Some of my stories in English language ...
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     The Coming of that Day

     It was in the autumn of that certain year, when the rain didn't come and the earth withered in heat, that they told him he had something in his head. Something that couldn't be removed. They operated on him twice, but without any real success. Both times, it turned out that this thing was still there and growing again. It lived in a delicate spot, near the cervical vertebrae and spinal cord, so it wasn't as easy as simply eliminating it.
     Marlin lived with it. Lived with the fact that something lived in his skull, at the occipital opening. It existed there, feeding on his blood and body fluids. A parasite, they said, a worm. They didn't really know what it was. An insect, they suspected, had laid an egg in a small wound. But if it was a larva, why didn't it hatch?
     Sometimes he felt it stirring. Was that what a mother felt when her child moved in her womb? And if someone swallowed a fish that was just caught, as some indigenous peoples allegedly used to do, then did they feel it wriggling in their esophagus?
     This thing, it stopped growing. It had reached its ideal size. Marlin felt it inside him, and he felt himself growing weaker. Little by little, his strength left him, everything slowed down and became more laborious.
     Marlin was weak, and the world around him was losing its colors. If only it would finally get out, he thought.
     And then, one day, it broke free. Marlin awoke and realized that it was no longer there. He touched the spot with his fingers, but there was only a hardening, like a scar. It no longer moved, it was gone.
     He felt relieved, strong, newborn. Something fluttered against the pane of the large window, and when Marlin looked up, he saw that it was a butterfly with golden wings.

        (Copyright Lucien Deprijck, from: "Besuch bei Stephen Crane", Norderstedt 2005)

     Don‘t go through that Door!

     Jelednah was serious, and his voice sounded worried. That was strange for us, who didn't yet know what worry was.
     He's changed, we said. He‘s not like he used to be, not kind, not gentle.
     Did we do anything to upset him?
     We saw Jelednah walking across the meadows and along the sandy banks by the river. Restlessness had gripped him.
     I must go, he said. It's time to go, for I have a mission to fulfill.
     We sensed something in his voice that we couldn't explain.
     When will you come back? we asked. But he just looked into the distance, at the sandy hills on the horizon.
     Mark my words, said Jelednah. Stay in the meadows, down here by the river. Don't go out, for out there it's not like here.
     We didn't know what lay beyond the wall that enclosed the meadows by the river. We lived by the river. It had always been that way, for as long as we could remember. The wall was high and smooth, and impossible to see across. Only from the river could one see the branches of gnarled trees overhead, and beyond them, the hills that marked the horizon.
     Our gaze involuntarily wandered to the door through which Jelednah came and went. We had never seen it, but we thought so.
     Don't go through that door, he said. Wait here! Stay on this side of the wall, here by the water!
     Jelednah was gone, and the days passed. We were alone. Something tormented us, made us uneasy. We didn't know what or why.
     On the fifth day, I felt Saradneh behind me, the wind blowing strands of her long black hair against my shoulder.
     "Is it open?" she asked.
     As we approached, we saw that it wasn't locked, and when I pushed against it with my hand, I felt it give way and open a crack.
     We walked through, to the other side, and before us lay the vastness of the plain and the entire expanse of the sky. Something had changed, and when our eyes met, uncertain and shy, I suddenly saw how beautiful Saradneh was. I had never noticed it before.
     Why had I ever been that blind?
     Only much later a question entered my mind that has tormented me all the while. Since the days in the walled area by the river, when Jelednah left and we waited for him in vain.
     So many questions tormented us. What was it that had changed Jelednah so much? Where had he gone, and why did he never return?
     Saradneh says it's our fault. Because we didn't listen to him. So, as a punishment, he never came back. But I don't believe that.
     And this certain question remains.
     If we weren't supposed to go out, why wasn't the door locked?
Today I know that even that wouldn't have stopped us. And that it's so much easier to force your way through a locked door than to go through one you just need to open.

        (Copyright Lucien Deprijck, from: "Besuch bei Stephen Crane", Norderstedt 2005)

     Night of the sinking Ships

     If I tell you my story, after all these years, will you believe it? And will I ever believe it myself?
     But it is true, it all happened. More than one ship went down that night. Another one nobody ever mentioned, noone ever missed. Its existence and failure has sunk into the unknown.
     I see myself, ditching on a bitterly cold night, stepping into a lifeboat. It was eerie: the sea was completely still, a smooth, wide surface, and above us the stars. I have never seen such a starry sky.
     The ship sank. Nothing we could do about it. The pumps had stopped working and the water just flowed in. It all happened very quickly. We couldn't even call for help, there was no radio. And if there had been one, we wouldn't have had time to make use of it.
     The others down in the quarters were lost. Only Munro and I made it into the dinghy. Which was damaged in the collision. We found ourselves in complete darkness on an endless expanse, only to discover that the boat was also slowly filling up with water. Our rescue wouldn‘t last for long.
     And so we drifted through the darkness, two men who couldn't doubt for a second that their lives were coming to an end.
     We couldn't even see each other. The terrible cold crept into our limbs and the boat slowly but surely sank over the bow into the water. A more hopeless situation seemed hardly conceivable: we had nothing to bail but our hands – which would freeze if we used them. Of course we tried. You try everything when it comes to survival. But it was pointless. With cold, stiff fingers and wet, half-frozen feet, we crouched in the stern, which rose further and further out of the water. Sat there and waited for us to die. Not silent; we talked again and again, frantically, panic-stricken, but I could hardly say what it was that we really talked about. Except Munro‘s lament about his daughters, whom he would never meet again. And that he would never see the grandson that one of them expected.
     It was only after a while, when I touched him because he ceased responding, that I realized how little he was wearing. I was better off. While being on guard duty I had put on my fur jacket. Munro was old and skinny. He simply froze to death. Soon he stopped moving and gave no more signs of life.
     Not being able to save him was the worst thing that night. To this day and every day of my life the same thoughts always haunt me: If only I had tried harder, if only I had spared a little more strength, just a tiny bit, then maybe I would have succeeded after all. Even though I know full well that I have done everything and further efforts would only have sealed my own end.
     Drifting slowly into nowhere I suddenly started to wonder. If there was something ahead, what could it be? At first it was only an outline in the dark. Not bright, not white. In fact, the stars ahead on the port side were no longer visible, as if they were obscured by something. Then I recognized the outline, then the reflection in the starlight.
     An iceberg.
     At this point Munro had already broken off for good.
     An iceberg had been our undoing hours ago, and another might now be our salvation. It was a daring, almost nonsensical idea. Stranded on an iceberg? Was that even possible? And if so, what was the point? Of course it was unthinkable to survive there.
     But this was the only way out, albeit an absurd one.
     And at least I wouldn't freeze to death in the sea, I wouldn't drown. At least not so quickly. When it comes to dying, any delay is welcome. There and then I realized that you can't help but grasp at any straw. Reason is switched off. All that's left is wild hope, just this sheer will to live.
     Landing there was so absurdly easy. The sea was as smooth as glass. It drove the boat exactly there, horribly, nerve-wrackingly slowly, but very precisely. It was a colossus, it towered huge and steep, but it was flat on one side, and I clung to it and pulled myself out of the boat. I managed to hold on to it, but could not pull Munro towards me. He was old and not heavy, but meanwhile my hands and arms were almost numb, so he slipped out of my fingers and disappeared in the darkness within a moment. Often and often I calmed my conscience with the assurance that he was already dead anyway.
     And then I was alone. All on my own. A greater and more absurd loneliness cannot be imagined. Alone at night on an iceberg in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
     I remember screaming. Screaming at God. Did it please him to mock me? And what had I done to deserve it? But soon I fell silent again. I recoiled from the awe-inspiring silence, its absoluteness intimidated me like a cheeky child.
     I had managed to climb this berg. It wasn't smooth and slippery like you always imagine. The surface was rough, not even shining white in the starlight. Old, I thought. Somehow it seemed old to me, as if it had been wandering the northern seas for a long time or had only recently been part of a solid ice sheet. I sat alone on a mass of ice, slowly drifting south, without the slightest hope of rescue. I knew I would freeze to death within the next few hours. I wouldn't even live to see the mountain melt and perhaps tip over.
     Sometimes when I lifted my head, crouched as I was, all I saw was darkness. Nothing but darkness. And darkness again. But I lifted my head nonetheless. Looked up. Looked around. Until at some point I saw ...
     ... a light.
     My thoughts were still clear, so it made me smile. Wishful thinking, I told myself, a hallucination.
     But when I lifted my head again, it was still there. It grew bigger, came closer. Closer and closer and closer.
     A ship! And it was heading almost straight towards me.
     It would pass, I thought, of course. It would pass at some distance. I stood up, gestured like mad and shouted, waving my arms, yelling into the darkness with all my remaining strength. An amazingly unsuspected power reserve coming out of nowhere.
     Of course no one heard me. Nobody could. The noise of the engines and the fairway, and the music that came from on board – I heard piano playing and violins. The vessel lay there before me beautifully, like a mirage, a festively lit steamer, big, it seemed, amazingly big. Gigantic. I wondered. Who ever built a ship as huge as this!
     Still it came closer. Much closer than I ever dared hope. Too close! Then finally, I heard the bell ring from over there. Way too late. I stood frozen, I had stopped waving and just stood there as if paralyzed. I am dreaming, I thought. Of course I am dreaming. Sometimes in our dreams we recognize being in a dream, just the way I recognized it right now.
     Then the collision knocked me off my feet and I fell. Somehow I managed to cling on, to get stuck on an ice ledge. I felt the shock as the ship's hull scraped against the side of the iceberg. Saw the deck below me ...
     ... and let myself fall.
     The impact was hard. Ruggedly I fell onto the planks, a sharp pain shot through the entire left half of my body.
     Someone was there, right beside me. A crewman, it seemed.
     “Why … where the hell did you spring up from … all of a sudden?”
     "I … I …"
     “Come on, I’ll help you up. Were you hit by the ice chunks?”
     “Uh … yeah … yeah.”
     As I looked around I saw them lying on the deck, some of good size.
     “Come in. You're completely frozen! What’s wrong … can’t you go?”
     “My leg …” I groaned. “I think it’s broken.”
     Then I found myself in bright light, felt the warmth of a fire, they gave me something to drink and let me sink into an armchair. Where I collapsed, totally exhausted.
     “Put this man here in the lifeboats!”
     This happened a good hour and a half later, when the ship was already sinking and leaning significantly over the bow.
     “So sorry, Sir – women and children first!”
     “This man is seriously injured, can’t you see that? Let's go! Help him down!”
     I was hoisted into one of the lifeboats, which, only half full, sailed out into the night. I barely understood what was happening. I could hardly think clearly. How many more times should I be shipwrecked that night?
     There were screams of people calling for help. They came from all directions. Some of them still ring in my ears today.
     And then the cold penetrated my limbs, again. I lay wrapped in blankets, only my eyes and nose uncovered. I dozed off, but the pain kept waking me up, which now became even stronger.
     “Still nothing in sight?”
     "Nothing."
     “Go on, we stay on course.”
     I lay there, trying to endure the pain without groaning. This whole odyssey, I thought, the crazy events of that night, couldn't have been in vain. Saved three times, for nothing? And no one to find us?
     I looked up at the stars, whose glow was beginning to fade. If only we could be found soon, I thought. I could claim to be one of the passengers. That was the easiest thing; there were always discrepancies on the lists. I don't really know why I took a decision like that. Probably because I knew I couldn't tell the truth. Stranded on an iceberg and then saved by a sinking steamer? Nobody would ever believe it.
     At last, in the first light of the new day, a ship came into view.
     It was the Carpathia. The date: April 15, 1912.

                           (Copyright Lucien Deprijck, from: "Mit anderen Worten", Ratingen 2016)