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 third of my short story?
One day my mother came home after work and told me he had seen an exceptionally handsome man. He walked by her shop, and when she saw him, she rushed outside and looked long after him, feeling desire. “He reminded me of your father, only he was taller and had longer legs, He stirred something inside me. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Such a man you seldom see in this town. He was not only dashingly dressed in white, but he walked with dignity, like a military man. He is every woman’s dream man. You have probably also seen him?”
I told her I didn’t and pretended I was not interested in her story. I did not want to hear her talking about the stranger. He was mine. Nobody was going to share him with me. He was the best that happened to me since my birth. He made me feel like a daughter who looked up to his father and was proud of him. His presence turned my world upside down and made me look beyond this little town and people’s narrow-mindedness, stupidity, envy, gossip and other behaviour that sapped your energy. The stranger was the world as I imagined it, beautiful, stylish, and cultivated. I had thought about leaving this town one day and he only made me resolve stronger.
As I walked behind the stranger in his strolls through the town, I heard people getting angry. The first few days they did not react with such venom, but then some could not watch him passing by without insulting him. Groups of ugly potbellied men, who were probably never loved by anyone, sat swigging beer outside pubs, and when they saw him, it was if someone had pressed the button of hatred. They shouted racial slurs, called him all kind of names, like a pimp, mafioso, drug dealer, thief, smuggler, bank robber etc. They guffawed, revealing their yellowish teeth and waived at him with their tattooed arms, vying for his attention. The stranger walked on, held his head high and ignored them completely, which made them furious. One shouted he’d like to kill him, another wanted to rape him, the third wished him to burn in hell. Their insults made me burn with shame. Their vulgarity was beyond the pale. They were the incarnation of evil. What kind of life did they lead when they hated a stranger only because of his good looks? Their own hatred would eat them from inside, and they would probably die prematurely of alcohol, spite and envy.
It surprised me that some ugly, obese women were evil just like those men. I had heard them on many occasions insulting the stranger, as if they were angry because they would never get a chance on him. His beauty reminded them of their own ugliness and their miserable lives. They called him a male prostitute, gigolo, pickpocket and similar names, to which the stranger paid no attention. I wondered how he managed to stay calm all the time and walk on unmoved.
One late afternoon I lay on my stomach on the stone, my head rested on the palms of my hands, watching sunset. Mia could not come because her family had visitors, and she had to help her mother in the kitchen. I was glad to be alone and awaited the stranger with anticipation. Every evening I would return home cleansed of all negative emotions. I was healed by just watching him. He became my spiritual nourishment to which I longed for like an addict.
As I saw him walking towards the shore, warmth radiated through my chest. I felt lightness in my body as if I could fly. He walked with his firm gait without looking around him, as it was his habit. He laid the towel on the sand and took off his T-shirt. But the next moment I saw three burly men striding in his direction. Their shoes crunched in the sand as their anger filed the air. I wanted to warn the stranger and tell him to run away, but I was unable to speak. My body started shaking. I felt like I had a stone in my stomach. The men shouted insults and waived their hands, but he seemed unperturbed.
They surrounded him and one of them yelled, “Leave this town straight away, you bloody peacock!”
“You came here to spill you foul semen over our town, didn’t you?” the second yelled, punching his fist in the air.
“I’m not interested in your women,” the stranger said calmly.
The brutes came closer to him and started pushing him. He stepped back and almost fell but somehow managed to stay on his feet. They kept shouting and shoving and the stranger did not offer any resistance. And then, it was like a camera flash. His right hand punched the closest attacker right in the nose. The man tumbled down, clutching his face. Blood burst from his nostrils, and he gave an agonizing moan. The second received the stranger’s foot on the head and dropped to the ground as if hit by a heavy club. He tried to come up, but the stranger kicked him in the jaw, which rendered him unconscious. The third, not wanting to share the same fate with his friends, stepped back and lifted his hands above his head. “Please, no. I don’t want trouble,” he said. The stranger didn’t deign to look at him. He calmly picked up his towel and T-shirt and took a few steps without showing any emotions. Suddenly, she stopped, turned around and shouted, “You call yourselves men?” He spat at the sand and walked on, his sculpted bare chest glistening with sweat.
If I had not been inhibited by shyness, I would have run after him, hug and kiss him and told him he was my hero. He brought happiness and hope in my life, like a messenger from another world. I would have asked him if he by chance had not been in Dubrovnik about 15 years ago and how he explained my feelings towards him, as if an invisible thread had bound our souls together. I had so much to tell him and talk about, but my legs were leaden and my mouth was thight.
TO BE CONTINUED
One day my mother came home after work and told me he had seen an exceptionally handsome man. He walked by her shop, and when she saw him, she rushed outside and looked long after him, feeling desire. “He reminded me of your father, only he was taller and had longer legs, He stirred something inside me. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Such a man you seldom see in this town. He was not only dashingly dressed in white, but he walked with dignity, like a military man. He is every woman’s dream man. You have probably also seen him?”
I told her I didn’t and pretended I was not interested in her story. I did not want to hear her talking about the stranger. He was mine. Nobody was going to share him with me. He was the best that happened to me since my birth. He made me feel like a daughter who looked up to his father and was proud of him. His presence turned my world upside down and made me look beyond this little town and people’s narrow-mindedness, stupidity, envy, gossip and other behaviour that sapped your energy. The stranger was the world as I imagined it, beautiful, stylish, and cultivated. I had thought about leaving this town one day and he only made me resolve stronger.
As I walked behind the stranger in his strolls through the town, I heard people getting angry. The first few days they did not react with such venom, but then some could not watch him passing by without insulting him. Groups of ugly potbellied men, who were probably never loved by anyone, sat swigging beer outside pubs, and when they saw him, it was if someone had pressed the button of hatred. They shouted racial slurs, called him all kind of names, like a pimp, mafioso, drug dealer, thief, smuggler, bank robber etc. They guffawed, revealing their yellowish teeth and waived at him with their tattooed arms, vying for his attention. The stranger walked on, held his head high and ignored them completely, which made them furious. One shouted he’d like to kill him, another wanted to rape him, the third wished him to burn in hell. Their insults made me burn with shame. Their vulgarity was beyond the pale. They were the incarnation of evil. What kind of life did they lead when they hated a stranger only because of his good looks? Their own hatred would eat them from inside, and they would probably die prematurely of alcohol, spite and envy.
It surprised me that some ugly, obese women were evil just like those men. I had heard them on many occasions insulting the stranger, as if they were angry because they would never get a chance on him. His beauty reminded them of their own ugliness and their miserable lives. They called him a male prostitute, gigolo, pickpocket and similar names, to which the stranger paid no attention. I wondered how he managed to stay calm all the time and walk on unmoved.
One late afternoon I lay on my stomach on the stone, my head rested on the palms of my hands, watching sunset. Mia could not come because her family had visitors, and she had to help her mother in the kitchen. I was glad to be alone and awaited the stranger with anticipation. Every evening I would return home cleansed of all negative emotions. I was healed by just watching him. He became my spiritual nourishment to which I longed for like an addict.
As I saw him walking towards the shore, warmth radiated through my chest. I felt lightness in my body as if I could fly. He walked with his firm gait without looking around him, as it was his habit. He laid the towel on the sand and took off his T-shirt. But the next moment I saw three burly men striding in his direction. Their shoes crunched in the sand as their anger filed the air. I wanted to warn the stranger and tell him to run away, but I was unable to speak. My body started shaking. I felt like I had a stone in my stomach. The men shouted insults and waived their hands, but he seemed unperturbed.
They surrounded him and one of them yelled, “Leave this town straight away, you bloody peacock!”
“You came here to spill you foul semen over our town, didn’t you?” the second yelled, punching his fist in the air.
“I’m not interested in your women,” the stranger said calmly.
The brutes came closer to him and started pushing him. He stepped back and almost fell but somehow managed to stay on his feet. They kept shouting and shoving and the stranger did not offer any resistance. And then, it was like a camera flash. His right hand punched the closest attacker right in the nose. The man tumbled down, clutching his face. Blood burst from his nostrils, and he gave an agonizing moan. The second received the stranger’s foot on the head and dropped to the ground as if hit by a heavy club. He tried to come up, but the stranger kicked him in the jaw, which rendered him unconscious. The third, not wanting to share the same fate with his friends, stepped back and lifted his hands above his head. “Please, no. I don’t want trouble,” he said. The stranger didn’t deign to look at him. He calmly picked up his towel and T-shirt and took a few steps without showing any emotions. Suddenly, she stopped, turned around and shouted, “You call yourselves men?” He spat at the sand and walked on, his sculpted bare chest glistening with sweat.
If I had not been inhibited by shyness, I would have run after him, hug and kiss him and told him he was my hero. He brought happiness and hope in my life, like a messenger from another world. I would have asked him if he by chance had not been in Dubrovnik about 15 years ago and how he explained my feelings towards him, as if an invisible thread had bound our souls together. I had so much to tell him and talk about, but my legs were leaden and my mouth was thight.
TO BE CONTINUED
