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 my mistakes in this short story? I wrote it as a draft, in one go, so there are probably a lot of mistakes. "Dishevelled" is BrE.
I was playing Minecraft on my laptop when my telephone rang, and the voice of the Prime Minister said, “Kevin, I want to see you in my office.” My initial thought was that again he had made a woman pregnant and I have to sort it out and find some funds to buy her silence. I switched off the laptop, put on my shoes, fastened the buttons of my shirt, adjusted my tie and went to see him.
“Kevin, you are more among ordinary people then I’d ever be, so please be honest and tell me what they think about me,” he said. As I hesitated, debating with myself whether to be frank or lie, his voice broke in on my thoughts, “Kevin, I want to hear the truth.”
“They think you’re dishonest, a liar and a manipulator.”
I watched for his reaction, but he seemed unperturbed. “More please,” he said then grabbed a tumbler of whisky and drained it. With his dishevelled red hair, jug ears and bulbous red nose, he reminded me of a clown.”
“They think you’re a clown, a womanizer, a show-off, and a bully.”
“Tell me more, tell me everything,” he said. He took his tie off, undid the buttons of his shirt so that his curly chest hair peeked out. He reached for a bottle and poured another tumbler of whisky. He put his feet up on the desk so that the soles of his shoes pointed at me. He didn’t offer me a seat or a drink.
“They think you’re uncouth, overbearing, selfish, godless, racist and macho.”
“Thank you, Kevin,” he said. “I really appreciate your honesty. I understand I have to change many things in me in order that people trust me and like me. I promise you’ll soon see my better version.”
A few months later, I was again playing a game on my laptop, while soaking my feet in a plastic bath tub when my telephone rang, and the voice of the Prime Minister said, “Kevin, would you please come to my office.” I switched off the laptop, buttoned up my shirt, adjusted my tie and pulled my feet out of the water before drying them and slipping them into my shoes.
“Selam Alaikum,” the Prime Minister said when I entered, to which I replied, “Wa Alaikum Alsallam.” He sat at his desk, his fingers turning the beads of a rosary. This time a jug of orange juice stood in front of him instead of whisky. He offered me a seat and a drink, which I accepted.
“My faithful Kevin,” he began, you know how much I trust you and appreciate your opinion. Tell me please what people think about me now.”
My eyes swept around his office, which was unrecognizable with the citations from the Quran on all the walls and the large picture of the Kaaba behind him, and I said,
“People don’t like that you wear white socks with your Birkenstock sandals. They think it is the height of bad taste.”
“I swear I had a good intention,” he sighed. “I wanted to be close to the masses. I wanted to be one of them. Tell me more, please.”
“They don’t like your bushy beard, your darkened skin, and that you’ve converted to Islam and went on a pilgrimage to Mecca. They think you’ve sold yourself out. They believe you kowtow to sheiks for gain. They don’t like when you break off your media conference, then take your prayer mat with you and go to a corner to pray to Allah. They don’t like that you end your speeches with ‘Inshallah’.”
“Only God can judge me,” the Prime Minister said, citing Tupac Shakur, much to my surprise. No doubt, he has been working on his new image and listened to rap a lot.
“They don’t like that you’ve started with feminizing hormone therapy. They’re confused because they don’t know what the final result’s going to be. Are they going to call you he, she or it? They don’t have any experience of a transgender Prime Minister. There’s still so much prejudice in society against transsexuals. We’re surrounded by bigots who hate everyone who doesn’t think or look like themselves. It can’t be helped.”
“They’ll get used to it,” he said. “They’ll surely love my new breasts. It’ll be a D cup, something to talk about at coffee breaks. I’m convinced they’ll get accustomed to my new looks and identity in no time as well.” But I was not so sure and told him he had to change tack.
“You have to reinvent yourself,” I said. “Nowadays, refugees are the latest trend. Why not become one of them?”
A couple of days later, the Archbishop of Canterbury gave a eulogy for our lovely Prime Minister. With tears trickling down his old face he said, “Today we take farewell from our tragically deceased political leader. He perished in the huge waves of the stormy sea. He couldn’t reach the White Cliffs of Dover. He was one of many thousands who had risked everything for better life. Alas, fate was cruel to him. A proud wearer of sandals and white socks, feminist, nascent transsexual, Muslim and fan of rap music, he left us when we need him most. Who is going to entertain us now? How is going to give us the strength? Who will lead us through the dangerous world when we are left all alone and Europe treats us like an unwanted child? Not since the death of our Margaret, did we feel such sorrow…”
THE END
I was playing Minecraft on my laptop when my telephone rang, and the voice of the Prime Minister said, “Kevin, I want to see you in my office.” My initial thought was that again he had made a woman pregnant and I have to sort it out and find some funds to buy her silence. I switched off the laptop, put on my shoes, fastened the buttons of my shirt, adjusted my tie and went to see him.
“Kevin, you are more among ordinary people then I’d ever be, so please be honest and tell me what they think about me,” he said. As I hesitated, debating with myself whether to be frank or lie, his voice broke in on my thoughts, “Kevin, I want to hear the truth.”
“They think you’re dishonest, a liar and a manipulator.”
I watched for his reaction, but he seemed unperturbed. “More please,” he said then grabbed a tumbler of whisky and drained it. With his dishevelled red hair, jug ears and bulbous red nose, he reminded me of a clown.”
“They think you’re a clown, a womanizer, a show-off, and a bully.”
“Tell me more, tell me everything,” he said. He took his tie off, undid the buttons of his shirt so that his curly chest hair peeked out. He reached for a bottle and poured another tumbler of whisky. He put his feet up on the desk so that the soles of his shoes pointed at me. He didn’t offer me a seat or a drink.
“They think you’re uncouth, overbearing, selfish, godless, racist and macho.”
“Thank you, Kevin,” he said. “I really appreciate your honesty. I understand I have to change many things in me in order that people trust me and like me. I promise you’ll soon see my better version.”
A few months later, I was again playing a game on my laptop, while soaking my feet in a plastic bath tub when my telephone rang, and the voice of the Prime Minister said, “Kevin, would you please come to my office.” I switched off the laptop, buttoned up my shirt, adjusted my tie and pulled my feet out of the water before drying them and slipping them into my shoes.
“Selam Alaikum,” the Prime Minister said when I entered, to which I replied, “Wa Alaikum Alsallam.” He sat at his desk, his fingers turning the beads of a rosary. This time a jug of orange juice stood in front of him instead of whisky. He offered me a seat and a drink, which I accepted.
“My faithful Kevin,” he began, you know how much I trust you and appreciate your opinion. Tell me please what people think about me now.”
My eyes swept around his office, which was unrecognizable with the citations from the Quran on all the walls and the large picture of the Kaaba behind him, and I said,
“People don’t like that you wear white socks with your Birkenstock sandals. They think it is the height of bad taste.”
“I swear I had a good intention,” he sighed. “I wanted to be close to the masses. I wanted to be one of them. Tell me more, please.”
“They don’t like your bushy beard, your darkened skin, and that you’ve converted to Islam and went on a pilgrimage to Mecca. They think you’ve sold yourself out. They believe you kowtow to sheiks for gain. They don’t like when you break off your media conference, then take your prayer mat with you and go to a corner to pray to Allah. They don’t like that you end your speeches with ‘Inshallah’.”
“Only God can judge me,” the Prime Minister said, citing Tupac Shakur, much to my surprise. No doubt, he has been working on his new image and listened to rap a lot.
“They don’t like that you’ve started with feminizing hormone therapy. They’re confused because they don’t know what the final result’s going to be. Are they going to call you he, she or it? They don’t have any experience of a transgender Prime Minister. There’s still so much prejudice in society against transsexuals. We’re surrounded by bigots who hate everyone who doesn’t think or look like themselves. It can’t be helped.”
“They’ll get used to it,” he said. “They’ll surely love my new breasts. It’ll be a D cup, something to talk about at coffee breaks. I’m convinced they’ll get accustomed to my new looks and identity in no time as well.” But I was not so sure and told him he had to change tack.
“You have to reinvent yourself,” I said. “Nowadays, refugees are the latest trend. Why not become one of them?”
A couple of days later, the Archbishop of Canterbury gave a eulogy for our lovely Prime Minister. With tears trickling down his old face he said, “Today we take farewell from our tragically deceased political leader. He perished in the huge waves of the stormy sea. He couldn’t reach the White Cliffs of Dover. He was one of many thousands who had risked everything for better life. Alas, fate was cruel to him. A proud wearer of sandals and white socks, feminist, nascent transsexual, Muslim and fan of rap music, he left us when we need him most. Who is going to entertain us now? How is going to give us the strength? Who will lead us through the dangerous world when we are left all alone and Europe treats us like an unwanted child? Not since the death of our Margaret, did we feel such sorrow…”
THE END
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