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 my text? I have written it as an exercise, trying accurately to describe different movements of my protagonist, David, just to see if I can use words and phrases correctly.
David reached for a pack of cigarettes, ripped off the cellophane wrapper, picked up his lighter and lit one. He pulled on it deeply and blew out a thick cloud of smoke. He took a thick file of Robert, the man he was going to kill tomorrow. David thumbed through his photographs in different settings and, for a short while, thought pity of the man. Here was Robert in his swimming trunks, hugging his two daughters and wife on the beach under the blue sky. He must have been around thirty-five at that time, with rolls of fat growing around his stomach. On another, he played tennis; the camera caught the moment when he hit the volley, the strands of his blond hair glued to his sweaty forehead. On the third, he posed in front of his red sports car, wearing dark sunglasses, sunburnt and well-groomed like a film star. There were some photographs from his wedding, him kissing the bride, cutting the cake and drinking champagne. Some photographs showed him in front of construction sites, wearing a helmet and a safety vest. Officially, Robert owned a building company, although his real business was much more sinister.
When David saw a photograph of him with his two daughters sitting on his right and left, a pang of conscience ran through him. He was going to deprive them of their lovely father, cause them so much distress, and leave them with the questions that never would be answered. From one of the photographs, Robert’s wife looked at him with her large, dark eyes, accusing him of killing her husband. She would tell the media that Robert was never interested in politics. He was dedicated to his work and hardly had time for his family, let alone anything other. The evil men had killed another innocent man. Everyone knew what sort of man Robert was, always ready to help, kind and generous beyond imagination.
Then he turned more pages and read descriptions of a real Robert, known only to few. In truth, he was a cold-blooded killer who took part in the murders of members of David’s organisation, some of whom had been David’s good friends. He also abducted people whose decaying corpses were later found buried deep in the woods, or floating in the rivers, their bodies mutilated, their ribs and limbs broken. The more he read about him, the more David boiled with rage. He twirled his cigarette in his fingers, imagining pressing its glowing tip against his ruddy face, for this was the treatment Robert usually gave to his victims.
David put the file aside, opened the drawer under the table, took out a pistol and held it in his hand. Its weight and the smell of oil caused his heart to race. He checked it, removed its magazine and slowly loaded it with 9mm rounds, looking long at the one on the top, which would tomorrow find its way to Robert’s brain. The rush of excitement was quick and was replaced by the stillness of his mind. He was composed and calm just as a seasoned musician preparing for the concert.
David reached for a pack of cigarettes, ripped off the cellophane wrapper, picked up his lighter and lit one. He pulled on it deeply and blew out a thick cloud of smoke. He took a thick file of Robert, the man he was going to kill tomorrow. David thumbed through his photographs in different settings and, for a short while, thought pity of the man. Here was Robert in his swimming trunks, hugging his two daughters and wife on the beach under the blue sky. He must have been around thirty-five at that time, with rolls of fat growing around his stomach. On another, he played tennis; the camera caught the moment when he hit the volley, the strands of his blond hair glued to his sweaty forehead. On the third, he posed in front of his red sports car, wearing dark sunglasses, sunburnt and well-groomed like a film star. There were some photographs from his wedding, him kissing the bride, cutting the cake and drinking champagne. Some photographs showed him in front of construction sites, wearing a helmet and a safety vest. Officially, Robert owned a building company, although his real business was much more sinister.
When David saw a photograph of him with his two daughters sitting on his right and left, a pang of conscience ran through him. He was going to deprive them of their lovely father, cause them so much distress, and leave them with the questions that never would be answered. From one of the photographs, Robert’s wife looked at him with her large, dark eyes, accusing him of killing her husband. She would tell the media that Robert was never interested in politics. He was dedicated to his work and hardly had time for his family, let alone anything other. The evil men had killed another innocent man. Everyone knew what sort of man Robert was, always ready to help, kind and generous beyond imagination.
Then he turned more pages and read descriptions of a real Robert, known only to few. In truth, he was a cold-blooded killer who took part in the murders of members of David’s organisation, some of whom had been David’s good friends. He also abducted people whose decaying corpses were later found buried deep in the woods, or floating in the rivers, their bodies mutilated, their ribs and limbs broken. The more he read about him, the more David boiled with rage. He twirled his cigarette in his fingers, imagining pressing its glowing tip against his ruddy face, for this was the treatment Robert usually gave to his victims.
David put the file aside, opened the drawer under the table, took out a pistol and held it in his hand. Its weight and the smell of oil caused his heart to race. He checked it, removed its magazine and slowly loaded it with 9mm rounds, looking long at the one on the top, which would tomorrow find its way to Robert’s brain. The rush of excitement was quick and was replaced by the stillness of his mind. He was composed and calm just as a seasoned musician preparing for the concert.
