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    • Member Info
      • Native Language:
      • Serbo-Croatian
      • Home Country:
      • Bosnia Herzegovina
      • Current Location:
      • Sweden

    • Join Date: Mar 2008
    • Posts: 4,004

    Please, would you proofread my short story

    This is the seventh part of my short story The War. Please, would you proofread it.

    When our tormentors left, I could not find peace inside me. A kind of primordial fear was permeating every part of my being. It did not allow any other thought to come into my mind. It was overwhelming and made me insignificant in front of its power. It was not the fear of death and annihilation but horror of being tortured and humiliated again and again.
    Death from a simple shot could be seen in this place as manna from heaven compared to much gruesome deaths which the guards had prepared for their victims. Here every feat of imagination could become reality and perverse behaviour praised and awarded.
    I asked some prisoners if they knew who the man with the large scar was and they told me that he was an odd-job man who never had a proper job and used to spend most of his time idling away from one pub to another.

    His companions belonged to the same category, and before the war they were the nobodies about whom nobody cared, let alone respected. Now they had become gods who held power over life and death.
    The evening came and there was silence inside and outside. They stopped bringing new prisoners for today and the guards sat in groups drinking alcohol, smoking and chatting quietly. Many prisoners drifted into sleep, overcome with exhaustion.

    I was thirsty, hungry and tired but sleep was not on my mind. I was awaiting the man with the scar to come and start torturing us as he had promised a few hours ago.

    Through the wide open doors I could watch the beautiful evening sky. There were stars everywhere and an eerie silence as I had never experienced before. Not a single vehicle passed the nearby road, not a dog dared to bark. If it were an ordinary time the town would be teeming with people: girls in short skirts and tight-fitting dresses showing off their young bodies, pairs of lovers strolling along the river, youth queuing in front of the discos and night clubs, and then dozens of open-air cafes and restaurants from which folk music would blare into the streets.

    That was the way of life which people had lived for decades and which made their existence on earth pleasant and worth living. Now that life had gone forever and it would never be the same even when peace would finally return to this strange land.
    I was lost in my thoughts and had forgotten fear for some hours when I heard a car pulling up with an ominous screech. It was the red BMW again which made my blood curdle.
    The notorious quartet came out, this time carrying their instruments in their gloved hands, baseball bats and thick cables. They took a few strides and stopped. They were frightening. Woe betide who got in their way! I heard the voice of the man with the scar calling out the name.

    There was silence in both warehouses. Nobody came out and he repeated the name adding, ďIf you donít come out Iíll shoot you all!Ē There was a commotion in the adjacent warehouse. Apparently, the man was not eager to leave and the others tried to persuade him to do what had been ordered. Finally he appeared outside. I could not see his face but watching him from behind I could interpret his body language. He was of average size and ordinary built, wearing dark skin jacket, jeans and white sport shoes. With every step he was slowing down, buckling, crumbling, disintegrating and transforming into a creature with the body but without any mind and will.

    When he came up close to the dark quartet, the man with the scar bellowed, ďWhy didnít you come when I called you?Ē He didnít wait for an answer but smacked the prisoner in the face with such force that the poor man tumbled down. At the same moment, his three companions threw themselves over him hitting him all over his body with bats and cables. The prisoner was screaming and begging them to stop, but that seemed to make his attackers only more aggressive, and they were swearing and not only using their hands but also their heavy boots kicking him in his upper body parts until he became motionless like a heap of clothes.


  1. AMK-future writer's Avatar
    • Member Info
      • Native Language:
      • Urdu
      • Home Country:
      • Pakistan
      • Current Location:
      • Pakistan

    • Join Date: Jan 2012
    • Posts: 45

    Re: Please, would you proofread my short story

    Is this a short story or what.?
    your short story 'war' is always in parts and i want it as a whole, so when are you going to finish it.

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