Elena Vasquez

The cathedral erupted into stunning disorder the moment I penned NO.

Golden streaks from Marco’s weeping wounds streaked the marble like molten streams fracturing the floor with luminous fissures. The images in the pews screamed as the gold brushed against them; their flawless wedding attire caught fire incinerating to expose the forms beneath (merely red light donning our visages). Rosa crashed into the front row like a storm machetes slicing through three reflections, with a ...