Ferro Et Igni


As I write my last public address (Do give us a hand, please) I am clenching my breasts in my palms
I recall my early youth
Sometimes the light is born within me
Very noticeable
More fervent than the dawn of time, priests would say
Mostly I feel the night inside me
riddled with bullets and bloody wolf hunts,
FERRO ET IGNI
I adore the deos until after their ouster
They aim for my life, appear to me with claws and marks
Through dubious astrological trials.

L.S

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Quest


Who am I looking for?
What am I looking for?

The tick of the clock with the speed of a rabbit
who heard a hum and trembled?
The woman painted on the Wall of Wails…?
there is no tenderness in painted picture,
it is a feeling of a constant thwack.

I am amid the cold, vacant garden,
spotted glasses and broken mirrors.
thrown in the dirt, into the murky water
wormy from piss, filthy from mud

(The world can be horrible, but not dirty. And all that disgust, I kept my good taste.)

Though petty illusions were bringing short term relief,
I yawningly hit the little drums while walking the streets of same dark city
beneath the clouds who are like bulletproof vests.

Grandfather’s coat


in me there is nothing out of the ordinary.
(maybe I was a writer by accident?)
the tiny veins of my mind in my head made a Gordi’s knot.
all of it is delirium.
all of it is to be buried in the depth, silence and darkness,
into the dreamy eternity of death.

In the evening, around eight o’clock,
I rushed towards the trench shotgun with the desire to end my misery.
I ate two slices of pizza from the local bakery
and like a condemned woman, I prepared for my queer – death.

I wore my grandfathers war vest,
my great-grandfather’s dandy coat and my great-grandfather’s father’s shoes laced with camel hair.

Without any discomfort (except nausea)
in a suitcase I packed the cut out mask.
underneath it indulgences, with instructions to be read at daybreak:
„I do not fear death, until the mortician.
They scheme around
the coffin. Stopple the tragedy like a sea-shell.”

Beside absurd begins the strategy.
the wheels of the little machine drill,
she! Grinds the finger rolled in gunpowder with the trigger
like in the dough,
illuminates the brain with destructive noise.
may they fire, the clerk murderer should fire and all those others
who will after the shot carry me out in pieces.

Речник бесмисла, аутор Борис K.


Поштовани пр мр др кррр Примомолбићу,

Прилажем уверљивих 25 бланко прича не бих ли добио стално место професора на Философском факултету Феноменопублике (бесмисленијег места нисам могао да се сетим). За ову тему сам се одлзчио будући да њом могу да представим, како себе, тако и своје ставове о животу и савременој литератури болје него што би то урадили философски свеци у вечном јуришу за апсолутном нирваном. Никад, господине, др мр Примомолбићу, нисам могао да схватим да се на тему постојања може другачије дискутовати. Сваки читалац ће из празне шкољке постојања коју нудим применом мог философског система и метода, захватити бисер смисла који ће му грејати душу до последњех уздаха и даха..

  1. Почетак: Прво слово речника
  2. …………………………… 16

25. Крај и последње слово речника

Аутор: Борис К.

Извори: · „Историјат писане речи на празном папиру“, () (1957), Boris K. ·
„Не осећам се као код куће“, (Феноменопубличка библиотека) (1979)
· „Транспарентно, волим те, транспарентно“ (Трансџендер студије) (1946)
· „Зашто отуђење? (École Primaire Socrates et Démosthenes) (333. п.н.е), аутор непознат
“Одсјај ништавила на секири џелата нихилисте” (Henry VIII Sparknotes) ( 1857), Henry VIII · „Писма имагинарном роботу“, Odd Future Urban Cookie Collective College, Lecturers, Belgrade, професори Никоговић и Бесмисленовић
·„Од колевке до калашњикова“, Oд Садама па до гроба, путописи, Удај Хусеин
“Приручник за сепуку”, древни јапански списи

 

Борис К. у Јапану, Борис К. вол 2, неуређено, али блиставо читљиво!


Борис К. никако није могао да се скраси у једном стану након трауматичног искуства са Фрау Сузи. “Баксуз сам! А тражим тако мало. Тек место које је безбедно и у којем се може добро живети.” Борис К. није чак могао да пронађе цео целцати стан без кратера у поду, ил’ са кога се мал’ мал’ зидови не би рушили. Фрижидер је био луксуз, о шпорету с ринглама да не говоримо.“Водоводне инсталације макар да раде.. и струја! Зар много тражим?”, кукао је Борис К. Током шест бурних година Борис К. променио је 23 стана, Поменућемо само три надасве занимљива случаја…

Једном је Борис примио шахт у закуп, склопивши уговор са Канализанцима, који су инсистирали да Борис као вредан привредник редовно чисти Државне фекалије и обавља ситне оправке Канализационој пореској управи. “Ово је превише! Уводе ми и порез не само на фекалије које сам сакупио, већ и на оне које нисам”, помислио је орис К.самоуверено искочивши из шахта. Пратио га је сабласан смех малих, злобних створења уз повике: “Вратићеш се! Немаш куда. Сви су луђи него ми.!” Борис К. се брзо уверио да Канализанци говоре истину. Ипак, мислио је да је напокон нашао оно што је тражио изнајмивши укусно намештену сојеницу у јапанском стилу на острву Гуаму. Име станодавца било је Шојоши Јокои. Некад регрут империјалне царске армије, борио се у Гуаму четрдесет и неке. Због херојства био је произведен у поручника јапанске царске армије. Сојеница је била опремљена у зен стилу, одишући спокојем и мирном једноставношћу. Шојаши се смртно увредио на помен речи депозит, а све што је искао од Бориса је да му понекад прави друштво уз јапански чај. “Мори ме носталгија за Другим светским ратом.”, објаснио је Шојоши. Борис К. је био одушевљен!

Шојоши је носио јаку шминку у оријенталном стилу, као и перику, налик на дугу женску смеђу косу “То је харајуку слатка лолита. Четрдесет прве модни хит међу војницима на Гуаму.” – рече Шојаши и додаде: “Мрзим еру интернета, све те новотарије, Борисе К. Традиционалне јапанске вредности су јак осећај за заједницу, солидарност и концензус! Захваљујући томе скршили смо отпор америчких маринаца у Првој бици… А не као данас, свако за себе”.. , заплакао је од жала за старим добрим временима остарели поручник Шојоши, рикугун схои.

И још рече: “Модерна.. Ударац у леђа! На кварно и отпозади! Па и спреда! Из разних поза.. – збунио се на тренутак Шојоши – све је то путаро, кучка, Борисе К. Уместо да користе реални сепуку, они се играју виљушкама. Аматери”, огорчено ће Шојоши, затресавши периком. И заплака. Од носталгичних суза шминка му је лила низ лице, нагаравивши га, чинећи контраст низу блиставо белих, искежених зуба..”Допадаш ми се, Борисе К. Подсећаш ме делом и ликом на драгог ми.. палог часника у Другој бици код Гуама.”Сваког јутра Шојоши му је готово присно говорио: конницхиња, Борис К. а сваке вечери му се обраћао са: оyасуми насаи, Борис К. Он  је,, разнежен Шојашијевом храброшћу, помно слушао јапанчеве авантуре са Гуама. Чак му није сметало што газда Јапанац улази у сојеницу на Гуаму без најаве и у носиљци седи, не престаје да прича, уз јапански чај, па и за време Борисовог одсуства. Као да се обраћао драгој утвари, расплесаном духу који би се појављивао ниоткуда тек нехотичним Шоншијевим подсећањем на далека времена и кога је само Шонши могао видети. “Ето, тако су америчке снаге поново освојиле острво, а ја сам након тога отишао у илегалу”, напокон је завршио своју причу херој са Гуама.Наједном, Шојоши, уз бојни поклич ниоткуда исуче самурајску сабљу : бонсаиии! кутаварееее!, потапша престрављеног Бориса К катаном по глави и рече:

“Фузакеру на, Борис К. Ти си један бедни yатсуме! – Шојоши ће у сопрану, након чега брзим покретом скиде дуге, лажне трепавице и грчевитим покретом стргао перику са главе. Беше ружнији од гуамског пса без косе и сиса дужих од ногу. “Омаре којосу, ако ме не будеш волео, Борисе К., катаном ћу ти средити фризуру а ла камиказе!” – и пакосно рече: Уговор о закупнини сојенице је истекао. Други светски рат се управо завршио!” Борис К. крикну и потрча колико га ноге носе, а распомамљени Шојоши за њим, алии з пета Бориса К. провалише громови и он побеже веома далеко, брзином антíлопе, сакривши се у унутрашњост острва, у у пећину џунгле у Гуаму где је цимеровао с одбеглим карабаом, животињом сличном бизону. Шојошиа је, пак, ишчекивао ноћима и данима, у непојмљивом страху. Како би нешто шушнуло, Борис К. би се ознојен скрио у мрак пећине, замишљајући транџираног Јапанца како га тражи са зарђалом пушком у руци.

“Мора да сам некако кроз Шојашијеве приче доспео на Гуам, а година је четрдесет четврта. Још само да сачекам ослободилачке летке и да одем кући..”

Након двадесет осам година, Борис К. је изашао из пећине. Карабао је умро. Борис К. није остарео нити часа. Након тога, Борис се више ничег није бојао, иако су следећи станодавци били кудикамо чуднији од Шојашија. Један је боловао од фетус ин фете, дочекавши с трудничким стомаком и уговором о закупнини Бориса К. – За девет месеци очекујем принову, зато издајем на краће – поштено ће станодавац, најавивши рођење гротескног брата близанца. Након рођења чудовишта, газди Фетусу а Фете је био потребан додатни простор, те је Борис К. морао да се сели и из тог стана.

“The Adventures of Boris K by Leila Samarrai”, LOOK BACK IN LAUGHTER, Aleksandar Novaković


“The Adventures of Boris K by Leila Samarrai”, LOOK BACK IN LAUGHTER, Aleksandar Novaković

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aleksandar_Novakovi%C4%87

DYSTOPIAN ADVENTURES

This collection of thematically and temporally interconnected stories (which would make some readers hastily declare it a novel), published two years ago by „Everest Media“, represents a piece which, due to many of its features, stands out from the contemporary Serbian literary production. There is something, at its core, surprising in the author Leila Samarrai’s approach. While most Serbian authors, be they genre authors or not, tend to follow the „treaded paths“, with the aforementioned authoress you have to, quite literally, “machete” through the jungle of meaning, historical, cultural and pop-cultural references, citations, transrational twists reminiscent of the Monty Python-esque brand of humor and the long-ago relevant bebop jokes which are insistent on nonsense and complete absence of catharsis. Ultimately, comedy, like satire, opposite to tragedy, is turned to anti-catharsis. The authoress’ style also contains traces of Daniil Kharms’ “Incidences”, as well as, obviously (nomenestomen(tion)), a Kafka-esque paranoia, where Boris K. is, just as Josef K., a man stuck in a trial (Victor Pelevin would call it a transition from nothing to nothing), as well as a postmodern coquetting with stereotypes, twisting them, with metatextuality. At times one gets the impression that the average reader, whoever or whatever they might be, needs footnotes to understand some of the authoress’ stories fully. But, is that really necessary and are we, actually, indulging this imaginary reader too much?

TRAGICAHMEDY

If she wanted to, the authoress could have gone the easier route: “premasticate” the prologue, shorten the stories, simplify the characters to the level of stickmen, halve the book and sell it at the stand of, as our Croatian neighbors adequately put it, a pimped-out publisher. But that was not the case. What’s more, had this been done it would have been rather predictable and mediocre. This way, we have a layered tale before us of a man who, at his core, “is similar to us, but better than us” (the definition of a tragic hero) and is cast in this hodgepodge of a world which is falling to pieces. Situated, not by accident, in Phenomenonpublic, a pseudo-country and a pseudo-democracy, Boris K. is a man whose life, identity, life circumstances, the world around him, all change faster than the statuses on social networks. Boris K. is “a 21st century boy – everybody’s toy”, but, as the English would say, “nobody’s fool as well”. Speaking of dystopias, we must mention Winston Smith from Orwell’s “1984”. Paranoia and societal pressure exist, Oceania where Smith lives is nothing else but a microcosm in the same manner that Phenomenonpublic is. But, unlike Smith, Boris K. has places to go. Nobody is stopping him. His freedom of choice is, at first glance, absolute. But every so often a self-appointed tribune of the plebs a la Megaimportanceshire can appear who will ruin his good fortune. Let’s not forget: there is a strong satirical lining within these stories, predominantly taking aim against liberal capitalism, kleptarchy, corporations, xenophobia, and prejudices of all kinds. And, of course, what the Phenomenonpublicans love most is to wail for their deceased to whom they attribute traits which, during their lifetime, they had not seen. The living are friable – the dead are indestructible. Sound familiar? It should.

LOOK BACK IN LAUGHTER

Exaggeration, some would say, a baroque approach to the subject matter, others would say, neither should be viewed as a fault. Quite the contrary! Let us remember that one of the greatest satirists, the Irish author Jonathan Swift, had used precisely exaggeration, and even extremely vulgar and gallows humor elements, to adorn Lemuel Gulliver’s wanderings. And this is not odd because it is exactly the grotesque, the banal, the dislocated that remains etched in one’s memory. And it is exactly this quality which exists in Leila Samarrai’s writing and represents the best quality of this collection next to an almost childlike playfulness, humaneness and a parent-like relationship towards the main character. Tales of the travels and troubles of Boris K. present, to the aforementioned imaginary average reader, a sizable challenge. They will try to read it via spacing, to skip, as is their practice with domestic bestseller books, a sentence or two and find themselves in a tight corner. However, if they focus, their efforts will be rewarded. What’s more, they’ll go back and pay attention to a covert joke or quip. They will perceive it either as a part of a bigger story or a standalone tale which does not need to belong to a wider context. Be that as it may, reading this interesting, Hamvasian book will pay off for them, as much as the sequel to Boris’ adventures which, from what I’ve heard, the authoress is bringing to a close.

Aleksandar Novaković

 

Leila Samarrai, Samarra


Leila Samarrai
Samarra

Out there by the Tigris, in all its rivery might, silence and mystery, lies Samarra. It lies there ruined, mutilated, crippled, surrounded by liquid-hot sand which is dyed a deceitful golden hue in the never-rising sun. Instead of vibrant melodies with an oriental tint, on the desolate streets where one can sense a powerful musk of death, sounds of rock and hip-hop booming from the speakers of foreigners’ cars. The American devil, aside from desolation, brought with him the pillars of his own modern culture, as their leaders put it in front of the auditoriums worldwide. A convoy of white armored trucks labeled “UN” would occasionally run by here and there, caring little whether there is any form of life left on the streets, followed by battle-ready hummers from whose machinegun turrets the surrounding nature is slashed across by trigger-happy boys’ eyes hidden beneath dark sunglasses. It is freedom brought over by the conquerors.

All of this was unknown to Aziz Mohammad Sarr man ra’a when he had first heard the voice of an old woman from a humongous airbus E300 Air France, the most state-of-the-art plane and the very pride of its French company. He had never even flown in a plane before. During his twenty-two years of living on this Earth he has not moved a single muscle from his hometown which had slowly but surely been turning into a heap of ruins.

At the very edge of Samarra, out of the remains of an erstwhile airbase of an elite Iraqi revolutionary guard which was wiped out by alliance planes in one fell swoop, dropping at least double the precision guided laser bombs of grand destructive power than it was necessary, blossomed a new, improvised base for training martyrs –suicide pilots.

The global terrorist organization “The Blade of Islam”, backed with seemingly endless financial assets by the secret Arabic businessmen and oil magnate tycoon society dubbed “The Word of Allah”, has been closely monitoring American war operations worldwide, utilizing every available opportunity to redirect their explosive-laden planes, predominantly piloted  by uneducated, young Arab recruits, themselves unaware of what they’re about to do, onto the American troops. Modern guidance, flight control and observation equipment was stored in an old control tower, whose concrete walls were littered with huge gaping holes. Craters on takeoff runways were buried under surrounding shards, not an ideal solution for the takeoff of older Soviet MiG and Sukhoi fighter aircraft models which the organization had at its disposal. The takeoff was important, because this was a one way flight.

For some unexplainable reason the reconnaissance satellites never learned of the existence of this base, nor did the ground patrols passing by it at a distance of mere ten-ish meters. To everyone, aside from those within it, the base was simply invisible. An experienced officer of this organization, a veteran of many terrorist actions, now in charge of recruitment and training of martyrs came to Samarra one day and by way of his story managed to hypnotize a vast number of desperate souls which the war had backed up against the wall. Within this story Aziz saw the chance for vengeance against those who had destroyed his hometown…

Clad in an Iraqi revolutionary guard lieutenant camouflage uniform a few sizes too large, Aziz leisurely clicked the switch to open the cabin door, once, then again, then for the third time… “Damn piece of junk” – he thought for a moment – „No power again! The fuse underneath the control panel must have burned out again. The last one we had.

„Is there an end to this?“ – for the nth time he swore at the organization leaders who have via middlemen purchased obsolete aircrafts out of date even in the former East Germany after the collapse of the Warsaw pact and the USSR troops’ retreat from Eastern Europe. He knew that enormous money was collected from around the world to finance a „greater cause“, he knew that the machines they had had such a hard time with since the day they had been bought were paid a pittance, he knew whose pockets had been filled with the sizable monetary surplus, but… he still wanted to live, at least until the moment when he himself would run his plane into his selected target and join the virgins that would await for him in Heaven, as the training officer had said.

Even though he had spent his whole life in this scorching hot climate, never before until now had it happened to him that he just could not stop sweating, so much so that the blouse could no longer soak in all the liquid pouring out of his body. He was melting and already there was nothing on him left that could melt, he dreamt that he could at least have one more bath, his eyes were clouding up and reflexes slowed in this temperature within the cabin compared to which the fifty degrees outside seemed like a sudden cooldown. Enraged and powerless, with all his remaining strength he whacked the lid of the control panel with his untied combat boot and… the glass dome of the cabin creaked backwards, releasing Aziz from his own private hell.

Aziz then pulled a wrinkled pack of “Lucky Strike” from his soaking wet blouse, the same pack which he had once picked up next to the body of an American marine in a destroyed armored transport vehicle, whom he had at one moment even felt sorry for, naïve as the marine was, sent to this hellhole under the excuse that the basic principles of western democracy should be defended in the Iraqi sand, thousands of miles away from his hometown in Louisiana, Kentucky, Arkansas or wherever. In the rare moments when hatred did not blind him, when reason commandeered his actions, and meeting this soldier, or at least what’s left of him was one of those moments, he kind of found the similarities with this enemy of his, a select nameless individual the news of whose death will only echo in the heads of his closest family interesting.

Out of courtesy he offered what little remained of his cigarettes to the „automatic pilot“, a grown-ups doll clad in a terrorist getup complete with balaclava and an AK-47 in its plastic hands, planted onto the copilot seat, which was found in a dumpster dropped by an Alliance-owned “Hercules” close to the base, because Aziz and his friends put on the British SAS uniforms and fooled the crew of the transport plane. Despite the gravity of their mission and the fact that they had long stopped counting themselves among the living, their sense of humor did not cease to be. Seated comfortably next to the “auto-pilot”, he put his dark “Ray Ban” sunglasses on, the same ones he took from the dead face of the second marine in that very same transporter, a sergeant he did not feel sorry for one tiny bit because even while dead he kept that smug expression on his face typical of outside conquerors when they spoke to Iraqi civilians.

He looked at the stained broken mirror on the cockpit in front of him, next to which lied a framed photo of his kin – his wife, whom he never felt close to since their parents married them when they were barely fifteen, and his daughter who was the one ray of light in his gloomy life, then a burned poster of Angelina Jolie surrounded by smiling children in one of the UN missions in Cambodia. He looked dangerous and this filled him in an instant with a self-satisfaction of sorts. He recalled the letters he had gotten that morning and which were brought to him by a childhood friend, now sergeant Abdulhamid Suleiman Al-Hardanni who would in an hour or so take flight with him towards his own target, a passenger plane Airbus E300 belonging to Air France, he opened the crumpled, filthy envelope which used to be white, but a cold chill deterred him from reading the text. Momentarily he got the feeling of freezing even though it was the hottest day of the year outside. Something was wrong, he knew it instantly, but what? And then, the runway before him became red-hot, the sand around it blinked in a blue-ish tint which made his eyes ache, and across the heavens dark clouds started flying by with ludicrous speed. He jerked in his seat nearly involuntarily grasping the catapult handle which would have sent him well above the craft, and he instinctively searched for the ladder to exit the cabin…

“Damn ladder. No ladder!” – he barked and hopelessly started looking around as if he had known what he wanted to find. And then that voice, the one with nothing human about it, deep, even, calm like still water, and yet non dissimilar to the ghostly growling of the Baskerville hound – the voice which made every nerve in his body numb and every hair on his head stand upright – “They are there. I climbed up those.” – the voice became deeper and more creaky.

At the same time it reminded him of his wife’s fit of anger when she found his box, his precious black box, where he had hidden the ardent correspondence with one Habiba El Harrai, a femme fatale who made all the wives of Samarra fear for their husbands, and of his daughter’s groan when shortly after that he announced that he was sending them to Jordan for an indeterminate amount of time for safety reasons, even though they both knew well that this was a mere excuse and that he really wanted to be left alone with his mistress. After many months spent in the Jordan’s capital, they both complained in correspondence about his dryasdust demeanor, because during this period he had not written to them once, nor phoned, nor sent a message. Aziz was raised and brought up traditionally. According to him, the wife was the property of the husband, who had every right to treat her as was his fancy, to control her life the way he believes he should. Thus he saw this new knowledge as a deathly insult, which made him decide that there was no longer room for the two of them in his life and enjoin the two to obediently pack up and take off to his distant cousin Abid, in Crest Hill, Wyoming, in the USA, far across the Atlantic.

He looked over his shoulder to the space behind him, where his “automatic pilot” should have sat peacefully, but… instead he saw the face of an old woman wearing funeral clothes, contrasted against her surreally pale white face, as if it had been soaked in water for days. He was scared stiff in his seat when he realized he was being watched by empty eye sockets . He turned reflexively and reached for his “beretta” which was in the compartment to his left, even though subconsciously he knew that nothing was going to change even if he were to fire his whole round into this unreal apparition. Fast like he had never been before he reached for his gun and pointed it at…his “automatic pilot”, who reacted to this performance with workaday indifference.  The old woman was gone, her voice vanished… the disquiet and panic remained. “The letters! Where are my letters!” – went through his head.

All the letters from Habiba he kept in a black box under his control panel, the same black box that took on the role of the Apple of discord in his marriage. He was relieved! The box still stood motionless in its spot. Then he heard on the radio-communicator in his cabin the call from his training officer that the time had come to implement the will of Allah. “Already! How, it’s only been a couple of seconds…” – Aziz had completely lost the idea of the time passed which his wristwatch had confirmed for him. Time flows differently in a parallel universe which he had come into contact with! He somehow managed to concentrate and give out the takeoff order. Abdulhamid and himself had the same mission. One of them, whoever, had to take down the Airbus E300 of Air France over the Mediterranean sea, inside of which, allegedly, a high-ranking Pentagon intelligence officer had been travelling incognito. Abdulhamid set his armrests, unlocked the controls and started pressing routinely the numerous switches on the control panel in the provided sequence. He had mastered the training remarkably well. Hence why he was given the honor of being among the ones to perform the first suicide mission within the Samarra terrorist cell’s organization. The takeoff from the scabrous, damaged runway went worryingly smooth… there was a scream in the distance!

The voice clenched Aziz’s neck like a tight rope. It howled in his auricles, which started to prickle from it. He tried shutting the scream out with his hands, but despite this it became squeakier, thinner, more horrid. He lost control over his plane. On the copilot seat behind him, the old woman sat. She held the black box in the palm of her hand, not unlike his own, but somewhat smaller – “Open the box.” – she said, this time it was a deep, emotionless voice. Aziz turned around, but could not find his own black box of letters. He extended his hand towards the old woman – “A child’s variant” – she laughed daemonically, as she was leaning over him with the creak of her voice that sent chill down one’s spine – “Kill Abdulhamid, Aziz! Kill or…”

The passengers of the Airbus E300 of Air France on the Damascus-Washington line were, each in their own way, passing the time during their several hours long flight. Some were napping, some nonchalantly leafed through the many magazines printed in several world languages, others still were watching something on the internal television or were having their meal, a group of Arabian businessmen, who were occupying the business class, was vehemently discussing the prices of crude oil on the world market. The aircraft had been above the Mediterranean for a while now, on the standard cruise altitude of 10.000 meters. A girl was sitting by the window with her doleful gaze pointing ahead. For but a brief moment she glanced through the window and froze. She only managed to utter the following – “Mommy, mommy, quick, look at this…”

Abdulhamid swiftly pulled the control stick towards himself and increased the velocity of his flying bomb. The plane growled and got on course of direct collision with the colossus. The explosive detonator was set to activate during any intense impact… this collision was one nobody could survive. Parts of the destroyed airbus were comingled with the charred dismembered human body parts and scattered around  formiles. During all this, Aziz was overcome with madness in the other plane. Amid hysteria he alternated between laughing and trembling in fear, not registering Abdulhamid’s final “ALLAHU AKBAR” in his headphones, not noticing the powerful bang in the distance, when…

The rescue teams couldn’t do much the morning after. They managed to find merely the sporadic remains of the terrorist attack, but were left in wonder that an untouched body floated onto the surface. It was a very wrinkly old woman with her eyes closed, as if she fell asleep, her face pale, almost white, even though her arms were livid due to water. Next to her corpse a singular black box floated.

Around noon the Arab television station “Al Jazeera” broadcast the video delivered to it by some covert channels and with masked armed men on it reading some pages from the Muslim holy book, letting the viewer know that there were many more martyrs ready for the biggest sacrifice in the name of Allah and that the fate of Airbus E300 of Air France was awaiting other infidels as well… the standard rhetoric of all fundamentalist terrorist organizations.

Getting back to his Samarra base, Aziz found his black box on his table. Within it was the letter in his daughter’s handwriting.

“Dear dad, this is your daughter Aziza. An old woman keeps telling me not to travel across the Atlantic, but to stay in Jordan and that I will be safer in Samarra than in America where you sent us. How can I reach you before we take off?… Mom is getting her jewelry ready and is adorning herself. She is calling you a pig and an ox. Did you send the old woman here, dad? Did you? Tell mom that we cannot go to uncle Adib.”

Having read this, Aziz blew himself up with a 237kg grenade.