Muddy Stories

Three days. Three days of sweat, of grime, of the unmistakable scent of rubber and earth clinging to their skin like a second layer. Ben and Klaus had been living in their gear—sleeping in it, working in it, eating in it. The orange coveralls were stiff with dried mud and sweat, the rubber of their waders and gloves softened from constant wear, molded to their bodies as if they’d been born in them. Ben’s coverall bore a jagged hole at the back, right over his ass, the edges frayed from use but small enough to go unnoticed by their colleagues.

The gravel plant was finally silent, the last of the crew just gone. Ben had spent the day counting the minutes, his mind racing with anticipation. When the final whistle blew, he made his way to Klaus’s office, his heart pounding.
Klaus was waiting for him, leaning against his desk. The office was dim, the only light coming from a single desk lamp. On the table lay a black gasmask with a long, coiled hose attached. Klaus picked it up, turning it over in his hands. “Found this in the storage shed,” he said, his voice low. “Thought you might like it.”

More than a few weeks had passed since Ben’s life-changing encounter with the mud pit. The memory of that day—his body sinking, the pressure, the helplessness, the overwhelming pleasure—had haunted him ever since. He found himself returning to the pit whenever he could, always under the guise of “inspecting the drainage” or “clearing debris.” His boss, Herr Weber, had given him a few odd looks, but never asked questions. Ben assumed his boss just thought he was particularly thorough.

original story by moritz. translated, revised and expanded by Moorer

One fateful, warm morning, I woke to the sound of birds chirping—a gentle reminder that another good day awaited. Living in a wooden cabin deep in the woods had its perks: the golden sunrise painting the sky, the earthy scent of fresh clay and mud lingering in the air, and, best of all, having my buddy Alexis as my roommate.

Chapter 11.

Across the area that evening, three very different conversations occurred simultaneously. One incredulous, one horrified, one involving diplomatic skill.

Sitting with a pint in his local, Dermot was explaining in amused terms what had happened when his unnamed employer attacked his new lad. His mates found it funny and shocking. A discussion followed about assault, theft and abusing trust. To say nothing about somebody being a bit cocky !

Four miles away, Lee's mother refused to let him over the threshold !

Ethan woke up to the sound of birds chirping outside his window. Getting out of bed, he looked out of the window: the sun was shining and the ground was clearly still wet from last night’s rain. “This is going to be a fun day.”, he thought to himself.

Under the gnarled branches of the old oak by the dairy barn, Alan and Liam leaned in close over a battered picnic table. Alan, forty and chair of the local Farmers’ Association, was every inch the robust countryman—slightly muscular, hands calloused from milking and machinery, and eyes that brightened at the very thought of fresh cow pie. His easy laugh and genuine warmth had made him a favourite in the village.

Not sure if this is the right forum section for this, but:

Imagine medieval streets.

Everyone in boots, wading through a mixture of mud and horse crap, possibly even getting splashed with it by carriages or hooves.

So for those who don’t know I’m a delivery driver and this weekend I was sent to do a drop off at an oil refinery. Not somewhere the job would usually take me but I couldn’t complain and in all fairness really hope it happens again.
So to cut a long story short there was a bit of a complication with the delivery and I was asked to go inside to sort it.