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The Hound of the Hawlers
The Hound of the Hawlers
Published by Nemonymous
The Hound of the Hawlers

In the 1950s, I read a book as a child that I had by now forgotten; it came back to me gradually, not in one fell swoop. A library book, you know the sort: plain weathered beige mottled hardboard covers with a little thin cardboard pocket stuck inside and a piece of paper also stuck with a list or rubber-stamped return-by dates. There were also official marks denoting which library, and perforations patterned as some sort of catalogue code. And several weatherings and tiny foreign bodies. Thatís all I remembered except the title had HOUND in it. The authorís name escaped me, until I eventually visualised the spine Ė HODDER & STOUGHTON flooded into my mind at the bottom of the spine. Well, thatís a good start. I closed my eyes and tried to extend my visualisation to the rest of the book. The name of the author was there, staring at me, but I couldnít make it become entire shapes like words. A peculiar experience seeing real words that I knew was someoneís name, not being able to vocalise them to myself with conceivable articulation. The title in full then suddenly flashed before me as if in a dream, although I knew it wasnít a dream. THE HOUND OF THE HAWLERS. Not Baskervilles. If it had been Baskervilles, I would have known the authorís name on the spine was Arthur Conan Doyle. I reached out and was shocked to discover that I could actually touch the book, feel the marbled surface of the cover, and finger the frayed edges of a rotten spine. In fact, I could put my whole finger inside the spine. I then riffled the pages and saw panoplies of text shuttle past like an old-fashioned flicker of cards making a cartoon image move. But here, they were words moving, marching with their letters. I threw the whole thing away from me in disgust. And it thumped on the floor with sickening finality. It really existed. I looked through the window, having not closed my eyes as I had originally thought. I saw an ancient coal-lorry from the 1950s parked outside, then shadowy haulers with sacks on their backs approaching the house's fossil fuel bay. For some strange reason, I shrugged and remembered the return-by dates. There was no way I could re-new the book on-line with the library. And it was my name that I had seen on the spine and so I knew that I am probably dead like all 1950s authors were mostly now dead. Night closed in and the only sounds were the distant howling of some gigantic hound and coal slowly settling in the basement bunker.
15 Thanks From:
DarkView (11-18-2016), Dr. Locrian (11-18-2016), Draugen (11-27-2016), Druidic (11-18-2016), Ibrahim (11-18-2016), Lord Jim (11-19-2017), miguel1984 (11-18-2016), Mr. Veech (11-18-2016), Pharpetron (11-19-2016), Robert Adam Gilmour (11-20-2016), Uitarii (11-20-2016), With Strength I Burn (11-18-2016), xylokopos (11-19-2016), yellowish haze (11-18-2016), Zaharoff (05-04-2017)
By Nemonymous on 11-19-2016
Re: The Hound of the Hawlers

Brazen bump.
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By Mr. Veech on 11-27-2016
Re: The Hound of the Hawlers

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By Nemonymous on 11-28-2016
Re: The Hound of the Hawlers

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By Druidic on 11-28-2016
Re: The Hound of the Hawlers

A great piece, Des. I wish I had written it.
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By Nemonymous on 11-30-2016
Re: The Hound of the Hawlers

Thanks, Druidic.
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By Nemonymous on 11-18-2017
Re: The Hound of the Hawlers

A year ago.
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hawlers, hound

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