windy road, many draped with wreaths of synthetic silk flowers, faded from the sun, where motorists had experienced their last moments careening around the mountain before facing their death.
She crosses herself – she doesn’t believe in God, doesn’t believe in anything “higher power” like really – because she needs all the help she can get right now. She wishes she did believe, wishes she could, for whatever comforts it could provide. But some combination of pessimism or realism and skepticism makes her pause too long when someone asks, “What do you believe in?”
One of those curb-side evangelical nut bars once tried to stop her on a walk from her hotel to a coffee shop somewhere. He asked her “Where do you think you go when you die?” And without a hesitation, somehow surprising even herself, she replied, “In the dirt.” He didn’t say anything and she hadn’t even stopped walking, so she kept moving. She’d run over the interaction a few more times in her head while she walked. It felt off somehow, but not wrong. It was an unfiltered version of her usual very-filtered mode of communication.
But right now, almost about-face from that little exchange, she crosses herself. She doesn’t look up to God or out to the Universe or down to… whatever. She just looks at her surroundings, the faces she doesn’t recognize (though maybe that one dude is familiar) and wades in.
We cross so many people every day in our daily monotone and boring life. Whether they are strangers, neighbours or of our best friends. These crosses define out lives in a way, they all are little memories that will stay with us forever. Faces that we will forget, and faces that will change us forever.
Crosses by the side of the road- what happened to them? You have no way of knowing. What will happen to you? Will you one day be another cross?” Are you one already? Keep walking.
Slashed, stacked and scratched across every square inch of the cell – even the long-dead body was in the middle of scratching another one into a small space between two larger forms.
She gently crossed herself and slid into the pew, trying not to make any noise. She shook the stress of traffic from her mind and tried to listen to the words in the first reading. She glanced around the church, watching the mildly attentive faces and the closed eyes of prayer. Right. Focus. This isn’t about you. Focus on the message.
crosses a holy simbol for god
crossey road x
legos lol lol lol ha ha ha ha DERP DERP DERP derp
this is a really difficult one. not much comes to mind other than church and the multiple crosses around the church. i am having a really difficult time coming up with something for this one. hmmmm
She crosses the road carefully, although not so carefully. The red car comes speeding down the road, honking his horn angrilly, yet not so much as slowing for the blonde girl who had no idea he was coming. Was this it? Was this the moment that fate finally played it’s horrible toll to this girl?
In the center of the wheel the spokes cross. If I turn the wheel, they blur. Suddenly, the spokes blend. Or not so suddenly. What I have now, is a full circle. A filled circle. Pouf.
The cross, no crosses, I am carrying today are the heaviest I have ever been burned with. It is the first day back at work leaving my two precious babies at home with a pagan caregiver.
The most important step as a mother is to show up and by leaving my boys today I feel like I have failed, dismally.
She crosses the street stepping foot into a restaurant. it smells of fresh bread and as she looks around she resists making eye contact with the customers. wondering what life would be like if she were sitting in their place. she turns around and crosses back to the other side of the street.
it wasn’t for his sake that i threw the rosary into the pit with the rest of him. he didn’t believe in god no more. hadn’t in six years after soaking up all the sin he could, the fucking sot.
no, i threw my rosary in because i figured my prayin’ hadn’t done a thing to stop it.
The dog is crosses the street when a car was near by him.
She stood on the hill, overlooking the cemetery with her text in hand. She could feel them– the restless spirits of the dead. They couldn’t move on without her; she could feel it. So she descended into their midst, already reciting the rites. Soon, they would sleep.
The church was creepy as fuck and he didn’t know how to tell her that without offending her so he just kept quiet. Someone was obviously super passionate about collecting crosses because there must have been a couple thousand of them hung up on every bare inch of wall space.
Cutting crosses in the pavement with a blowtorch. Burning cigarettes’ screaming faces into your front porch. You’ve got the brain of a poet but the body of a war horse. You don’t believe in God, but you’ve got Odin’s blood from the North. You’re ready to heckle anyone who stands in your way, not even caring about the souls that you were meant to save.
Crosses as in plural of cross?I know no other definition, yeah for real, cross my heart. You can also be cross-eyes. My mum would tell me that I’d stay cross-eyed if I crossed my eyes too often.