-2o
That was really garbled, and i'm not sure to what extent it was due to translation or your writing. I think you had a fairly interesting idea for this story. I think you need to find fellow writers that speak your mother tongue, because me parsing out the details of a work thats been shoddily translated from another language doesn't help you at all, and I don't want to lead you in the wrong direction.
Listen, you're really young, and I'm really impressed with your ability to separate yourself from your work and take critique. Not because you're young, but because it's rare enough besides. But if you are going to post in primarily english speaking forums, you need to be at a point where you can effectively communicate your stories in english. By your own admission, you have some trouble.
If you want to post most of your work in swedish (?), then critiquing garbled english language translations does nothing for you. What you need is someone who speaks your language. Or, if you plan on publishing stuff in english, then those skills need to improve. But either way, I don't think I can be much help to you, because if you are using google translate, your work is simply not clear enough for me to critique. And I suspect that it would be equally difficult for others as well. I get the basic gist of your story, but that's all.
I have been on some swedish forums, but most of them where really unactive, and 90% of the response I got was thigs like "Nice" "I have a comic to, read it-stock messages" and "do art for me". In real life, noone seems to take me really serious because of my age. Okay. That sounds really stupid, and stereotypic, but It's true. I will try to find someone, though. And as I want to be able to publish something in english, as a webcomic, someday, I will also practice my english skills.
Oh. I posted that in the middle of the night, and I really didn't have the energy to do anything but use google translate... I cleaned it up a bit... Might still be a lot of errors, though.
VISION DEFECTS
-A Novell About People
Innocent? In that case, because he don't know what he is doing.
Why should someone else get to have it good when he doesn't?
He knows that what he's doing is not right.
He doesn't want to hurt anyone, but the circumstances driving him into it. He is living in guilt, punishing himself.
He is living in guilt, but denies it.
He is convinced he is right.
The World. A place people lived in. A place I lived in. A place I hated.
This whole world was based on the one who had money got to have a decent life. Not that it bothered me in anyway.
I had just woken up. I got dressed, but didn't eat breakfast. My fridge was filled with food, but I was not hungry. I decided to go out instead. I didn't like the town I lived in, it was large, and it was inhabited by a lot of people, with mixed origins. Now, if a bunch of people have gathered in one place, did they have to be of different races and beliefs? Why didn't all the lower people just stay in their small, underdeveloped countries. They belonged there. They deserved to suffer, not to be treated good, for God's sake. I did not mean that the original inhabitants of this city were particularly good, either, but they where certainly much better than those dirty immigrants.
I had to go food shopping, after all. Sitting outside the supermarket was a foreign woman in dirty clothes, begging. I opened my wallet, took out a 10€ bill, and put it in front of her, on a red handkerchief.
The inside of the store was crowded, as usual, but I hurried to find whay food supplies I needed. It was all vegetarian, fair trade, organic. The sun was shining outside, and it was nice to leave the dusty shop. The house I had an apartment was big and old, It's location was quite central, and it was built out of bright red bricks. There was a courtyard, a communal laundry room and a basement that was just opened about 3 times each year. Coming from just that basement door was a faint mewing, and a even fainter scratching. I walked straight into my apartment, sat down at the computer, and spread anonymously Internet hatred. Three days later, the young boy from the aprtment next to mine was looking franaticaly after his cat, and I offered myself to write "Have-you-seen-on-this-cat-I-is-really-worried?" Flyers.
It was raining outside.
Black umbrellas made everything to look like a funeral scene from a bleak film noir. The sidewalk was paved with grey stones, and stones where soaking wet, with small pools of water between them. I had drawn up my umbrella before the first drop had touched the paving. I knew it would start raining. I was heading to the cash machine to insert the usual two thousand euros, in support of hungry children, health care, and workers with impossible working conditions. I used to do this once a month. In addition, I was a member of an association that helped depressed adolscents. Behind me, I heard some shouts. I didn't care. The cries were replaced by screams. I did care, but didn't want to do anything about it. Something shoved me severely to the left, dropped my umbrella, and was pressed up against a wall that was cold and damp with rain. A sharp blade was pressed against my cheek. I felt my hair and my black suit slowly getting soaked.
"Money or your life", I heard a half-hearted, menacing voice, a desperate voice, say. Desperate was bad, but ...
"How cliche you are, then."
"What the ...?"
People began to gather around us, in a semicircle. Noone closer than two meters.
"You must be the worst robber I've ever met" That statement is followed only by silence. Who would says something like that with a knife to his throat? I was making a scene. People would notice my difference from the normal people, wich was not good. But this was fun.
"I ..." the robber's voice was weak. He shook hardly noticeable. But then something happened that I had not anticipated. The robber took hold of my hand, and drew me with him when he ran into a narrow side street. "What the hell do you think you're doing?", I breathed, but I got no response. Up to a staircase where only one of the lightbulbs was glowing weakly. In to a small apartment.
"Is this some kind of failed kidnapping? Seriously, didn't you see how many people there was there? Who saw you? You have not even thrown away my cell phone. I am offended. "
"Offended? What is your problem? I'm not trying to kidnap you, just so you know. ", he said in a
offended voice.
"What is all this about in this case, what am I doing here?"
"A ... misunderstanding ..."
Three hours later I was still in the smal apartment, still on the dirty floorboards in the hallway, still discussing with my strange
kidnapper. I had learned a lot abot him, unfortunately, he had learend a lot about me too. Something about him gave me no choise but to tell him my deepest and most well-protected personality-traits. Anyway, the person before me was 22 years of age, had been arrested for assault and public disorder at least twenty times, had been arrested three of the seven times he tried to rob someone. He lived with his sick sister (apparently, she was in the room behind the small kitchen), desperate for money and with one parent dead and the other not wanting to hear anything from them, ever again. All the times he had gotten into trouble had been when he was trying to protect someone.
"What you do is bad, it only hurts people, which in turn hurts you. But you have good intentions, therefore, is the act good? Is that what you're thinking? "I said, in a toneless voice. I watched as he clenched his hands, but his reply came almost immediately;
"You are horrible, but you save a lot of lives, even if the reason is just selfish or ironic. Therefore, the act is good?"
"You really think that I'm that awful?
"You have some of the craziest ideas of anyone I've ever met. And, no, nothing I do is good. I guess I'm doomed to fail, whatever I do, i never help anyone... I'm trying to, but it's never enough. People might as well believe that I am evil. I deserve it. But I don't understand. You dislike the world, why do you even take time to work so that other people can have it better? Why do you even bother to have a good reputation? You donate large sums of money for charity. Your are living a clean life without polluting the environment. On a completely personal level, you are hypocritical, and really nasty, but you have not even reported me to the police. "
So much stupidity. I sighed.
"For the first you've got it wrong. I don't
dislike the world, I
hate it, I hate money, I hate foreigners, I hate teenagers, I hate people, I hate animals, and right now, the thing I hate the most, is
you. You ruined my day, and my suit. Secondly, I've just got nothing better to do. "
"I don't believe you. You would never spend so much effort into something you hated so much, unless you had a reason. You want to atone for something. "
"And you are a naive, unsuccessful man. You must have an explanation for everything. Can't you see that there is passion in my hate? Can't you just live in madness? "This statement was followed by silence, which I noticed happened quite often during our long debate. I was somewhat annoyed, my clothes were still wet from the rain and I was freezing. I began to get enough of this meeting, random as it was. The irritating individual in front of me interrupted the silence, once again.
"I wish I could help you." The silence after this short sentence was much more compact than before. Than it had ever been before. I wondered why I didn't say something self important about the more superficial meanings of "helping" someone, but I did not. For some reason, I felt a faint sensation of something that could be saddnes. A very faint feeling. No one said anything anymore. I guess I fell asleep right there on the dirty floor of a dirty hallway owend a person who had just tried to rob me some hours ago. When I woke up the next morning, I had a blanket carefully laid over me, and the floor was empty. No evidence indicated that someone had lived there, besides a folded piece of paper beside me. I stood up, with the blanket still over my shoulders, and opened the front door. The message was only five words long, written in a somewhat elegant, but careless style. It said;
"I beg you for forgiveness"
"I'm sorry but ... No way, I'm not sorry. I simply not forgive you. " With those words, I closed the front door, and started walking the path of the not so long way home.
