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Life is too short for boring stories

“How wonderful it must be, I just want to be there once,” she thought, looking at the postcard in her hand, full of longing and desperation. The worn corners, the smeared writing on the back showed how long this postcard had been in her possession and how often she had picked it up. Sometimes she …

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„Do you know when the next bus is coming?“ The young man asked hesitantly when he had been sitting next to her at the bus stop for some time. The woman he spoke to was a good twenty years older than him. She could have been his mother. Was that why he was ready to …

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„Sabrina had become a businesswoman and Sarah an artist. So, they had found their way, and gone, each in their own way, but they had one thing in common, consistency and stamina. Sabrina is the woman of numbers, Sarah the one of pictures and colors. Never, so my impression, did they look back and never …

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You may have often wondered what it was, that inevitability of which He spoke, when He took you, lifted Himself up to take you with Him, to follow the way He had to go, had to go with you, but you did not dare to ask him. You feared His answer too much. But you …

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You walked straight, looking up and open, and not lowered humbly, as you probably expected, upright as you crossed the square, toward the house where He was with His disciples. At the open door you stopped, because where He was, there was nothing closed, nothing that could be removed from His view. He sat in …

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You stepped in front of your house, holding firmly the alabaster vessel with fragrant needle oil, which was no longer trembling, and your jet-black, long hair, freed from the cloth and hiding, glistened in the sun. All unrest had fallen away from you, and the looks, the envious and the malicious, the drooling and the …

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Your hands trembled as you took the alabaster vessel that was filled to the brim with that wonderfully fragrant oil as you held it and made your way to it. Your heart beat violently as you stepped out of the house, and your open hair glistened in the sun, your long, jet-black hair. You had …

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It was in 1660 when a baby was born in Claddagh, a suburb of Galway. And it was a boy. His name, Richard Joyce. His parents were poor fishermen. Richard grew into a handsome young man who, as soon as he could, supported his father at work on the sea. He fell in love with …

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A flower on the edge of the path. A small inconspicuous flower someone had picked because he liked it. Then he had taken her for a while. It had become too much for him, probably because she lost her strength and beauty. He had finally separated her from her roots. She stopped pleasing him. What’s …

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Tobias was one of those men the women did not seem to know were men at all. He was a confidant, soul comforter, helper in distress, but none could apparently imagine him as a lover or partner. They came to him when they needed something. „Tobilein“, they said then, because it had become natural, and …

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