Do we hate our own rites? Perhaps not. But we are most certainly embarrassed by them. Embarrassed to breathe on a child and command the devil to depart. Embarrassed to put blessed salt upon the tongue as a defense against corruption. Embarrassed to admit aloud that Satan is real.

The older rite of Baptism proclaimed salvation as a rescue from the powers of darkness. The new rite whispers it as a polite welcome. Small wonder, then, that belief in the devil, the Real Presence, and the very need for sacramental life has collapsed in our time. When our rites no longer fight, neither do our people.

The world does not need “wishes.” It needs deliverance. It needs the Church to pray with power and glory again — as if she believes Christ has conquered death and hell.

The stones of Delphi lie silent now, their columns broken and their temple roofless. Once kings and empires bent the knee to hear Apollo’s priestess, but her voice is gone. For the Christian, that silence is no accident. The oracles of the ancient world fell mute at the moment the Cross triumphed. Where sorcery once drew from a dark font, Christ sealed it at Calvary. What remains are shadows and illusions, while the empty tomb still speaks with power.

Yvette’s Tale is more than a story of supernatural trade; it is a homily on grief’s temptation and grace’s summons. The Toll Booth promises presence but delivers absence, reminding us that the past cannot be purchased back. Yet when Yvette turns eastward into the desert, she embodies the paradox of Christian hope—that only by releasing what we cannot recover do we begin to walk toward the Voice that promises never to leave us.

“The Raising Cane’s Problem isn’t about chicken—it’s about subtlety. In a world addicted to loudness, maybe Cane’s is a reminder of Psalm 46:10: ‘Be still, and know that I am God.’”

Rooted and Sent: Learning Our Identity and Mission from Vatican II explores how the four major constitutions of the Second Vatican Council — Sacrosanctum Concilium, Lumen Gentium, Dei Verbum, and Gaudium et Spes — shape the Church’s self-understanding and clarify every Catholic’s call to live and witness the Gospel in today’s world. This article makes the Council’s vision accessible and personal, showing how these documents draw us closer to Christ by grounding us in who we are and what we’re called to do.

There are conversations that drift. And then there are those that drill—down into mystery, into silence, into the ache beneath belief. This one began with a question: “If you were capable of obsession, which religious miracle would you obsess over and why?”

In a desolate, post-apocalyptic world, a solitary monk guards a mysterious relic inside a crumbling monastery—his only companion in a lifeless landscape. But when a lone raider breaks the silence, drawn by rumors of a "great treasure," the encounter sparks a haunting confrontation between violence, mystery, and redemption. What the raider finds is not what he expected… and neither will the reader. A story of faith, silence, and the last light of hope.

“Remembering the Memorial Acclamation” reflects on the once-beloved liturgical phrase “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again.” This article explores its history, removal from the Roman Missal, and its profound theological meaning — revealing how it unites past, present, and future through the virtues of love, faith, and hope.

One of the most haunting images during the COVID-19 pandemic was the “blackout map” — a grim graphic showing U.S. dioceses turning black as bishops suspended public Masses and lifted the Sunday obligation in the name of public health. Sunday after Sunday, the map darkened, and with it, the heartbeat of the Church’s public worship dimmed.

Like a mirage an old Pontiac slowly lurches forward, unsure if I too am a mirage in this booth.  The Pontiac comes to a halt.  The driver’s a woman, late thirties maybe. Sunglasses, lipstick, funeral-black dress. She rolls down the window and stares straight ahead. She doesn't speak.

I slide open the panel.

“Arm.”

She doesn’t argue. Just shifts in her seat as if rethinking every decision that led her here and slowly stretches out her arm through the window like it’s a toll ticket.

The Diviner hums. One drop of blood, and it begins.

Hidden deep within the shadows of an ancient library lies a book that should never be opened. Its pages breathe with the souls of those who have read it—trapped, consumed, and rewritten into its endless narrative. When Sarah volunteers at the town's crumbling library, she discovers the cursed tome and the enigmatic librarian, Mrs. Carian, whose eyes hold secrets older than the dust on the shelves.

Drawn in by its whispering pages, Sarah soon learns the truth: the book is hungry, and it feeds on those who dare to read. As the lines between reality and fiction blur, Sarah's fate becomes ink on a page—her life rewritten with every turn.

Some stories are meant to be read.
Others are meant to be lived.
And some... are meant to consume you.

Because what do you say after three years of writing about purity in a world that mocks it? What do you say after praying through the lives of thirty souls who bled, burned, wept, and waited—just to remain faithful?

You say thank you.