A Confusion
"I don't mean to COMPLAIN, but to EXPLAIN," the old man started, as he poked his head into the doorway, while I held the entrance door like a SHIELD, "you see, I live not far from Zaporizhia. My village has been bombed recently, and I had to move to Dnipro. Please let me in for this night."
An AWKWARD pause lasted about half a minute. I felt I had to HELP the poor old man, for I had relatives in Donbas who had to flee in a similar way eight years ago, when the war had just begun. His luggage turned out to be LIGHT: one bag and some package, reminding a PRESENT wrapped in a PIECE of tarpaulin.
I LIVE alone and have no friends or LOVER to visit me, so there was nothing GROSS in the man staying here. He TOUCHED my arm. His hand was cold as that of a FROG or a sea BEAST - who knows how long he had been under the rain and SNOW.
I cannot remember how he left the next day. Perhaps he was in a hurry, as he forgot his package. I had nothing but to loosen the NETTING and unveil the tarpaulin; for a moment, I could not believe my eyes. The item I had just unpacked was a printed gravure from the early nineteenth century, depicting a GALLEY with slaves on it and a Turkish guard pointing his RIFFlE on them. I have no doubt concerning its originality, being a former artist myself. The picture has not been tested anywhere yet, howewer, for I keep it at home.
I could not recollect any information about the owner anymore, as he had left no phone number, not even his name or surname. The gravure is sure to BECOME a burden for me.