Mike O'Doone - part 3

Hello everybody, as promised here is my story part 3! This is getting exciting and I still don't know where it will end up. The bits and pieces slowly reveal themselves to me and I'm enjoying the process of writing it. 

It was already around 1 o'clock in the morning when Mike finished with his dinner. At first he thought that a meatloaf and bread would be enough to satisfy his growling stomach, but it still kept complaining.

“Do you still have some of that apple pie left?”

“I must say, you have quite a big stomach for the man of your size.”

“I've seen stranger things than the size of my stomach. You didn't answer my question.”

“Would two big slices be enough for you?”

“We'll see.”

The waiter disappeared behind the door and once again Mike was left alone. This time the fireplace was emitting very little heat, and if someone was still sitting in the dining room...and Mike knew that someone was there...they easily remained unseen. Mike tried to push his eyes to scan the darkness and just as he was getting better at it a sound of opening door made him forget all about the possible danger. He just remembered how hungry he was.

The smell of dough and hot, almost melted apples with cinnamon and sugar topping was incredibly inviting. He put the first slice in his mouth and felt it almost melt on his tongue.

“Compliments to the cook.”

“My wife will be pleased. I must ask you to hurry up, though. It's dangerous to be out on these streets when it's so late. You wouldn't want to be caught by the patrol, right?”

“Good point. How much do I owe you for dinner?”

“It's on the house.”

For the moment Mike thought to take that offer but then changed his mind.

“I prefer to keep my relationships as clean as possible. How much?”

The old man gave him the bill and Mike payed it without blinking. Then he said his goodbyes and stepped out on the cold. The weather made his lungs freeze but for some reason he welcomed it. It felt comforting, clearing his mind, making it a blank sheet of paper. He felt the key in his pocket and pushed it inside the keyhole. It didn't resist. Closing the door he lit the candle that stood on a little table that he found in the attic and brought it downstairs with him. He illuminated the room as much as he could.

“Home sweet home...” He whispered. 

As soon as Mike left the the pub, a shadowy creature that caught Mike's attention stood up and approached the bar.

“He's asking too much questions. He is a threat.”

“And what do we do with threats?” Smiled the waiter.

“We eliminate them!” He said and they both roared with laughter. Mike O'Doone...you better be prepared.

English (Russian) vs. my mother's tongue

Here's another curious question that most people who know me can't really get; why on God's Earth do I write in English and Russian language when I am perfectly capable, and definitely successful since the early age, of writing in my native language?!
Well...as much as can write in my native language, the reason why I'm drawn to English and Russian is because they have nuances of one particular word. What I mean is, you take a word in English (or Russian) and look it up in some reference book, such as Thesaurus and you can see all the other soft and fine possibilities that can be used instead of that word. And it is well known that changing a word can change and set a completely different mood to the story.
Croatian doesn't have that many words that could mean the same, and it's not tactile, whereas Russian and English are. And so...when I want to describe a particular scene in Croatian most of the times it sounds unnatural; unconvincing. But when I write in English I know exactly what 'nuance' of the word I must use to get the wanted impact on the story. And besides, although nor English nor Russian are my native language I consider them to be so.

Do you write in a language different to your own?

Mike O'Doone - part 2

The weather outside was cold and Mike was glad that the pub was just a few footsteps away from his new home. In fact, it was both a blessing and a practicality, since his new home didn't have a kitchen. He opened the heavy door of a house painted in soft pink color. A bit unusual color for the pub, Mike thought. But hey, as long as he can get something to eat he couldn't care less if the pub was coated in gold.
As soon as he opened the door he was washed with a smell of freshly homemade bread and meat loaf. Wooden walls covered the entire interior, a few big chandeliers were placed on the ceiling in even distance, casting a heavy, dimmed light across the room. A big fireplace leaned against the wall on the right was turned on, giving Mike pleasant chills all over his body. He needed this pleasant warmth. There were only a few people inside, sitting around the biggest round, heavy wooden table and whispering beneath their breaths. Mike looked at them and his stomach turned over. There was something so scary about them, but he couldn't decide what exactly. They looked as any other person he met on his way here. Deciding not to give it any more thought he went to the middle of the room where the waiter was cleaning big, heavy ales of beer behind the bar. Mike sat down and the waiter nodded at him.
"What can I help you with, sir?"
"Well this ale of beer seems appealing. And whatever you're cooking at the back...I'll take some of it as well."
"A man with a sense of pleasure and taste. We don't get many of them around."
"Well I'm here to stay. You'll get used to it."
The waiter nodded and went to the kitchen. Mike slightly turned his head over his shoulder just to meet with a steady gaze of a man whose eyes were shaded with his cowboy-like hat. Mike shuddered despite the pleasant heat radiating from the fireplace. The waiter came in carrying a tray of meat loaf and a double-sized ale of dark beer.
"Anything else?"
Mike waved his head in negation. This was just enough. Just as he was about to take the first bite he heard a stool behind him scratch the floor. The man who stared at him just a moment ago stood up and worked his way towards him. He was much taller than Mike, with much more muscles.
"What is your business here, stranger?"
"I keep my business to myself. I'd prefer it to remain that way."
The man growled in rage and grabbed Mike's collar, lifting him up from the stool and pressing him against the wall.
"You don't know what you're getting yourself into, here. You better watch your back everywhere you go."
Mike closed his eyes and stopped breathing because the odor coming from the man's mouth was unbearable.
"Beau, leave the man alone. He just came here to eat."
"He's moved into the old house, didn't you know that?"
"Of course I knew that! Everybody knows it for days now. But I'm telling you, let him eat his dinner in peace."
Beau reluctantly removed his hands off of his collar and went back to his buddies at the table. Mike got back on his seat and started eating his dinner.
"You'll have to forgive him, his wife passed away recently. He means no harm."
"That's not what it sounds like." Mike muttered.
"He's just barking. He won't bite. But I would like to give you a friendly advice; don't ask too many questions. They're not welcome here."
Mike looked at his plate. Suddenly the place seemed hostile. But he had his own agenda in this town and, by god, he will see it through!