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 third part of my short story?
Sometimes, he woke up in the middle of the night, verses ringing in his head, like an impatient baby waiting for attention. He would dart out of bed, sat at the desk, and write them down. In the morning, he would work on them, polish them for hours, and finally when he was satisfied, he wrote them carefully into his notebook. He kept them in the last drawer of the desk where they were hidden under the office materials and other notebooks. He wished he could show them to someone who understood poetry and love, but such a person could be difficult to find. His own parents hardly read newspapers, let alone books, and they would certainly tell him he should not waste his time and energy on such rubbish, and instead should focus on his homework. If his schoolmates knew what was going on his mind or what was in his notebooks, they would taunt and bully him to tears. He would have no choice but to flee and hide somewhere until his wound healed properly.
How he wished to talk about his feelings with someone experienced; how he wished to open his soul and get some good advice. Instead, he was a prisoner of his own mind, which hurtled like a runaway horse towards the abyss. At times, he would read a book or do his homework when a scene appeared in his mind. He saw a beautiful house surrounded by lush greenery. Jasmine waited for him by the gate, her large blue eyes gazing at him with love. He was returning from work, carrying his briefcase, tired from a long day. As he came up, she hugged him and kissed his cheeks. He smelled the perfume on her neck and shampoo in her hair. “Darling, dinner is ready, are you hungry?” The words coming out of her sensual mouth were sweet music to his ears. The scene dissolved into another. Jasmine and he in swimsuits walked on the sandy beach. Sparkling waves broke upon sand, lapping over their feet. They held hands, laughed and looked at the endless mass of dazzling water. A boy and a girl about three and four years old ran towards them, shouting, “Daddy, Mummy.” He lifted them both in his arms, kissed them on the cheeks, and asked them if they could show him their sandcastle. Then the scene dissolved again, and this time Jasmine and he lay in darkness in bed, kissing and hugging. Her skin was silk, smelling of flowers and salt. He traced his fingers across her chest, touched her nipples and kissed her curls. The scenes were real, and he did not want to get out. When they vanished, a sense of loneliness took their place.
He never prayed to God before, never pinned his hopes on religion and its myths, but suddenly every evening before he went to sleep, he asked God to make Jasmine his wife. The words came out without him thinking. He was like hypnotized, under the spell of an unknown power over he had no influence whatsoever. With the next morning, the new thoughts came to him and he admitted the futility and irrationality of his wishes. He was ashamed. He promised to pull himself together, take the fate in his own hands, and ignore the girl. But he had hardly plumped at the desk when his eyes wandered towards her house and lingered there for long time. His addiction was incurable.
With the arrival of bad weather, rains and cold temperatures, gardens became desolate places in which people stayed only for a few minutes. The young man was not bothered by the cold, and the rain could not do him any harm, but he did not wish to draw attention to himself and he stayed inside. In the evening when the darkness fell, he would come outside and walk down the road until he came close to her house. A low boxwood hedge and a few meters separated him from the living room. The venetian blinds were almost never down, and the glow of a TV fell on furniture and a figure or two sitting on a sofa. Both Jasmine and her mother had the same colour and the length of hair, and he could not be sure if he saw her. Still, a pleasant warmth spread through his body. There were no streetlights in the cul-de-sac, which made his watching easy. If he heard someone approaching, he would start walking in one or another direction, and if it had been someone he knew, he would greet him or her politely and walk on. Usually the street was quiet, which gave him an opportunity to stand undisturbed for a quarter of an hour or longer, even under the downpour. The windows on the upper floor were mostly closed and venetian blinds pulled down. Where was her bedroom? What did it look like? Did she have a favourite cuddly toy which slept beside her and which she hugged when she felt lonely and anxious? Whom did she love? What kind of dreams did she have? Which were her plans and goals? His mind swirled with thoughts and images with the hallucinatory speed, which made him dizzy and light-headed. He would return home in a state of bliss, which kept him awake for some time before he drifted off into sleep.
TO BE CONTINUED
Sometimes, he woke up in the middle of the night, verses ringing in his head, like an impatient baby waiting for attention. He would dart out of bed, sat at the desk, and write them down. In the morning, he would work on them, polish them for hours, and finally when he was satisfied, he wrote them carefully into his notebook. He kept them in the last drawer of the desk where they were hidden under the office materials and other notebooks. He wished he could show them to someone who understood poetry and love, but such a person could be difficult to find. His own parents hardly read newspapers, let alone books, and they would certainly tell him he should not waste his time and energy on such rubbish, and instead should focus on his homework. If his schoolmates knew what was going on his mind or what was in his notebooks, they would taunt and bully him to tears. He would have no choice but to flee and hide somewhere until his wound healed properly.
How he wished to talk about his feelings with someone experienced; how he wished to open his soul and get some good advice. Instead, he was a prisoner of his own mind, which hurtled like a runaway horse towards the abyss. At times, he would read a book or do his homework when a scene appeared in his mind. He saw a beautiful house surrounded by lush greenery. Jasmine waited for him by the gate, her large blue eyes gazing at him with love. He was returning from work, carrying his briefcase, tired from a long day. As he came up, she hugged him and kissed his cheeks. He smelled the perfume on her neck and shampoo in her hair. “Darling, dinner is ready, are you hungry?” The words coming out of her sensual mouth were sweet music to his ears. The scene dissolved into another. Jasmine and he in swimsuits walked on the sandy beach. Sparkling waves broke upon sand, lapping over their feet. They held hands, laughed and looked at the endless mass of dazzling water. A boy and a girl about three and four years old ran towards them, shouting, “Daddy, Mummy.” He lifted them both in his arms, kissed them on the cheeks, and asked them if they could show him their sandcastle. Then the scene dissolved again, and this time Jasmine and he lay in darkness in bed, kissing and hugging. Her skin was silk, smelling of flowers and salt. He traced his fingers across her chest, touched her nipples and kissed her curls. The scenes were real, and he did not want to get out. When they vanished, a sense of loneliness took their place.
He never prayed to God before, never pinned his hopes on religion and its myths, but suddenly every evening before he went to sleep, he asked God to make Jasmine his wife. The words came out without him thinking. He was like hypnotized, under the spell of an unknown power over he had no influence whatsoever. With the next morning, the new thoughts came to him and he admitted the futility and irrationality of his wishes. He was ashamed. He promised to pull himself together, take the fate in his own hands, and ignore the girl. But he had hardly plumped at the desk when his eyes wandered towards her house and lingered there for long time. His addiction was incurable.
With the arrival of bad weather, rains and cold temperatures, gardens became desolate places in which people stayed only for a few minutes. The young man was not bothered by the cold, and the rain could not do him any harm, but he did not wish to draw attention to himself and he stayed inside. In the evening when the darkness fell, he would come outside and walk down the road until he came close to her house. A low boxwood hedge and a few meters separated him from the living room. The venetian blinds were almost never down, and the glow of a TV fell on furniture and a figure or two sitting on a sofa. Both Jasmine and her mother had the same colour and the length of hair, and he could not be sure if he saw her. Still, a pleasant warmth spread through his body. There were no streetlights in the cul-de-sac, which made his watching easy. If he heard someone approaching, he would start walking in one or another direction, and if it had been someone he knew, he would greet him or her politely and walk on. Usually the street was quiet, which gave him an opportunity to stand undisturbed for a quarter of an hour or longer, even under the downpour. The windows on the upper floor were mostly closed and venetian blinds pulled down. Where was her bedroom? What did it look like? Did she have a favourite cuddly toy which slept beside her and which she hugged when she felt lonely and anxious? Whom did she love? What kind of dreams did she have? Which were her plans and goals? His mind swirled with thoughts and images with the hallucinatory speed, which made him dizzy and light-headed. He would return home in a state of bliss, which kept him awake for some time before he drifted off into sleep.
TO BE CONTINUED
