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Hi there,

I have started a smallish story I would like to share. It is Beyond the Supernatural (hopefully not beyond repair) and a draft.

I do not know whether I can keep this up, if the below is any good or if there is any interest. The first I cannot make any promises on, on the latter two I would love some feedback.

Feeling brave today,
Kind regards,
Hendrik



1 - Chief Mulligan

"... Mailman, bring me no more blues,
One little letter is all I can use..."
(Buddy Holly)

The suburban neighbourhood was peaceful, his house clean and lawn neat. The man lay awake in bed and starred at the ceiling. Nothing much happened in his part of town. That had become uncharacteristic starting with the seventies so he should be happy. He was not. Ever since he had turned 67 he could not sleep longer than 4 or 5 hours a night. Too much time for his mind to work. Too many memories of the non-good sort. Too old.

5.30 sharp the alarm clock rang. A dreary sound but one that had lost all of its dread – and promise – ever since Marvin Mulligan had retired from the Army seven years ago.

He got up. Bare feet shuffled over the wooden floor boards and he switched on the coffee machine. On automatic, as every morning. Coffee had been prep’d as every evening. It was inevitable that Chief Mulligan would now get the milk from the front porch. It was likewise inevitable that he would think of his estranged son. As every day, he shook the sentiment off with a characteristic grunt.

He picked up the two milk bottles. He should have changed the order after Penny had died. He had not. He was dimly aware that he could not change the order without admitting that she was really gone. Just the same as he was unable to erase the now useless speed dial with Hogan’s number. Marvin would not use that and it would have to be a cold day in hell for his son to give him a call. He cursed his Irish sense of family, sentimentality and stubbornness wildly. He opened one of the milk bottles and took a large swig and sat down to read yesterday’s newspaper. Nothing is older than yesterday’s paper, his son had “explained” to him. His son speaking down to him had hurt. Journalist. Big newspaper. Famous university. Who did he think had paid for the tuition, the Pope? Reading yesterday’s paper was a small revenge, like telling his son where he could stuff today’s news. Yesterday’s headlines were bad enough. He turned to the sports section. Aside from the now fashionable hyperbole and the drug scandals the sports section made him feel at ease. His team was still there, still middling. He should go to the stadium and watch a game, he thought, but noise and crowds made him nervous, no order. With that thought he remembered the coffee machine. It took its time these days. The thought made him cheer up a little, at least the coffee machine was definitely more calcified then his bones felt sometimes. Marv got his coffee, army mug, 4 sugar, no milk, and sat down in his armchair.

After a while the doorbell rang. Marv was surprised, got up to check the door. Carson the mailmen stood on the porch with an odd manila envelope. “Hey, Marv, great day, huh? Sun is shinning and you got mail.” What’s great about that, thought Marv. Carson needed a shave from crown to chin more badly than the Tasmanian devil to look respectable and his uniform needed a press, preferably with the mailman still inside. “Need my signature, Carson?” “Nope. But I bet it is a legal thing, big city law firm 5 names LLP!” Mr. I cannot wash if it means my life even nodded gravely at that. Snoop! “Perceptive as your mother.” Marv fished a dollar bill out of his pocket, “Here’s a buck, son, get some soap and now get off my porch.” It might have been the complete tonelessness in which the old man had said that, it might have been that Marv could still press 140 lbs. and looked it, but Carson took the bill and left as quickly as he could.

Marvin Mulligan was no longer used to mail, let alone mail from some legal beagles. The envelope was apparently filled good. He did not know the law firm. Come to that he did not know any law firm, let alone from New York. He thought of throwing the thing in the trash right away, rarely did some good come from a legal letter, but some residual curiosity won.

He went inside, took a kitchen knife from one of the drawers and opened the envelope. When he put the knife to the envelope he got the same feeling as with that booby trap in ’82. It is just a letter, get your act together, Marv, he mouthed.

The knife cut the silence of the house as it tore the stiff paper of the envelope with ease. Marv took out the papers inside, a letter lay on top.

When he read the first few lines, he felt faint. The knife clattered to the floor.

My only feedback at this point would be that it ended too soon to give fair feedback. its not feeling like a "BTS" tale as of yet. Once more meat's on them bones I'll get back to you.

Write more! Please! Don't leave us hanging!

Hi there,

thanks for your replies mrloucifer and Kovoston.

Here's small chapter(let) 2. Hope you enjoy it.

Kind regards
Hendrik



2 - Dave’s Journey

Dave rode a semi. The kids were with the grandparents, so he did not worry. His was a tough job but it also gave him many hours to himself which he loved. He never had been one for crowd you get in offices.

The trucker hummed along a tune on the radio. He felt great these days. His wife was home but he did not miss her that much now. He had been down for a while, though. It was always the same, he relished the freedom of the road but after the first day he felt lonely for a while. His friend Mike had urged him to buy a pet. “Nah, I am on the road so much, what should I do with a dog or cat. Besides cats are creepy”, the truck driver had said. Mike had answered, “Dogs are loyal. Get a calm one, small breed or a relaxed mongrel. He’ll be happy just to be with you and he’ll fit in easy. Or get a big one, will be more cramped in the cabin but if he’s larger, man, he could even protect you.” He dismissed the idea without much reflection.

A few weeks later his tour took him down the 27. He came here at least once a month. It was his regular tour from Atlanta to Tallahassee, sometimes via New Orleans and Mobile and onwards to Gainesville, always Gainesville. As soon as he entered Florida he was happy. Born in Spring Hill, going to Florida always was coming home. He knew the west coast like the inside of his pockets. Instead of staying at a motel, he took off at Steinhatchee, ignored town and parked as close to the bay as he could.

His father had always said that Dead Man’s Bay was a place of pirates and dark deeds. His father had not been much of a story teller but what more than the name “Dead Man’s Bay” is necessary to let the already wild imagination of a young boy go into an even wilder spin. Maybe he came back because of that, he missed the old man. Irreverently he grinned as he could not help but wonder whether they have an alligator with an alarm clock in its belly here. Chuckling, he took the old cooler with the Falcons logo out and looked at it lovingly. The ice packs had not been ok for a while now but it still served. Besides he could not throw it away. You don’t throw stuff from your team away, he thought, you don’t wanna jinx it. Summer is great but it is also the big dry between seasons. Maybe it’s Falcons time to claim fame this year! It was more like a prayer. Having 1999 in mind he spit the name Elway out quicker than Golum could say Golum.

Dave went down to the beach. He collected some wood and stones and made a fire. While that was getting going he opened a can of pleasantly cool Coors and downed it in one. Wiping the beer drops from his beard, he looked out at the bay. Nothing bet looking out at the bay at sunset. He put the barbecue grid over the fire, took the steaks from the cooler and put them on. Quickly a BBQ smell filled the air. Live was good. Naked feet in the sand, sun in his face, beer in his hand and an honest steak in a couple of minutes – what more could a man ask? The breeze carried the smell of the meat and the trucker’s content sigh over the beach to the woods.

The creature sat between the bushes like a statute hewn from ivory. In utterly unmoving stillness it rested on its haunches and looked fixedly ahead at the sunset. A broad snout, a mighty head and a neck thick with muscles it looked more like a foo dog than anything else. At a bit over 200 lbs. it gained respect wherever it walked. The beast knew no fear. It was hungry with the fierce implacability of the predator. When the smells from the man reached the thing, its nose wrinkled in recognition and elation. Feeding would be soon now.

Dave tore into the steak with a relish. His hunger had suddenly exploded in him. Instead of waiting for his steak to be crispy as he normally loved it, much to the chagrin of his wife, this time he simply could not wait any longer. The blood from the barely heated soft meat ran down his chin and trickled down his neck.

The sun was going down.

The creature stretched.

The trucker had never had a steak that good. He wolfed down the first steak in large bites. Ignoring the second steak on the rack he grabbed the reserve one from the cooler and savaged it raw.

The creature flexed its muscles with absent-minded grace. It bared its teeth in the mockery of a grin, forefinger-long carnassials flashing up in the final red glow of dusk.

Dave, some meat still hanging from the corner of his mouth, felt his belly tighten with raw hatred. His pulse and thoughts raced. His wife had a fancy man. He worked, he toiled, he gave his sweat, his all to give her and the kids a good home. He was not home now. She would be lonely. She betrayed him, he feared. No, he was certain. He never had admitted it to himself, he had wanted to trust her but she was so happy when he came home. A masquerade. How could she be so balanced after so many lonely days. When he was there, she went to a Sunday book reading club and everyday to church. She was always gone long, too long, simply too long. Why go there anyway? When he called, she would often call back later saying that she had been to bible studies. Why was she so religious? There could only be one sane explanation: she must do the reverend. Yeah, she would like the man. Dave smushed the beer can and growled, a deep throaty sound. He was devoid of sense, a hurt and angry animal. He sprang up and shouted his anger into the bay.

Slowly, leisurely, the creature strolled towards the trucker, sure that he would not see it.

With unexpected grace the massive dog gently nudged Dave’s thigh. Dave lost the tumultuous fury of his anger and patted the dog’s head unconsciously. The beast growled its pleasure.

Like the flick of a switch that turns on a light and makes the way down the stairs to the cellar seemingly less dangerous, Dave suddenly felt calm. Dave knew what to do.

He walked to his truck, the dog following suit. Dave opened the door and the brute jumped into the cabin as if it was nothing. Dave climbed up, turned the ignition and the Caterpillar Engine sprang to life with all the might of its 550 horsepower.

He stroked the dog’s back who lay beside him on the bench seat both content. It did not occur to Dave even for a split second that this dog had not been with him an hour ago. Everything felt right.

Dave turned on the radio and let down the window and in the velvet night air.

Anyone seeing the red Peterbilt 379 driving purposefully through the night could not miss Ray Charles singing beautifully:

“…Still in peaceful dreams, I see
The road leads back to you.
Georgia, Georgia, no peace, no peace I find
Just an old sweet song, keeps Georgia on my mind.
I said, Just an old sweet song, keeps Georgia on my mind. …”

Hendrik wrote:Dave rode a semi.

I havent read it yet btw, cos I cant stop laughing. In England this has a TOTALLY different meaning.

"Semi" is a commonly used slang word in England for someone who has "half a lob on" meaning a slightly erect member.

Still laughing. I will read it though.

P.S. now my wife is laughing. Yes the English are juvenile, immature and very crude.

The Dark Elf wrote: Yes the English are juvenile, immature and very crude.

Just makes me like you English folk that much more.

P.S. Here in the midwest of the USA, we call that a "chub".

The Dark Elf wrote:

Hendrik wrote:Dave rode a semi.

I havent read it yet btw, cos I cant stop laughing. In England this has a TOTALLY different meaning.

"Semi" is a commonly used slang word in England for someone who has "half a lob on" meaning a slightly erect member.

Still laughing. I will read it though.

P.S. now my wife is laughing. Yes the English are juvenile, immature and very crude.

O ... shoot!

I love puns, I'll freely admit that I like and use double entendres, too, but this ... ahem ... *harrumph* ... was completely unintended.

I intentionally (pukka!), however, as you will have guessed, used the US-American term, Dave being from the States and all that, and to ride a semi(-trailer!) sounds smoother in the context than "drive a lorry". Must be more observant there, still.

Aside from that, I am very happy to have made you and your wife (!) laugh! Re-reading the first paragraph myself with the connotation lent to it by you, Herbie, gave me a laughing fit! Ah, language is such a beautiful and living thing.

Cheers
Hendrik

mrloucifer wrote:

The Dark Elf wrote: Yes the English are juvenile, immature and very crude.

Just makes me like you English folk that much more.

P.S. Here in the midwest of the USA, we call that a "chub".

Now I will never be able anymore to say chubby face or chubby hands.

Hendrik wrote:

mrloucifer wrote:

The Dark Elf wrote: Yes the English are juvenile, immature and very crude.

Just makes me like you English folk that much more.

P.S. Here in the midwest of the USA, we call that a "chub".

Now I will never be able anymore to say chubby face or chubby hands.

We also use the term "a full-on chubby" for a massive boner but we stole it from the Bill n Ted films IIRC.

Hendrik wrote:Hi there,

I have started a smallish story I would like to share. It is Beyond the Supernatural (hopefully not beyond repair) and a draft.

I do not know whether I can keep this up, if the below is any good or if there is any interest. The first I cannot make any promises on, on the latter two I would love some feedback.

Feeling brave today,
Kind regards,
Hendrik

***

1 - Chief Mulligan

"... Mailman, bring me no more blues,
One little letter is all I can use..."
(Buddy Holly)

The suburban neighbourhood was peaceful, his house clean and lawn neat. The man lay awake in bed and starred at the ceiling. Nothing much happened in his part of town. That had become uncharacteristic starting with the seventies so he should be happy. He was not. Ever since he had turned 67 he could not sleep longer than 4 or 5 hours a night. Too much time for his mind to work. Too many memories of the non-good sort. Too old.

5.30 sharp the alarm clock rang. A dreary sound but one that had lost all of its dread – and promise – ever since Marvin Mulligan had retired from the Army seven years ago.

He got up. Bare feet shuffled over the wooden floor boards and he switched on the coffee machine. On automatic, as every morning. Coffee had been prep’d as every evening. It was inevitable that Chief Mulligan would now get the milk from the front porch. It was likewise inevitable that he would think of his estranged son. As every day, he shook the sentiment off with a characteristic grunt.

He picked up the two milk bottles. He should have changed the order after Penny had died. He had not. He was dimly aware that he could not change the order without admitting that she was really gone. Just the same as he was unable to erase the now useless speed dial with Hogan’s number. Marvin would not use that and it would have to be a cold day in hell for his son to give him a call. He cursed his Irish sense of family, sentimentality and stubbornness wildly. He opened one of the milk bottles and took a large swig and sat down to read yesterday’s newspaper. Nothing is older than yesterday’s paper, his son had “explained” to him. His son speaking down to him had hurt. Journalist. Big newspaper. Famous university. Who did he think had paid for the tuition, the Pope? Reading yesterday’s paper was a small revenge, like telling his son where he could stuff today’s news. Yesterday’s headlines were bad enough. He turned to the sports section. Aside from the now fashionable hyperbole and the drug scandals the sports section made him feel at ease. His team was still there, still middling. He should go to the stadium and watch a game, he thought, but noise and crowds made him nervous, no order. With that thought he remembered the coffee machine. It took its time these days. The thought made him cheer up a little, at least the coffee machine was definitely more calcified then his bones felt sometimes. Marv got his coffee, army mug, 4 sugar, no milk, and sat down in his armchair.

After a while the doorbell rang. Marv was surprised, got up to check the door. Carson the mailmen stood on the porch with an odd manila envelope. “Hey, Marv, great day, huh? Sun is shinning and you got mail.” What’s great about that, thought Marv. Carson needed a shave from crown to chin more badly than the Tasmanian devil to look respectable and his uniform needed a press, preferably with the mailman still inside. “Need my signature, Carson?” “Nope. But I bet it is a legal thing, big city law firm 5 names LLP!” Mr. I cannot wash if it means my life even nodded gravely at that. Snoop! “Perceptive as your mother.” Marv fished a dollar bill out of his pocket, “Here’s a buck, son, get some soap and now get off my porch.” It might have been the complete tonelessness in which the old man had said that, it might have been that Marv could still press 140 lbs. and looked it, but Carson took the bill and left as quickly as he could.

Marvin Mulligan was no longer used to mail, let alone mail from some legal beagles. The envelope was apparently filled good. He did not know the law firm. Come to that he did not know any law firm, let alone from New York. He thought of throwing the thing in the trash right away, rarely did some good come from a legal letter, but some residual curiosity won.

He went inside, took a kitchen knife from one of the drawers and opened the envelope. When he put the knife to the envelope he got the same feeling as with that booby trap in ’82. It is just a letter, get your act together, Marv, he mouthed.

The knife cut the silence of the house as it tore the stiff paper of the envelope with ease. Marv took out the papers inside, a letter lay on top.

When he read the first few lines, he felt faint. The knife clattered to the floor.

***

I know how he feels, my gas bill went right up too.

The Dark Elf wrote:

Hendrik wrote:Marv took out the papers inside, a letter lay on top.

When he read the first few lines, he felt faint. The knife clattered to the floor.

***

I know how he feels, my gas bill went right up too.

Aaaw, shucks, man ... there I go and carefully built up this tremenduous torrent of tumultuous tension. That was not easy even with my considerable skills (Literacy (Pidgin) 30%, Creative Writing 12%). Just hold your breath for a moment and marvel at the beauty of the construction "a .. letter .. lay .. on .. top". This has so many meanings! Not as many as semi, ok, but it is, you know, metaphysically constructivistic. ... And then ... YOU ... come and completely spoil it for my lonely and now probably utterly devasted other reader. Depressing. I am post mortefied. Probably will start to wear black turtlenecks, drink cafe lattes and speak French now. Yes, that is how depressed I am ... the heart of an artist has been broken.

Somewhere.

Oh, no. It has started. Existentialist thoughts break in. Screaming does not help... It is Beyond the Supernatural It is Sartre ...

Quelques heures ou quelques années d'attente c'est tout pareil, quand on a perdu l'illusion d'être éternel!

Now, I am really full of hope.

Thanks.

*

But strangely there is consolation to be found in Verlaine

Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l'automne
Blessent mon coeur
D'une langueur
Monotone.

Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l'heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure;

Et je m'en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m'emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.

(Chanson d'Automne)

Hauntingly beautiful. Just had to add that.

Imagine that, an Englishman "driving" a German to cite French poetry. Eerie!

Will get back to the story presently.

Kindest regards
Hendrik

Hi there,

I am very sorry to say that I have to put this on hiatus for a moment. It just turned out that my daughters are interested in RPG (hooray!) - have to teach gaming to my kids now. And ... I have (finally) resolved to (try to) write a Rifter article which will take up a lot of my free time. I apologize if I have created interest and now cannot live up to it for the time being!

Kind regards
Hendrik