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  1. #1
    Bassim is offline Senior Member
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    The Poet, part sixteen

    This is the sixteenth and the last part of my short story, "The Poet." Please would you correct my mistakes.

    I pretended not to hear her and took more plates and hurled them to the floor where they scattered in hundreds of white pieces. She came over to me and stood close. “Mate, she said, “let’s sit and calm down.” She had hardly finished her sentence when I lifted my right arm and slapped her in the face as much as I could. She was short and slim and the force of my blow threw her to the floor. Blood began to pour from her mouth and dribbled down her chin. She started to cry, watching me in disbelief. I, however, felt neither remorse nor mercy. I made two steps towards her and wanted to kick her body until it turned into the lifeless heap on the floor, but she jumped up before my foot caught her and she ran down the corridor crying aloud. I knew that within seconds, there would be a loud alarm all over the hospital and all available personnel would be here, keen to pin me to the ground and made me harmless.

    I heard the piercing sound of the alarm, but I did not care. I grabbed the chair and started demolishing the kitchen. I smashed everything I saw: a microwave, coffee machine, toaster, mixer, stereo and the rest of plates and cups. Then I saw them standing before me - more than a dozen men and women, and more were arriving. They all had a flinty look in their eyes, which told me what they were thinking about me. Four, five men stood ahead of them, like blocks of granite. Never before had I seen such tall and strong men, who seemed to originate from some other planet. I knew I could not fight them all and was chanceless, but I wanted to hurt at least some of them. They should feel the pain just as I did. Someone shouted, “Take it easy, mate, relax, sit down. Let’s talk like civilized men.” But I heard my inner voice telling me, “I’m not your mate,” and held the chair firmly in my hand and waited for the first attacker to smash it into his head. One of the granite blocks came nearer. His hands in front of him were huge. He could strangle me with just two fingers. He bent forward and hurled himself towards my hand holding the chair. But before he could reach my arm I kicked him with my left leg in the groin. The huge man collapsed like a sack of potatoes and gave a roar of pain. His colleagues used that moment to attack me all together at the same time. I tried to hit one of them, but he fended off the chair as if it was a toy, grabbed it with his hand and threw it aside. Before I could do anything, he used a judo technique and threw me to the floor. His colleagues threw themselves at me like hungry predators who smelled blood. Someone seized my legs and pressed them to the floor; someone spread my both arms and pinned them down, and a heavy person sat on me, pressing my body to the floor. He was unguarded for a fraction of a second and had put his hairy arm close to my head – an opportunity I could not miss. I bit him very hard and tasted his blood in my mouth. He screamed and jumped up swearing at me. Someone hit me on the head a few times. I tried to wriggle free with the last effort of my strength, but failed. “Syringe, syringe!” someone shouted. I heard the clacking of woman’s shoes, and soon I lost consciousness.

    I woke up in a bright white room looking at the high ceiling with a subdued light. The scent of disinfectant was overpowering, and irritated my nostrils. I tried to lift my arm to wipe my nose, but when my arm did not budge, I looked down my body and saw broad white belts holding firmly my legs, arms and chest to the bed. I had a headache; my head felt enormous, as if it had been bitten by hundreds of bees. As the sedative wore off my mind gradually grasped what I had done. How could I have hurt this little Olga, who was the embodiment of kindness and joviality? How could I have lost my composure and doomed myself to years if not decades behind these thick walls? And then, the verses of my poem “Mother” flooded my mind and I felt pain again. “Don’t blame yourself!” I heard my inner voice. “People did not feel sorry for you when you suffered. They called you a madman, and they called the conman a genius. “Painter” was right. Everything has become relative. Everybody has become expendable. Only power and wealth are sacred.”

    My ruminations came to an end when the door opened and in strode Dr Schwarzkopf accompanied by a young nurse. The nurse carried a white kidney dish with a large syringe.
    They were both dressed in white coats and looked as if coming from a parallel world, perfect from outside, but devoid of feelings.
    Dr Schwarzkopf stood above me in silence for a while and then her bloodless lips opened and she said, “Mr Novak, I’ve already told you that we don’t tolerate quarrelsome patients. This is a hospital, not an obscure pub. You’ve caused enormous damage. Olga has suffered a complete breakdown. She’ll probably never work in psychiatry again, and the man you’ve bitten is still in the hospital. You’ve destroyed our kitchen and left your fellow patients without breakfast. You’ve smashed the expensive TV and thus punished the others who did not come here to watch your antics but to get help with their own problems. Do you have something to say, Mr Novak?”

    I did not care what she was telling me. Her words were like her appearance: devoid of substance, warmth and compassion. I despised her, not because of her character, but because of her belonging to the elite, which would always obey those in power.
    “Dr Mengele!” I shouted hysterically, “Take your baton and go back to your bloody “ramp”! You’re the prisoner just as I am, although your shackles are invisible!”
    The young nurse, who probably never heard about Dr Mengele, turned to Dr Schwarzkopf and said, “What is he talking about? Who’s Dr Mengele?” But Dr Schwarzkopf remained calm. He did not answer her question and did not show any reaction to my words.
    “Shall I give him another dose?” asked the nurse nodding at the syringe.
    “No. He’ll tire himself out.” The bloodless lips pronounced.
    They left without any greetings, leaving me alone with my thoughts. My anger subsided. I told myself that this was not the moment when I should be angry or irritated at insignificant people and things. This was the moment of unbearable sorrow and mourning. I tried not to cry, but tears welled in my eyes, ceased, dried and came again. My thoughts raced about my lovely children. Where were they now? Did they suffer? Who was going to take care of them in this cruel world? Did they miss their lovely mother? Were we ever going to meet again?....

    THE END

  2. #2
    Gillnetter is offline Key Member
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    Re: The Poet, part sixteen

    Quote Originally Posted by Bassim View Post
    This is the sixteenth and the last part of my short story, "The Poet." Please would you correct my mistakes.

    I pretended not to hear her and took more plates and hurled them to the floor where they scattered in hundreds of white pieces. She came over to me and stood close. “Mate, she said, “let’s sit and calm down.” She had hardly finished her sentence when I lifted my right arm and slapped her in the face as much as I could. She was short and slim and the force of my blow threw her to the floor. Blood began to pour from her mouth and dribbled down her chin. She started to cry, watching me in disbelief. I, however, felt neither remorse nor mercy. I made took two steps towards her and wanted to kick her body until it turned into the a lifeless heap on the floor, but she jumped up before my foot caught her and she ran down the corridor crying aloud out loud. I knew that, within seconds, there would be a loud alarm all over the hospital and all available personnel would be here, keen to pin me to the ground and made make (though "render" is better) me harmless.

    I heard the piercing sound of the alarm, but I did not care. I grabbed the chair and started demolishing the kitchen. I smashed everything I saw: a microwave, coffee machine, toaster, mixer, stereo and the rest of plates and cups. Then I saw them standing before me - more than a dozen men and women, and more were arriving. They all had a flinty look in their eyes, which told me what they were thinking about me. Four, five men stood ahead of them, like blocks of granite. Never before had I seen such tall and strong men, who seemed to originate from some other planet. I knew I could not fight them all and was chanceless, but I wanted to hurt at least some of them. They should feel the pain just as I did. Someone shouted, “Take it easy, mate, relax, sit down. Let’s talk like civilized men.” But I heard my inner voice telling me, “I’m not your mate,” and held the chair firmly in my hand and waited for the first attacker to smash (The attacker is not the one doing the smashing. "...and waited for the first attacker so I could smash...) it into his head. One of the granite blocks came nearer. His hands in front of him were huge. He could strangle me with just two fingers. He bent forward and hurled himself towards my hand holding the chair. But before he could reach my arm I kicked him with my left leg in the groin. The huge man collapsed like a sack of potatoes and gave a roar of pain. His colleagues used that moment to attack me all together at the same time. I tried to hit one of them, but he fended off the chair as if it was a toy, grabbed it with his hand and threw it aside. Before I could do anything, he used a judo technique and threw me to the floor. His colleagues threw themselves at me like hungry predators who smelled blood. Someone seized my legs and pressed them to the floor; someone spread my both of my arms and pinned them down, and a heavy person sat on me, pressing my body to the floor. He was unguarded for a fraction of a second and had put his hairy arm close to my head – an opportunity I could not miss. I bit him very hard and tasted his blood in my mouth. He screamed and jumped up swearing at me. Someone hit me on the head a few times. I tried to wriggle free with the last effort of my strength, but failed. “Syringe, syringe!” someone shouted. I heard the clacking of woman’s (Either "a woman's shoes", or, "women's shoes") shoes, and soon I lost consciousness.

    I woke up in a bright white room looking at the high ceiling with a subdued light. The scent of disinfectant was overpowering, and irritated my nostrils. I tried to lift my arm to wipe my nose, but when my arm did not budge, I looked down at my body and saw broad white belts holding firmly my legs, arms and chest firmly to the bed. I had a headache; my head felt enormous, as if it had been bitten by hundreds of bees. As the sedative wore off my mind gradually grasped what I had done. How could I have hurt this little Olga, who was the embodiment of kindness and joviality? How could I have lost my composure and doomed myself to years, if not decades, behind these thick walls? And then, the verses of my poem “Mother” flooded my mind and I felt pain again. “Don’t blame yourself!” I heard my inner voice. “People did not feel sorry for you when you suffered. They called you a madman, and they called the conman a genius. “Painter” was right. Everything has become relative. Everybody has become expendable. Only power and wealth are sacred.”

    My ruminations came to an end when the door opened and in strode Dr Schwarzkopf accompanied by a young nurse. The nurse carried a white kidney dish with a large syringe.
    They were both dressed in white coats and looked as if coming from a parallel world, perfect from outside, but devoid of feelings.
    Dr Schwarzkopf stood above me in silence for a while and then her bloodless lips opened and she said, “Mr Novak, I’ve already told you that we don’t tolerate quarrelsome patients. This is a hospital, not an obscure pub. You’ve caused enormous damage. Olga has suffered a complete breakdown. She’ll probably never work in psychiatry again, and the man you’ve bitten is still in the hospital. You’ve destroyed our kitchen and left your fellow patients without breakfast. You’ve smashed the expensive TV and thus punished the others who did not come here to watch your antics but to get help with their own problems. Do you have something to say, Mr Novak?”

    I did not care what she was telling me. Her words were like her appearance: devoid of substance, warmth and compassion. I despised her, not because of her character, but because of her belonging to the elite, which would always obey those in power (The "elite" are in power. How about "...because of her belonging to a group which would...".
    “Dr Mengele!” I shouted hysterically, “Take your baton and go back to your bloody “ramp” (ramp"?)! You’re the a prisoner just as I am, although your shackles are invisible!”
    The young nurse, who probably never heard about Dr Mengele, turned to Dr Schwarzkopf and said, “What is he talking about? Who’s Dr Mengele?” But Dr Schwarzkopf remained calm. He did not answer her question and did not show any reaction to my words.
    “Shall I give him another dose?” asked the nurse nodding at the syringe.
    “No. He’ll tire himself out.” The bloodless lips pronounced.
    They left without any greetings (greetings are you meet someone. Farewells are when you leave someone), leaving me alone with my thoughts. My anger subsided. I told myself that this was not the moment when I should be angry or irritated at insignificant people and things. This was the moment of unbearable sorrow and mourning. I tried not to cry, but tears welled in my eyes, ceased, dried and came again. My thoughts raced about my lovely children. Where were they now? Did they suffer? Who was going to take care of them in this cruel world? Did they miss their lovely mother (But, the protaginist is male. You almost have to use a male term here. "father"?)? Were we ever going to meet again?....

    THE END
    Gil

  3. #3
    Bassim is offline Senior Member
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    Re: The Poet, part sixteen

    Dear Gil,

    Thank you so much for your great help. You have done a good deed by helping me with this long story. Regarding the word "ramp", it was used in Auschwitz. When the prisoners arrived, it was always at the ramp where the selection was made - the weak and the old to one side and those who would be able to work to the other. "The Poet" sees Dr Schwarzkopf as a person in authority who will decide his fate, and therefore, he associates her with Dr Mengele, who decided the fate of millions of others.
    And regarding the word "mother", you are right, I should have used "father" instead, but somehow it never entered my mind.
    Last edited by Bassim; 09-Aug-2013 at 22:48.

  4. #4
    Gillnetter is offline Key Member
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    Re: The Poet, part sixteen

    Quote Originally Posted by Bassim View Post
    Dear Gil,

    Thank you so much for your great help. You have done a good deed by helping me with this long story. Regarding the word "ramp", it was used in Auschwitz. When the prisoners arrived, it was always at the ramp where the selection was made - the weak and the old to one side and those who would be able to work to the other. "The Poet" sees Dr Schwarzkopf as a person in authority who will decide his fate, and therefore, he associates her with Dr Mengele, who decided the fate of millions of others.
    And regarding the word "mother", you are right, I should have used "father" instead, but somehow it never entered my mind.
    I thought that you meant "camp" and misspelled it. In the US, places such as Auschwitz were called concentration camps. While I'm sure that you are correct about the "ramp" it would have to be explained to the reader. The mental picture I have of people arriving at Auschwitz is one of people getting off a train and walking directly to some buildings.

  5. #5
    Bassim is offline Senior Member
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    Re: The Poet, part sixteen

    You can read about the "ramp" in Auschwitz on the internet. After the prisoners came out of the trains, they would always be taken to the ramp where Dr Mengele awaited for them with his baton. And he would just stand there and move his baton to the right or left and that was the difference between life and death.

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