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 second part of my short story?
It started about one year ago. He sat in his garden reading a book, and when he looked up, he saw an extraordinary scene in the garden across the road. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, what with her high cheekbones, long, blond, wavy hair and her slender figure. Never before had his body experienced such a sensation. Wave after wave swept over him until he was drenched in euphoria. This was not a sexual lust, but the feeling similar to the one people experience when they come across a beautiful natural scene, sundown, lake, river, canyon, or sea. He saw beauty and wished to be close to it, watch it, soak it up, and preserve it deep inside him. At the beginning, it was undiluted happiness, but lately it had become spoilt by his inability to communicate with the girl. Sometimes he greeted her mother in the street or her father, and played basketball with her brother, but whenever he bumped into her, his face burned like glowing embers, and he rushed away to avoid further embarrassment. After a few seconds, he would stop and turn around and watch her blond hair bobbing and floating in the distance. A pang of longing shot through him, and he felt an urge to cry. His impotence made him stunned, and he would return home angry with himself. At least he could find the courage to say hello.
She glanced at him at times, but instead of using the opportunity to say something, he would run away with his tail between his legs.
He should not be afraid, not feel ashamed. Her parents were ordinary workers. They had spent years in Germany, toiling away to save some money, and then they returned to live among their own people and have a better future in their own land. Her father had opened a metalwork shop beside the house. He heard him using his machines all the time, even on Sundays evenings, when other people usually rested. Her mother was a shop assistant in a clothing store. They probably were not sort of people who spent evenings listening to classical music or reading books, but despite that, they were good neighbours. Since they had built the house and finally moved from Germany two years ago, people respected them, especially because of their dedication to work. He probably would not be able to discuss poetry, literature or arts with their daughter, but nevertheless he was unable to control his feelings. His passion seemed to follow its own logic and defied rationality. It controlled not only his thoughts but influenced his perception, senses, feelings and judgments. He walked the streets and saw dozens of beautiful girls every day, but none of them made any impression on him. They were ghosts coming into his vision and disappearing into oblivion. In his school class, his mates jostled for the attention of beautiful girls, whom he plainly ignored. He wished he had a strong will and self-control, but he couldn’t help himself.
Once playing basketball with her brother, he learnt her age was 15, and her name Jasmine. When he came home, he took a shower and rushed into his room, his body still wet. From the window, he stared for a long while at her house and garden. Now when he knew her name, he got the inspiration to write a poem dedicated to her. The window was half-open, and the breeze carried the scent of jasmine, which was growing just outside the window, into his room. It must have been providence which planted the tree in his garden with her name. He was not a believer, but before he started to compose the verses, he prayed to God to give him the strength and inspiration to write a beautiful poem. He opened the notebook, and the words poured onto paper like mighty waterfalls. They were unstoppable, rushed through his mind and transported him in another dimension. This must have been poetic inspiration, the ancient Greek philosopher had been mentioning in their discussions, which his teacher had explained to him in a school. The well seemed to be inexhaustible, and soon his poems filled two thick notebooks.
TO BE CONTINUED
It started about one year ago. He sat in his garden reading a book, and when he looked up, he saw an extraordinary scene in the garden across the road. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, what with her high cheekbones, long, blond, wavy hair and her slender figure. Never before had his body experienced such a sensation. Wave after wave swept over him until he was drenched in euphoria. This was not a sexual lust, but the feeling similar to the one people experience when they come across a beautiful natural scene, sundown, lake, river, canyon, or sea. He saw beauty and wished to be close to it, watch it, soak it up, and preserve it deep inside him. At the beginning, it was undiluted happiness, but lately it had become spoilt by his inability to communicate with the girl. Sometimes he greeted her mother in the street or her father, and played basketball with her brother, but whenever he bumped into her, his face burned like glowing embers, and he rushed away to avoid further embarrassment. After a few seconds, he would stop and turn around and watch her blond hair bobbing and floating in the distance. A pang of longing shot through him, and he felt an urge to cry. His impotence made him stunned, and he would return home angry with himself. At least he could find the courage to say hello.
She glanced at him at times, but instead of using the opportunity to say something, he would run away with his tail between his legs.
He should not be afraid, not feel ashamed. Her parents were ordinary workers. They had spent years in Germany, toiling away to save some money, and then they returned to live among their own people and have a better future in their own land. Her father had opened a metalwork shop beside the house. He heard him using his machines all the time, even on Sundays evenings, when other people usually rested. Her mother was a shop assistant in a clothing store. They probably were not sort of people who spent evenings listening to classical music or reading books, but despite that, they were good neighbours. Since they had built the house and finally moved from Germany two years ago, people respected them, especially because of their dedication to work. He probably would not be able to discuss poetry, literature or arts with their daughter, but nevertheless he was unable to control his feelings. His passion seemed to follow its own logic and defied rationality. It controlled not only his thoughts but influenced his perception, senses, feelings and judgments. He walked the streets and saw dozens of beautiful girls every day, but none of them made any impression on him. They were ghosts coming into his vision and disappearing into oblivion. In his school class, his mates jostled for the attention of beautiful girls, whom he plainly ignored. He wished he had a strong will and self-control, but he couldn’t help himself.
Once playing basketball with her brother, he learnt her age was 15, and her name Jasmine. When he came home, he took a shower and rushed into his room, his body still wet. From the window, he stared for a long while at her house and garden. Now when he knew her name, he got the inspiration to write a poem dedicated to her. The window was half-open, and the breeze carried the scent of jasmine, which was growing just outside the window, into his room. It must have been providence which planted the tree in his garden with her name. He was not a believer, but before he started to compose the verses, he prayed to God to give him the strength and inspiration to write a beautiful poem. He opened the notebook, and the words poured onto paper like mighty waterfalls. They were unstoppable, rushed through his mind and transported him in another dimension. This must have been poetic inspiration, the ancient Greek philosopher had been mentioning in their discussions, which his teacher had explained to him in a school. The well seemed to be inexhaustible, and soon his poems filled two thick notebooks.
TO BE CONTINUED
