Magdalena had a well-paid job with perfect working conditions. However, she got more and more frustrated each week because she was missing passion in what she was doing. Her job wasn’t hard but the lack of enthusiasm was stealing her energy.
Her father noticed that something was wrong with her. When she told him about her problem he said: ”During World War II your grandfather was forced to work in a coal mine, deep underground for 4 years, not knowing if his family was alright.”
Magdalena began to think and felt really bad about not being satisfied with her job that offered such good working conditions. She said: ”Dad I’m feeling so stupid, I’m so sorry that I complained. Granddad had to really suffer for 4 years and I’m complaining about the 4 DAYS that are left until weekend. I will stop being so discontent.”
But her dad said: ”Your granddad wouldn’t have wanted you to value a job you don’t like just because he has suffered much more than you do. He would have wanted you to take the chance to find a work you enjoy because life is too short to fill it with things that you don’t feel are the right ones for you. He didn’t have the possibility to escape from what he was forced to do, it would have killed him if he had tried.
But you, you won’t get killed if you escape from what is making you feel depressed. Instead you would slowly kill all the passion that is left inside you if you continued. You are not forced to stay like your granddad was. He would have wanted you to stop whining and take the possibilities he didn’t have.
Please send your stories (250 words max.) for selection to paulocoelho.writer@gmail.com.
Martin Braddock didn’t hear the tornado coming, because even that unmistakable freight-train roar is swallowed up in the midst of a hurricane, but he knew what it was the instant the front wall of his ranch-house suddenly lifted apart and began swirling about like so many match sticks tossed into a blender. That was when Martin, who had been standing in the middle of the room, dove under the great oak table.
Instantly, everything went black; the sensation was like a dive down a rabbit hole that seemed to have no bottom and no sides, a plunge that punctured the very fabric of time and space. Martin’s last thought was, “The barn’s not finished….” referring to the new cattle barn.
The day before, his daughter had begged him to evacuate. Martin had stood alone on the gravel drive and watched four-year-old Emmy cry, “Grampa, please come with us!” but Martin knew the storm would take its toll and felt it his duty to stay and be ready to rebuild. So Martin was very surprised when he reached the end of his rabbit hole, and the roar of the storm was replaced by a resounding voice.
“Martin,” said the voice, “How much time did you spend with Emmy?”
Martin said, “I built two new barns last year, bailed 150 acres of hay….”
But the voice cut him off.
“How many times did you say, ‘Later, Emmy, Grampa’s busy,’?”
Martin was startled by this inquiry – not the questions he was expecting.
Please send your stories (250 words max.) for selection to paulocoelho.writer@gmail.com.
Francesco rose from the mud of the battlefield. It did not look good for the fighters of Assisi. The Perugians were in possession of superior weaponry. Francesco’s ambitions of fame for his chivalrous deeds were critically endangered and his father would send him on yet another business trip to sell the family textiles. Francesco cursed as he attempted to move away and slipped on a pool of his own blood. It was not a serious wound but his shoulder bled profusely.
‘On your feet! We’ve got ground to cover,’ came the gruff voice of his captor as he kicked Francesco in the ribs.
A three-day painful walk brought Francesco and his fellow captives to the entrance of the enemy’s cavernous jail. He entered the yawning darkness of oblivion, and with it, the fiery delirium of malaria; a hell that the spoiled merchant’s son could never have imagined. He emerged from his cathartic abode as a man determined to travel, a mendicant on the path to divine grace. He surfaced clutching the hand of Christ that would one day mark him with the stigmata of the passionate outcast, the renegade mystic. The words of his captor echoed frequently in his soul. ‘On your feet! We’ve got ground to cover,’ became the sweet refrain of Francesco’s beloved Lord as he staggered agonizingly to sainthood.
Please send your stories (250 words max.) for selection to paulocoelho.writer@gmail.com.
Santiago made his way back to the small village, close to where he spent time with his sheep, to see the gypsy woman who had told him of his future. The village had changed very little. As he walked towards the narrow street he saw a woman sitting by the village well, she was talking to another woman and smiling.
He overheard her saying that she had gotten married a few months ago to the butcher’s son and that she was very happy. As Santiago passed he noticed that it was the girl that he had once fantasised about while he was a Shepard returning books to the bookstore, she was the merchants daughter.
Santiago made his way through the coloured beads and sat at the table just as he had done the last time. The image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus still sat on the table as if time had never passed. The old gypsy woman greeted him, sat in the second chair and began to pray as she did every day at that time.
“So young man, tell me of the dream you lived and the destiny followed,” she said as she looked from under her hat.
Santiago began to tell his story to the old woman, starting from the moment he first met her. The gypsy woman was enchanted by all the places and things the boy had seen and experienced since he left her door.
“So you found your treasure right under your nose, the powers that be work in mysterious ways. And now I would like my one tenth.” She placed a bucket on the table and Santiago filled it with precious jewels. The old woman stood up, smiled and surprised the boy as she danced the dance of a young woman, throwing her hat into the air and praising the image of the sacred heart.
“Go now boy, you are still young and have a lot more to do in your lifetime. I have to prepare dinner for my daughter.”
Santiago stood up and began to make his way to the door.
“Wait,” the gypsy woman called, “I do not want these they are not treasure.”
She placed two stones into Santiago’s pocket. When he reached the main square Santiago put his hand in his pocket to see what the old woman had given back to him. It was Urim and Thummim, the white and black stones that that came from the Kings breastplate. The gypsy was right Santiago still had a lot of work to do in his long life.
Please send your stories (250 words max.) for selection to paulocoelho.writer@gmail.com.
Dear Readers and Friends,
I thought the suggestions sent to me last week were very constructive and I specially liked the idea of posting here your creations. I will be opening this week a new space here in the blog for stories and therefore please start sending your tales and stories to the following address : paulocoelho.writer@gmail.com. They will be selected and posted here in the blog.
I would like to settle only one condition though: that your tales have, at most, 250 words. I ask this because I am a firm believer of synthesis and also think this is the best format for the internet.
Love,
Paulo
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