Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
Would you please correct the mistakes in the fourth part of my text?
Before I left the village, I called on Father Edwards in his modest parochial house. A man in his seventies, with a silvery wavy hair and beard, he looks like a wise man from a fairytale. He warmly shook my hand and offered me a cup of tea. When I asked him about the bag, his eyes sparkled. “For fifty years I begged God to show me the sign. Day and night, I prayed for a miracle. I never lost hope; I knew God would never abandon me. Then one morning as I walked to the church, I had a strange feeling. My body was burning; my legs were weak. I never experienced anything similar before. I saw something white at the church door, and as I was coming closer, the sensations in my body grew stronger. I took the bag, looked inside and when I saw the nails, I felt the presence of something powerful. I looked up and gaped at Jesus standing in front of me. His body was covered in blood, his dark eyes radiated suffering, and I clearly heard his voice in my head, “Take that bag with you and preserve it for the future.” I looked down at the bag and, when I looked up, he had disappeared, but his presence was so strong that I started to shake and weep. I must have wept for hours, but those were the tears of joy.”
Father Edwards walked over to the wardrobe, which hid a safe. He opened it and took out the bag from it. Tears welled up in his eyes as he picked up a nail. “Look at it,” he said, his voice cracking. “I used a ruler and measured its length. It’s seven centimetres. Do you know what does that symbolise?” I shook my head and he said, “The Holy Spirit, perfection, grace...” He was drowning in his own tears, and it was painful to watch. “The second bag was found by the sexton. I sent it to the Vatican to verify its authenticity. This is a true miracle, my friend.” But I was not convinced.
As I drove off out of the village, the rain was beating harder. The pools of water were forming along the street. I glanced at Diana’s house and saw a waterfall splashing from her neighbour’s roof onto her garden. I imagined the exasperation she must feel whenever it rains. I thought about this little village, which from outside looks like any other village, but was profoundly changed inside. It was just a matter of time before some unscrupulous people will take the opportunity to make money out of it. In a few weeks, loads of tourists will be flocking here to see what is going on, to experience the mystery and even try to solve it. They are going to roam the streets and surroundings, take selfies and photographs and return home with more questions, but no answers. Soon, TV channels will send their crews and the name of the village will be all over the world. Hollywood, always hungry for new ideas and profit, will produce a few movies. Other copycats will jump on the bandwagon, and the world will be flooded with bags with nails, which meaning will no one be able to explain.
When I arrived home and parked the car in the driveway, I unlocked the boot to take out my gear and, as I lifted the lid, the white bag sat there, glaring in its whiteness, I became furious. I never believed in miracles or the supernatural, but here something was happening for which I didn’t have a logical explanation. There was no way someone would be able to unlock the boot without activating the alarm. However, the nails in my hand were real. Someone or something was making a fool of me. In my fury, I strode to the wheelie bin at the front gate, but before I throw it into it, I changed my mind. A bag of nails might always come in handy.
THE END
Before I left the village, I called on Father Edwards in his modest parochial house. A man in his seventies, with a silvery wavy hair and beard, he looks like a wise man from a fairytale. He warmly shook my hand and offered me a cup of tea. When I asked him about the bag, his eyes sparkled. “For fifty years I begged God to show me the sign. Day and night, I prayed for a miracle. I never lost hope; I knew God would never abandon me. Then one morning as I walked to the church, I had a strange feeling. My body was burning; my legs were weak. I never experienced anything similar before. I saw something white at the church door, and as I was coming closer, the sensations in my body grew stronger. I took the bag, looked inside and when I saw the nails, I felt the presence of something powerful. I looked up and gaped at Jesus standing in front of me. His body was covered in blood, his dark eyes radiated suffering, and I clearly heard his voice in my head, “Take that bag with you and preserve it for the future.” I looked down at the bag and, when I looked up, he had disappeared, but his presence was so strong that I started to shake and weep. I must have wept for hours, but those were the tears of joy.”
Father Edwards walked over to the wardrobe, which hid a safe. He opened it and took out the bag from it. Tears welled up in his eyes as he picked up a nail. “Look at it,” he said, his voice cracking. “I used a ruler and measured its length. It’s seven centimetres. Do you know what does that symbolise?” I shook my head and he said, “The Holy Spirit, perfection, grace...” He was drowning in his own tears, and it was painful to watch. “The second bag was found by the sexton. I sent it to the Vatican to verify its authenticity. This is a true miracle, my friend.” But I was not convinced.
As I drove off out of the village, the rain was beating harder. The pools of water were forming along the street. I glanced at Diana’s house and saw a waterfall splashing from her neighbour’s roof onto her garden. I imagined the exasperation she must feel whenever it rains. I thought about this little village, which from outside looks like any other village, but was profoundly changed inside. It was just a matter of time before some unscrupulous people will take the opportunity to make money out of it. In a few weeks, loads of tourists will be flocking here to see what is going on, to experience the mystery and even try to solve it. They are going to roam the streets and surroundings, take selfies and photographs and return home with more questions, but no answers. Soon, TV channels will send their crews and the name of the village will be all over the world. Hollywood, always hungry for new ideas and profit, will produce a few movies. Other copycats will jump on the bandwagon, and the world will be flooded with bags with nails, which meaning will no one be able to explain.
When I arrived home and parked the car in the driveway, I unlocked the boot to take out my gear and, as I lifted the lid, the white bag sat there, glaring in its whiteness, I became furious. I never believed in miracles or the supernatural, but here something was happening for which I didn’t have a logical explanation. There was no way someone would be able to unlock the boot without activating the alarm. However, the nails in my hand were real. Someone or something was making a fool of me. In my fury, I strode to the wheelie bin at the front gate, but before I throw it into it, I changed my mind. A bag of nails might always come in handy.
THE END
