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?
His heart thumping with fear, Paul dressed himself as fast as he could, locked the door of the house and ran into the cold night through a grove of oaks until he reached the motorway. The traffic was sparse at this time of the night, but the lights and the passing vehicles felt soothing. His heartbeat became normal again, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn't believe all this was happening. Just a few days before, he was an ordinary man, doing his job as best as he could, never causing any problems, and avoiding troubles, but now he was losing his mind.
He looked over the treetops at the house, whose white facade gleamed in the moonlight. Just a sight of it gave him goose pimples. Its location and eerie surroundings could be an ideal setting for filming horror scenes. Would he ever be able to sleep in it again? Would he ever feel relaxed in his own home, which looked so promising when he bought it? Maybe he should buy a pet. He didn't like cats, but a dog would be OK. The only problem was he could't leave a dog alone so many hours, and he couldn't afford to pay for a pet sitter. He didn't even contemplate taking in a lodger. Some of his friends and colleagues had so many unpleasant experiences with their lodgers and warned him not to take any.
The lack of sleep and anxiety deeply affected his mind. Thousands of thoughts swarmed in his woozy head. The pictures of strange creatures appeared in front of his eyes like in a film. Usually, he would find the noise of the traffic annoying, but this time it calmed his nerves. He picked up a piece of cardboard he found in the scrub and went to the grove, where he sat under an oak and leaned his back on its trunk. Soon, a sleep overcame him, and when he woke up and looked at his watch he was surprised he had slept about five hours, despite the cold and the traffic noise. He recalled a TV program he once saw about poor people in India who slept beside the busy roads and railway tracks. He had felt sorry for them, but now after his experiences, he had to admit he was wrong. Sometimes a busy road or a railway track feel more secure than a house.
He walked a few hundred meters to the bus stop, where he took a bus to town and then another to his workplace. He worked as usual, occupying his mind with the tins of beans, tomatoes, pickles, and sardines, with the boxes of cereals, chocolate, cookies and pasta, with the bottles of olive oil, vinegar and beer, and other food which he neatly arranged on the shelves. Those nine hours felt like a holiday. He liked the supermarket with its well-stocked shelves and the shoppers whose eyes started to glint and wander as soon as they walked along the isles. He enjoyed to talk to the pensioners who had difficulties to find their favourite products, which sometimes changed their names and packing, and who would often complain that nowadays the quality of food is much worse than before. Then they would move to more personal problems and talk about their health issues and loneliness. Paul always showed patience, knowing that probably he would be the only person these lonely people were going to talk to in a week or more.
The work had taken his thoughts off the house, but as soon as he left the supermarket and was walking towards the bus stop, the anxiety returned. By the time he reached the house, dusk had already fallen. He wanted to go back to the safety of the town but managed to persuade himself to go forward and not let his thoughts sway him in any way. But as he inserted the key in the lock, his heart started to pound.
TO BE CONTINUED
His heart thumping with fear, Paul dressed himself as fast as he could, locked the door of the house and ran into the cold night through a grove of oaks until he reached the motorway. The traffic was sparse at this time of the night, but the lights and the passing vehicles felt soothing. His heartbeat became normal again, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn't believe all this was happening. Just a few days before, he was an ordinary man, doing his job as best as he could, never causing any problems, and avoiding troubles, but now he was losing his mind.
He looked over the treetops at the house, whose white facade gleamed in the moonlight. Just a sight of it gave him goose pimples. Its location and eerie surroundings could be an ideal setting for filming horror scenes. Would he ever be able to sleep in it again? Would he ever feel relaxed in his own home, which looked so promising when he bought it? Maybe he should buy a pet. He didn't like cats, but a dog would be OK. The only problem was he could't leave a dog alone so many hours, and he couldn't afford to pay for a pet sitter. He didn't even contemplate taking in a lodger. Some of his friends and colleagues had so many unpleasant experiences with their lodgers and warned him not to take any.
The lack of sleep and anxiety deeply affected his mind. Thousands of thoughts swarmed in his woozy head. The pictures of strange creatures appeared in front of his eyes like in a film. Usually, he would find the noise of the traffic annoying, but this time it calmed his nerves. He picked up a piece of cardboard he found in the scrub and went to the grove, where he sat under an oak and leaned his back on its trunk. Soon, a sleep overcame him, and when he woke up and looked at his watch he was surprised he had slept about five hours, despite the cold and the traffic noise. He recalled a TV program he once saw about poor people in India who slept beside the busy roads and railway tracks. He had felt sorry for them, but now after his experiences, he had to admit he was wrong. Sometimes a busy road or a railway track feel more secure than a house.
He walked a few hundred meters to the bus stop, where he took a bus to town and then another to his workplace. He worked as usual, occupying his mind with the tins of beans, tomatoes, pickles, and sardines, with the boxes of cereals, chocolate, cookies and pasta, with the bottles of olive oil, vinegar and beer, and other food which he neatly arranged on the shelves. Those nine hours felt like a holiday. He liked the supermarket with its well-stocked shelves and the shoppers whose eyes started to glint and wander as soon as they walked along the isles. He enjoyed to talk to the pensioners who had difficulties to find their favourite products, which sometimes changed their names and packing, and who would often complain that nowadays the quality of food is much worse than before. Then they would move to more personal problems and talk about their health issues and loneliness. Paul always showed patience, knowing that probably he would be the only person these lonely people were going to talk to in a week or more.
The work had taken his thoughts off the house, but as soon as he left the supermarket and was walking towards the bus stop, the anxiety returned. By the time he reached the house, dusk had already fallen. He wanted to go back to the safety of the town but managed to persuade himself to go forward and not let his thoughts sway him in any way. But as he inserted the key in the lock, his heart started to pound.
TO BE CONTINUED