Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
Please, would you take a look at my short story The President and correct my grammatical mistakes.
He wakes up to the chirping and singing of the birds in his garden. He picks up his Rolex from a bedside table. It says 7h10. In the last years he always wakes up at the same time, no matter when he goes to sleep or the season. He turns to her. She is still asleep, snoring. He thinks she looks ugly. Her already wrinkled face is covered with hundreds more creases. Rolls of fat hang from her jaws; her wide nostrils tremble and blow the air into his face. Then he remembers that almost everyone is ugly when sleeping. She could be the ugliest woman in the world, but nobody was so kind to him during all these years. Not even his mother would have tolerated all his drinking sprees, adventures, brawls and love affairs. But his wife has borne up and never wavered, not even at the worst moments. He climbs out of bed slowly and carefully and slips his feet into slippers, which are handmade, and have his initials in gold sawn onto the black leather. He shuffles into the hall and says, “Good morning” to a cleaner who is whipping the dust off some kind of a dazzling white abstract sculpture on a white plinth. “Good morning, Mr President!” she answers cheerfully and gives him a broad smile.
He goes to the toilet, which is especially constructed according to his plans and wishes, so whenever he stands above the bowl from the hidden loudspeakers one can hear the notes of Mozart’s A little night music. (His wife has chosen Vivaldi’s Spring, although everything can be pre-and re-programmed according to the personal wishes and preferences). As he empties his bladder, it seems to him that his urine still smells of the expensive wine he had drunk yesterday evening. The vine was more than 30 years old but tasted flat, even sour; despite its superior origin. It gave him nightmares and disturbed his sleep. He should stay faithful to whisky, even when he has guests. He is too old to change his habits and teach his guts to accept something they are not used to from the very beginning. After he has brushed his teeth with a specially made toothbrush, again with his initials in gold, and after he has combed his grey short hair with his handmade comb, he goes to the kitchen and tells the cook that this time it will be just one boiled egg, instead of three, as it is his habit.
The cook is an overweight, jovial man in his forties, who always likes to tell jokes, but this morning he is silent, aware of the importance of this day and of the president’s troubles. He must be burning inside, fighting with himself and trying to find a way out of a labyrinth, which requires a superhuman strength and mind. And who knows, maybe the President curses now himself and envies a simple cook whose troubles concern vegetables and meat, while he is all the time on the verge of abyss. One wrong decision, one wrong assessment and everything will turn into dust and stones.
To be continued
He wakes up to the chirping and singing of the birds in his garden. He picks up his Rolex from a bedside table. It says 7h10. In the last years he always wakes up at the same time, no matter when he goes to sleep or the season. He turns to her. She is still asleep, snoring. He thinks she looks ugly. Her already wrinkled face is covered with hundreds more creases. Rolls of fat hang from her jaws; her wide nostrils tremble and blow the air into his face. Then he remembers that almost everyone is ugly when sleeping. She could be the ugliest woman in the world, but nobody was so kind to him during all these years. Not even his mother would have tolerated all his drinking sprees, adventures, brawls and love affairs. But his wife has borne up and never wavered, not even at the worst moments. He climbs out of bed slowly and carefully and slips his feet into slippers, which are handmade, and have his initials in gold sawn onto the black leather. He shuffles into the hall and says, “Good morning” to a cleaner who is whipping the dust off some kind of a dazzling white abstract sculpture on a white plinth. “Good morning, Mr President!” she answers cheerfully and gives him a broad smile.
He goes to the toilet, which is especially constructed according to his plans and wishes, so whenever he stands above the bowl from the hidden loudspeakers one can hear the notes of Mozart’s A little night music. (His wife has chosen Vivaldi’s Spring, although everything can be pre-and re-programmed according to the personal wishes and preferences). As he empties his bladder, it seems to him that his urine still smells of the expensive wine he had drunk yesterday evening. The vine was more than 30 years old but tasted flat, even sour; despite its superior origin. It gave him nightmares and disturbed his sleep. He should stay faithful to whisky, even when he has guests. He is too old to change his habits and teach his guts to accept something they are not used to from the very beginning. After he has brushed his teeth with a specially made toothbrush, again with his initials in gold, and after he has combed his grey short hair with his handmade comb, he goes to the kitchen and tells the cook that this time it will be just one boiled egg, instead of three, as it is his habit.
The cook is an overweight, jovial man in his forties, who always likes to tell jokes, but this morning he is silent, aware of the importance of this day and of the president’s troubles. He must be burning inside, fighting with himself and trying to find a way out of a labyrinth, which requires a superhuman strength and mind. And who knows, maybe the President curses now himself and envies a simple cook whose troubles concern vegetables and meat, while he is all the time on the verge of abyss. One wrong decision, one wrong assessment and everything will turn into dust and stones.
To be continued