"When the song of the angels is
stilled, When the star in the sky is gone, When the kings and princes are home, When the shepherds are back with their flock, The work of Christmas begins: To find the lost, To heal the broken, To feed the hungry, To release the prisoner, To rebuild the nations, To bring peace among people, To make music in the heart."
«With a small giggle she vanished
as quickly as she appeared and left him standing, with a smile on his face. He
closed the door behind him, while a stubborn tear rolled down his face. The Christmas spirit is still alive after
all, he thought, holding tight, very close to his heart, the most magnificent star he had ever seen.»
By Raquel R. in Short Story number 3
«I will honor Christmas
in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.»
«As he stood there, immobilized,
on the doorway, trying to find the exact words to express his appreciation for
this comforting surprise, she stretched her small arms towards him, pulled him
closer and kissed his aged face. »
By Raquel R. in Short Story number 3
«When we recall
Christmas past, we usually find that the simplest things - not the great
occasions- give off the greatest glow of happiness.»
«What he saw outside was a
blatant confirmation of what he already knew. Apart from the illuminated
streets and the excessive number of bags and wrapped gifts, that each passerby
was carrying, no other indicator suggested that it was the time for love,
goodwill and generosity. People would pass by each other, wearing the suit of
indifference, smiling with their faces, but not with their eyes, for they still
revealed the same distrustfulness and selfishness, as any other day. »
By Raquel R. in Short Story number 3
« Christmas is a necessity. There has to be at least
one day of the year to remind us that we’re here for something else besides
ourselves. »
« It was Christmas Eve and everywhere he looked, he
was bombarded with information, commercials, carols, shopping lists, films,
appeals, speeches and testimonies that were meticulously designed to impose an
hollow and shallow image of what that special date is or should be.»
By Raquel R. in Short Story number 3
“Are you willing to
stoop down and consider the needs and desires of little children; to remember
the weaknesses and loneliness of people who are growing old; to stop asking how
much your friends love you, and to ask yourself if you love them enough; to
bear in mind the things that other people have to bear on their hearts; to trim
your lamp so that it will give more light and less smoke, and to carry it in
front so that your shadow will fall behind you; to make a grave for your ugly
thoughts and a garden for your kindly feelings, with the gate open? Are you
willing to do these things for a day? Then you are ready to keep Christmas!”
Short Story number 3: Inspired by the song « O Holy Night» by Markéta Irglová.
Hundreds of people swarm the busy street resembling
trails of ants, moving up and down the geometrically predetermined paths, which
lead them in and out the shops. Among that multitude of frenetic and highly
efficient beings, he slowly dragged his feet along the pavement and hesitantly
slid his frail body through the crowd, in a silent and unfair fight against the
stream of rushing people, which formed the ultimate barrier that was keeping
him from reaching his final destination. If only he was a bit younger, he would
be able to move easily around the obstacles and avoid the bumps and pushes that
might be disastrous to his quest, which was getting home, just around the
corner of the street.
Slightly out of breath and bearing a sweaty and tired
face, he finally opened the door of his refuge and initiated, the always
painful task, of climbing the only flight of stairs that would give him access
to his sanctuary. His trembling hands plunged into his large pockets, anxiously
looking for the keys to his small apartment. Yet, while he was immersed in that
apparently simple action, he was not aware that he was being attentively observed
by a pair of two curious eyes. When, at last, he found the keys, among an infinity
of tokens that he diligently kept in his pockets, like small treasures, his old
and hesitant fingers failed him, and the keys fell on the floor. As he was
preparing his mind and body for this unexpected effort, a little girl, with
curly hair and rosy cheeks, emerged from behind his neighbor’s half-opened
door, picked up the keys from the floor, cautiously placing them in his hand
again. Taken by surprise, by this sudden appearance and by the kind gesture, his
lips paralyzed and he was not capable of muttering any word of gratitude before
she quickly disappeared behind the door again.
He entered his apartment, removed his oversized winter
coat, sat down on his old armchair and felt the silence taking over his mind
and appease his soul. Contrary to his old habits, he did not turn the
television on, for this automatic gesture that always kept him away from the
claws of loneliness, by providing him with the comfort of an illusory company, was
now the reminder of the specificity of that particular day. It was Christmas Eve and everywhere he looked,
he was bombarded with information, commercials, carols, shopping lists, films,
appeals, speeches and testimonies that were meticulously designed to impose an
hollow and shallow image of what that special date is or should be. Feeling a
bit restless, he got up from the armchair and approached the window. What he
saw outside was a blatant confirmation of what he already knew. Apart from the
illuminated streets and the excessive number of bags and wrapped gifts, that
each passerby was carrying, no other indicator suggested that it was the time
for love, goodwill and generosity. People would pass by each other, wearing the
suit of indifference, smiling with their faces, but not with their eyes, for
they still revealed the same distrustfulness and selfishness, as any other day.
A gentle and soft knock on the door made him turn his
eyes away from the window. He cautiously moved towards the door, looked through
the peephole and saw nothing. My old head must be playing tricks on me,
he thought.
As he was slowly stepping away from the door, he heard
the gentle knock again. He looked one more time through the peephole and saw
nothing. Yet, his curiosity was stronger than his sense of preservation, so hecracked
openthedoorto peek out. And there
she was again, the little girl with the curly hair and rosy cheeks, standing in
front of him and handing him a card. He reached for it, and frowned, while
trying to focus his once sharp eyes on the colorful content. After struggling
for a few seconds, his old and tired eyes finally allowed him to understand the
purpose of that unexpected visit. On that card he distinguished, painted with
the brightest colors, the most magnificent star he had ever seen, along with
two carefully crafted handwritten words: Merry
Christmas.
As he stood there, immobilized, on the doorway, trying
to find the exact words to express his appreciation for this comforting surprise, she
stretched her small arms towards him, pulled him closer and kissed his aged
face.
With a small giggle she vanished as quickly as she
appeared and left him standing, with a smile on his face. He closed the door behind
him, while a stubborn tear rolled down his face. The Christmas spirit is still alive after all, he thought, holding
tight, very close to his heart, the
most magnificent star he had ever seen.
