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 text?
After some time, they tried to ignore the bag, but it would always find its way into their discussions in the post, the shop and the pub. Their ordinary existence was suddenly disturbed by an everyday item, which many of them used daily and never even took a notice of, but as an isolated object, the bag suddenly became a symbol for something that was beyond their comprehension.
The situation became serious when 50-year old Tom found the bag on his porch one morning and the next day dropped dead in the same spot, after a heart attack. The police arrived and took away the bag and tested it for all kinds of poisons and other chemicals, but found nothing. Not even a DNA, except Tom’s. He was buried in peace, but the village was gripped by anxiety. Some people saw it as an omen and waited for an accident to happen. But on the following days, nothing unpleasant occurred - on the contrary, 45-year-old Mark won the lottery, the day after the bag was laid on his window sill. Others hoped they would also strike it lucky when they found the bag, but their expectations were not fulfilled.
The villagers demanded that the police catch the culprit, but they got the reply that the police didn’t have enough resources and manpower to deal with this minor offence, which could hardly be considered a crime. The closest police station is about 30 kilometres away, and it will be unrealistic to expect that the police will focus their energy on trying to catch someone with a bag of nails when there are dozens of dangerous criminals at large, preparing to committing all kinds of crimes.
When the people saw that they were left to their fate, they decided to organized themselves and form a vigilante group, which would finally arrest the crook. They were looking for volunteers, but the majority of them were not keen on spending cold winter nights outside. In the end, three pensioners in their 70s, who had suffered from insomnia and were restless, went outside one night and stood watch. Two of them carried sticks and the third, a seasoned hunter, had his rifle. They hid behind the bushes at one end of the village, from which they observed the main street. They were cold but in good mood. They chatted to pass the time and ate sandwiches and drank tea and coffee their wives had made for them.
Around six in the morning, their rheumy eyes suddenly spotted a black-dressed figure walking furtively along the street and then turning to the right. The man carried a white bag and looked suspicious, and the three senior citizens felt at once invigorated and went after him. They shouted at him to stop, brandishing their sticks. The suspect was Jim, a factory worker, returning from his nightshift, carrying his lunchbox in the bag. When he saw the three old madmen rushing towards him, he took to his heels. He heard their shouts, which spurred him to run faster. A shot rang out, and the bullet whizzed past his head. He saw a copse of trees ahead of him and run into it, where he finally breathed a sigh of relief. Meanwhile, one of the pursuers had exerted himself more than his old body could bear and was wrecked with terrible chest pain, which forced other two to stop and help him and to abandon their pursuit. In the morning, when the police arrived, the vigilantes had a long telling-off and were warned never to try anything similar again. The edgy hunter had to give up his rifle, and was considered a danger to himself and society.
TO BE CONTINUED
After some time, they tried to ignore the bag, but it would always find its way into their discussions in the post, the shop and the pub. Their ordinary existence was suddenly disturbed by an everyday item, which many of them used daily and never even took a notice of, but as an isolated object, the bag suddenly became a symbol for something that was beyond their comprehension.
The situation became serious when 50-year old Tom found the bag on his porch one morning and the next day dropped dead in the same spot, after a heart attack. The police arrived and took away the bag and tested it for all kinds of poisons and other chemicals, but found nothing. Not even a DNA, except Tom’s. He was buried in peace, but the village was gripped by anxiety. Some people saw it as an omen and waited for an accident to happen. But on the following days, nothing unpleasant occurred - on the contrary, 45-year-old Mark won the lottery, the day after the bag was laid on his window sill. Others hoped they would also strike it lucky when they found the bag, but their expectations were not fulfilled.
The villagers demanded that the police catch the culprit, but they got the reply that the police didn’t have enough resources and manpower to deal with this minor offence, which could hardly be considered a crime. The closest police station is about 30 kilometres away, and it will be unrealistic to expect that the police will focus their energy on trying to catch someone with a bag of nails when there are dozens of dangerous criminals at large, preparing to committing all kinds of crimes.
When the people saw that they were left to their fate, they decided to organized themselves and form a vigilante group, which would finally arrest the crook. They were looking for volunteers, but the majority of them were not keen on spending cold winter nights outside. In the end, three pensioners in their 70s, who had suffered from insomnia and were restless, went outside one night and stood watch. Two of them carried sticks and the third, a seasoned hunter, had his rifle. They hid behind the bushes at one end of the village, from which they observed the main street. They were cold but in good mood. They chatted to pass the time and ate sandwiches and drank tea and coffee their wives had made for them.
Around six in the morning, their rheumy eyes suddenly spotted a black-dressed figure walking furtively along the street and then turning to the right. The man carried a white bag and looked suspicious, and the three senior citizens felt at once invigorated and went after him. They shouted at him to stop, brandishing their sticks. The suspect was Jim, a factory worker, returning from his nightshift, carrying his lunchbox in the bag. When he saw the three old madmen rushing towards him, he took to his heels. He heard their shouts, which spurred him to run faster. A shot rang out, and the bullet whizzed past his head. He saw a copse of trees ahead of him and run into it, where he finally breathed a sigh of relief. Meanwhile, one of the pursuers had exerted himself more than his old body could bear and was wrecked with terrible chest pain, which forced other two to stop and help him and to abandon their pursuit. In the morning, when the police arrived, the vigilantes had a long telling-off and were warned never to try anything similar again. The edgy hunter had to give up his rifle, and was considered a danger to himself and society.
TO BE CONTINUED
