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 fourth part of my short story?
Paul carefully stepped inside and switched on the light. He stood motionless, listening for any unusual sound, but heard nothing. The silence was oppressive, so he switched on the radio. The voice of a broadcaster filled the kitchen and put him at ease. He was assuring himself that the house was warm and safe and that many people would give anything to get it. Compared to millions who crowded their small flats, he lived like a king in his castle. He touched the wall, thinking that such thick walls were impossible to find in new houses, built with cheap, prefabricated components.
He peeled a few potatoes, cut them in slices and put them in the oven. While they were roasting, he grilled a couple of fillets of cod in a pan. The smell of food was pleasant and gave him an appetite. He drew the curtains on all the windows and was satisfied that the house felt homely. This is how I should live, nice and calm and enjoy every moment in my home, he thought. How could I be so stupid and become my own enemy? There are no ghosts and they would never exist, except in stories and films and probably in the minds of some psychos.
The potatoes were crispy, the fish delicious and the salad crunchy. Paul was glad he knew how to cook and didn't have to stuff himself with fast food as many of his colleagues did. He had to invite them again and cook them some of his favourite dishes. These large room were made for parties, and he was going to throw them no matter what.
Suddenly, his skin goosepimpled. He was stunned that they came out of nowhere. Just a moment before, he was in a confident mood. The radio was blaring pop songs, and he enjoyed the evening, making plans and dreaming up ideas for the future. He felt the presence of something he couldn't explain and turned his head to the left. There in the doorway stood the evil little girl from the previous nightmares, looking daggers at him. She wore a crimson taffeta dress that was popular in the middle of the past century.
Her piercing dark eyes made his blood freeze. His throat constricted. The piece of food stuck in his oesophagus. He couldn't breathe. The girl's mouth didn't move, but he clearly heard her voice in his head. "Go! Leave my home!" she ordered. Paul trembled violently. He felt this was the end. He instinctively grabbed a glass of water from the table and drank it until his throat was clear and he could breathe properly. He glanced at the doorway, but the girl was not there. He let out a hysterical scream. His fear was overwhelming and held him firmly in its claws.
He panicked and rushed outside like an animal fleeing fire and ran to the motorway just as he had done the previous night. The cars and lights were his lifeline, his connection with sanity.
TO BE CONTINUED
Paul carefully stepped inside and switched on the light. He stood motionless, listening for any unusual sound, but heard nothing. The silence was oppressive, so he switched on the radio. The voice of a broadcaster filled the kitchen and put him at ease. He was assuring himself that the house was warm and safe and that many people would give anything to get it. Compared to millions who crowded their small flats, he lived like a king in his castle. He touched the wall, thinking that such thick walls were impossible to find in new houses, built with cheap, prefabricated components.
He peeled a few potatoes, cut them in slices and put them in the oven. While they were roasting, he grilled a couple of fillets of cod in a pan. The smell of food was pleasant and gave him an appetite. He drew the curtains on all the windows and was satisfied that the house felt homely. This is how I should live, nice and calm and enjoy every moment in my home, he thought. How could I be so stupid and become my own enemy? There are no ghosts and they would never exist, except in stories and films and probably in the minds of some psychos.
The potatoes were crispy, the fish delicious and the salad crunchy. Paul was glad he knew how to cook and didn't have to stuff himself with fast food as many of his colleagues did. He had to invite them again and cook them some of his favourite dishes. These large room were made for parties, and he was going to throw them no matter what.
Suddenly, his skin goosepimpled. He was stunned that they came out of nowhere. Just a moment before, he was in a confident mood. The radio was blaring pop songs, and he enjoyed the evening, making plans and dreaming up ideas for the future. He felt the presence of something he couldn't explain and turned his head to the left. There in the doorway stood the evil little girl from the previous nightmares, looking daggers at him. She wore a crimson taffeta dress that was popular in the middle of the past century.
Her piercing dark eyes made his blood freeze. His throat constricted. The piece of food stuck in his oesophagus. He couldn't breathe. The girl's mouth didn't move, but he clearly heard her voice in his head. "Go! Leave my home!" she ordered. Paul trembled violently. He felt this was the end. He instinctively grabbed a glass of water from the table and drank it until his throat was clear and he could breathe properly. He glanced at the doorway, but the girl was not there. He let out a hysterical scream. His fear was overwhelming and held him firmly in its claws.
He panicked and rushed outside like an animal fleeing fire and ran to the motorway just as he had done the previous night. The cars and lights were his lifeline, his connection with sanity.
TO BE CONTINUED
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