Herod the Small

It was better, now.
Ashen rafters intermingled with snow, glowing with starlight. He prayed, heart open to Eternity.
Moonlight refracted through half a stained-glass window; a calm Messiah knelt in pure sand, ash covering the rest.
Perfection, he thought. A truly spiritual place, united with the weather, the universe.
Christmas Eve had filled the place with sinners, hypocrites, thieves. It needed an anointing: oil, gasoline, a pure glass container, a tongue of fire. He provided it all.
He inhaled. The crisp winter’s air mixed with the sacrificial scent of human flesh.
It was better, now.
He knelt, exhaled, and prayed.

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