Flash Fiction + Biography Of a Misfit


Won three awards on the story competition “3-5-7” as a part of the “Helly Cherry” competition


  1. (…) 
One day he merely ended it, period. Underlined it, too.

2. Departing the star from the Magellanic Clouds. 
And there was supernova.
Leila Samarrai, a misfit among authors, managed to host her misfitting poetic nature in genres spanning 5 to 100.000 words. A poet of Himalayan seclusion, she was born in Belgrade in 1976

Ljubodrag Stojanović, author, A review of the short story ‘Artists’


What I truly love about Samarrai’s writing is the brilliant dislodging of epochs and people, eruditional toying with the documented and the fictitious, the unpredictability, the lavish fancy and terrific dialogues. One should not be Tagore to enter the Garden of her worlds and labyrinths, where Mozart and Trier meet, Wagner and Bach, or rather Bachs. With Samarrai time and space are toys, an occasional means but never an end, rather a limbo where they, in fact, do not exist. In her necropolis living people dwell, , while the dead or undead roam the city streets, and those dislodgings seem quite convincing, realistic, even logical. This writing and Samarrai as the author both deserve a far bigger readership, for the fate of the poem-the verse-the tale is not to be silent nor is it the fate of great authors to be unmentioned.





“A Poem of a Crocodile” 

Satire is a defense of the intelligent from the primitivism of the dumb. “Crodocile” is a poem which could be part of elementary school textbooks. It has a merry Ionian scale rhythm, I kept hearing the piano while reading it, occasionally trying to imagine it accompanied by sounds of acoustic guitars and, as a throwback to my childhood, the voice of Branko Kockica. Also, the poem, especially in its final verses, can of course be – though this is optional, of course – a reference to, as it is now popular and not all too politically correct to say, the influx of refugees, or rather migrants, into Europe. But this is not the end of it: “Crocodile” is also a poem of protest, engaged literature, a reflection of the author’s social consciousness and her view of society and the system, both here and in other parts of the globe. Still, she has a specific deal with the Crocodile, and she herself, as the verse puts it, is a Crocophile, meaning she knows all about the Crocodiles and other newcomers to Belgrade and Serbia, perhaps more than she is willing to share. Whether the Nile delta, Guatemala or tiny Serbia will be the house of crocodiles, whales and other magnificent creatures who truly sleep with their eyes beyond all evil, we might learn in the continuation of the poem or in the poetic cycle with this central topic, for the author, despite her minimal experience with rhyme [Paryse, Londyne…] feels at home with this style and with her lucidness and verse-laden engagement, the recommendation presents itself, meaning that, speaking in sports’ terms, the A-team stays the same.


Ljubodrag Stojanovic was born in Gnjilane on April 22nd, 1972, where he had lived until June 1999. He writes aphorisms, poems, rock lyrics, plays, short stories, and novels.

He is currently living in Nis.

Selected bibliography: ‘The Serbian Story’ (2002), collection of aphoristic prose ‘Both Insane and Confused’ (2009).

Ljubodrag Stojanović, author, A review of the short story ‘The Bitch’

Ljubodrag Stojanović, author, http://www.alma.rs/autori/lj-stojanovic.html

A review of the short story ‘The Bitch’
THE POETRY Leila Samarrai is an exceptional poetess. Hence why the lyricism is so excellent in her works. Consciously or not, whatever the case might be, ultimately it is irrelevant, the verses flow from her sleeves, fingertips, quill, making up a powerful waterfall of verses which floods us readers, therefore we, occasionally, while disappearing into the colors and verses of Samarrai, get the impression that we are reading a poem, a poem that akin to sound (of whistling) gets stuck in one’s throat.
THE PLAYS I have had the honor of reading Samarrai’s plays. Perhaps some would call me subjective on this, but her plays are equally as good as her poetry. What’s more, Samarrai’s poetry and plays often are intertwined, making up an antique literary fatherland. Samarrai’s erudition mixed with imagination creates and destroys worlds and universes, leading us through epochs and vast spaces as if in a dream, or rather, in a moment. Is ‘The Bitch’ a type of play? Very much so. This story yearns for an adaptation, and it might happen if an open and ingenious enough person reads it and feels its bark or voice as an invitation for casting of a role of roles.
THE FARCE Speaking of playwrights, farce is the one thing that must not be avoided in Samarrai’s works. However you identify with her protagonists of either sex, with their realistic – and in a way our own, too – basic and easily recognizable problems, we are left with the other side of Janus’ face, partly smiling, partly grim. It is enjoyable to wander around the light and darkness of Leila Samarrai. Her humor can also be quite vocal, with many a hahaha within, and it can also, in the blink of an eye, turn itself into a very sharp and even shredding satire of human and less-so characters. Samarrai is what Branislav Nušić could have been had he ever wanted to dabble in horror.
THE ABSURDITY Mentioning Samarrai’s works, and glossing over the absurdist tinge of it, would religiously speaking be blasphemous. Even though it seems easy to write of absurdist literature or to write absurdist literature itself, I would disagree that everyone can do it with a little bit of imagination packed into the zeitgeist. Samarrai’s absurdist tendencies are not there for absurdity’s sake, nor does it adorn itself with it, spraying it all over the letters, nor amateurishly summon it like the Dodolas summon the rain. The absurdity is there, it materializes on its own, popping out of the situation, has a face and form of engaged literature, it is strong and loud, it chides and accuses, it awakens and sobers…
COURAGE Leila Samarrai is without a doubt a courageous person. I will not go into the minutiae nor explain why I think so. It will be enough for you to take one of her works, read it from start to finish, and it will all be clear. Without literary courage, there is no literary quality, or rather, it remains unfinished and silent, which in literature is a death worse than death.
METEMPSYCHOSES AND METAMORPHOSES IN ‘THE BITCH’ All of these characters might in a Borgesian, Alephian way, all be one. Peter is Ana and is Pipi and Fifi, and…The whole work itself. And not just him, but each of them separately. Dismantling, rearranging and transforming of characters is in particular a great treat of this all-encompassing work. For instance, Pipi is 2×3.14! An amazing solution out of which Pipi becomes Lazarus who is raised back from the dead. Also, the amazing ‘woof woof’ ending, with its greeting or saying goodbye, stultifies any character division to humans and animals, men and women, protagonists and antagonists. A top notch work of fiction alongside which you grow and learn.





Review, Nataša Mačukat, professor of German language and literature ‘Upon reading ‘The Adventures of Boris K.’ …

Review, Nataša Mačukat, professor of German language and literature
Upon reading ‘The Adventures of Boris K.’ my first impression was – a novel came out fit for its time of publication, in an ocean of new well-renowned works of fiction, completely anachronistic, more often than not imitating the romantic form and expression. A novel that discovered new in a completely natural manner, without the forced and assembly-line experimenting, in an age where ‘nobody believes in the virginal literatures anymore’, it simply materialized itself out of the spirit of the 21st century.
Other than alluding to Kafka in its very title, ‘The Adventures of Boris K.’ can remind the reader of E.T.A. Hoffmann , the German romantic author who was at least two centuries ahead of his time, with its elements of fantasy and the bizarre, or of Gustav Meyrink with its specific type of horror. In a broader thematic context the novel takes place in a setting where literature has long stopped being Arcadian due to being overladen with historicity and had also long and in the widest range possible started to deal with the relationship of the individual with society – in Central Europe.
The subject matter of the novel is Serbia in her transitional age, without mentioning this specifically, but can be understood in a far broader context. Obviously a work of satire, but avoiding that which satire has become today – institutionalized, watered down, overly present, and cynically and arrogantly used by those whom it should by definition be targeting, because they cannot be touched, and it creates the illusion of democracy.
Boris K. is represented best as a video game character – without much character he goes to different ‘missions.’ With his facelessness, one moment overly and nigh-drunkenly involved and another barely mildly so, adding the bizarre nature of the missions, he describes all of us people of today – forced to adapt to various roles with the purpose of maintaining an existence, most assuredly losing our way and accepting worthless roles and habits, we lose our essential self.

OGRLICA RAZDORA Ili kako sam dobila svoj prvi i jedini pijanino u životu (Dnevnici…)

Ili kako sam dobila svoj prvi i jedini pijanino u životu

Ruka i prsti formiraju kupolu. Neko vreme, pre toga, držala sam ruke na površini klavirskih dirki..
Opasnost vreba. Živim u pustoj dolini straha. Nema zagrljenih, okrvavljenih telesa, grad nije razoren, ljudi nisu preplašeni, naprotiv, dok se neka majka porađa tokom pada krstareće rakete na zgradu MUP – a u Beogradu, ovde postoji univezalni sklad, poput univerzalnog rama za prapočelo. Sve čestice na licima u skladu, razlivena u osmeh, ljudi ponovo međusobno razgovaraju. Bombardovanje je događaj decenije! Big party u malogradu! Svi su na ulicama, a ja sam zabila glavu u dirke i pitam te muziko: Zašto ne mogu, ja Salijeri, ispratiti tvoj milozvučni glas. Ti tečeš u meni u plavim valovima… Nanosim ti besmrtnu uvredu svojim pokušajem da te odsviram. Ja.. nedostojna..
„Ti možeš da poboljšaš tehniku, Leila.- Sve je stvar vežbe. Tek će biti svirke!“, tako je govorila profesorka klavira.
Začuo se zvuk nalik na zvižduk.
Bomba opremljena zviždaljkama. Ne pomeram se sa stolice ispred pijanina i nastavljam da sviram jer je već kasno. Bombe padaju brzo. Zvižduci su namerno priključeni na bombu, zarad oslabljivanja morala neprijatelja i poboljšanja strategije ronilačkog bombardovanja. Koju drugu svrhu mogu sirene imati?
Ako i nemaju pištaljke, uvek prave buku, makar zato što se vazduh pomera – prsti mi preleću po tastaturi. Bomba pogađa metu. Čuo se vrisak. Ili je to samo prsnulo staklo. Krv pada sa prstiju na dirke. Ne prekidam da sviram. Da.. bombe padaju brzo.
**** nastaviće se ****

Leila Samarrai, Dnevnici 2004 – 2017, Uskršnja priča na horor način


Kažu čak i mudriji od Imhotepa da postoje oni u kojima prebivaju izvorni svodovi i drugi elementi, od prve samoće, kroz zlokobje vekova,  do mene sada, u snu, dok besnim, a velik je bes moj, zapečaćen u grlu. Lome me slogovi strave ispod valova pljuvačke dok povraćam u slomljenu wc šolju svoju mržnju kao besno pseto.

Još jedna noćna mora, odvratan čin koji me pustoši kroz vožnju noći. U njima sam rob, a utvare i projekcije, kreacije podsvesti upiru u mene zlokobno oko i čine bezakonja.

Okolo mene, noćas, bejaše  praznina. Ispred mene put koji je vodio tragom smrti.  Ispod kapaka se smrt komeša u snu, besciljno me vodeći do kraja puta gde je klanica, tuku se robovi, taj bezvremeni esnaf, svedoci bezakonja, večna publika, oni tapšu dvojici gospodara  I pevaju:

Kad ono tvoja oba sina uđoše

U nevestine odaje… 

Jedan od njih beše levijatan.

Drugi – Abraksas.

I obojica stadoše ispred mene,  ali ne stajaše na zemlji, no lebdeše. I oko njih beše beskrajan krajolik. I obojica mi ponudiše ruku, da im budem nevesta i da im služim.  I govoraše mi da moj odgovor čekaju sa velikim nestrpljenjem.

Tad iskeziše očnjake i lica im posiveše. Abraksas me ošinu bičem, a Levijatan sevnu k njemu očima i zgrabi me za ruku da me vodi.

„Kuda idemo“

„ Svetovima nedostupnim“

Na to shvatih da mi zubi drhte, a kosa mi je seda. A Levijatan mi reče: „Ja ne marim za to. Utrimo, draga, zajedno, putevima tame”

I vodio me drevnim gradovima i letesmo zajedno, a ja hvalih njegovu mladost, zaboravivši ko je, jer mi je učinio počast. I svratismo u vrt u drevni grad Herakleon, na dnu mora gde on poprimi svoje obličje kita.  Ali, ne beše mu telo izduženo, niti je imao peraja, niti čeljusti, no beše otečeno, nalik na leteći, toplovazdušni balon.

„Bezbedna sam na dnu mora. On ima očnjake stvorene za ubadanje. I imaše silnu vojsku. Oko njega su marširale do zuba kopljima i štitovima naoružane žabe, a morski pas mu je lizao ruku u znak poštovanja, ljuspičav i jednook.  Tad Levijatanu naraste nos, usta mu se raširiše, a očnjaci probiše zenice. On isplazi jezik, po kojem su plesale pirane, krv šiknu dok je jezik nestajao, a nokti su mu rasli, post mortem, jer moj suprug beše umro na zlatnome tronu, u zlatnoj palati, na dnu mora.

„Mi smo ga ubile“ – ščepaše me nečije ruke. Osetih snažan bol. Bejah probodena oštrim, dugim bodljama morskih zvezda, kruna od trnja.

Tad kroz vodu zapliva Abraksas bičujući nevinog čoveka kome se na glavu sjatiše sve morske zvezde potopljenog Herakleona,  načinivši mu krunu od trnja. Ukočih se, spopadoše me grčevi, osetih sev i palež i celo telo mi prekriše pečati.

I iz svakog pečata zašiklja krv kao gejzir dok se Bičevani smešio, a morska čudovišta mu glodala glavu.

„Hristos se rodi, ‘ćero“, zaurla Čovek koga je Abraksas bičevao, dok su mu iz tela izrastala krila, na leđima i na rukama i krila behu prepuna očiju, nalik na Arga. Tad mu se i lice raščetvori ion mirno reče: „Ubij se. Pucaj sebi u glavu ili preseci vene. Nemaš zašta da živiš. Kasno je“, a ja odleteh iz dubina ka još nedostupnijim svetovima grozne crne beskonačnosti, prešavši okeane, pustinje, drevne gradove, zvezde, staru Zemlju, Veliku Pustinju po kojoj behu razbacana i raskomadana tela nomadskih plemena. Vodila sam drevne ratove,  na azijskim i afričkim granicama, sve do Kine, kao ratnik za dinastiju Tang i spoznah kako je biti muškarac. Nije mi se svidelo. U Indiji svedočih padu Gupta carstva, a dođoh i do Japana gde sam neko vreme u periodu Kamakura živeo  i radio (opet) u miru,  kao proslavljeni briljantni student keramičke tehnike, a zvao sam se Kato Shirozaemon Kagemasa (takođe poznat kao Toshiro)

Plutala sam haosom ne duže, činilo se od jedne sekunde, kad sam se, napokon, obrela, kao devetogodišnja devojčica u svojoj staroj porodičnoj kući, u Dragoljuba Milovanovića Bene – 58, u Kragujevcu, gde me je, blaženog osmeha, čekala mila baka.

„Kurvo mala! – iz usta joj je bazdilo na džibru, brutalnog sastava. Rakijčina od koje svaka ispičutura koja drži do sebe načisto pobrljavi.

„Hristos se rodi, bako!“

„Hristos! – preteći se približavala u slow motion maniru, gotovo dosadno usporenih pokreta, ne kršeči Njutnov zakon, jer kao i Godzila, moja baka beše pozamašna…

Ugledah vlastitu smrt, dok su me oko grla stezale  ogromne, mesnate ruke i ja ne mogoh da se oduprem njenoj strašnoj moći dok je vrištala:
„Gde je bio Hristos kad se šaputalo o izdaji i zloći! Muškarci, muškarci! Kolju ženu i čereče! I stoka se bolje tretira pre klanja! Mnnnnnmmnn…  Uzgajaju ženu da pere sudove i raširi noge za seks! Kurci im k’o noževi, zabada dok se ne istroši! Prljave prljave… Svinja je to! A i on, Milisav, bio je svinja, jedna svinja na ženu (mene!) još prošlog proleća, kad me je pokupio na dogovorenom mestu tamo ispod prodavnice.. mnnnnnmmmnn….  Gadilo mi se! Jeste, jeste! Ali, šta sam mogla, kada moram moram! Teraju ženu na to! Na gadni seks! Odkada se rodi!“

Sledeći kadar bio je statičan. San se opredelio za tehniku produženog kadra da bi moja baka mogla da recituje kao Pindar, dok su joj zubi strugali moje ručne zglobove još uvek natopljene krvlju od prethodne stigmate.  Umrtvljena scena. Umirem u teskobi, dok me pluća peku. Utapam se u ponoru smrti koja ne prestaje.

„Ubij me više“

„Ne mogu, ne mogu, nemam kad, moram da slikam! A ne mogu da slikam! Čeka me gomila sudova da ih operem!“

„Da ih opere! – nasmeja se neko – baba pusti malu, zvaću KONTRAPOLICIJU!“

„Gde je Zeleni venac?“

Ulice udaraju o ulice, o zidove koji traže nove zidove. Vijugam lavirintom. Nalazim se u Beogradu i polako idem ulicom, sudarajući se sa bolničarima koji istrčavaju iz zapaljene bolničke zgrade:

„Ameri“ – nakezio se prolaznik.

„Ma kakvi Ameri, reci mi kako da nađem Zeleni Venac!“

„Ne deri se na mene – oči su krvavo blistaju na nejasnom liku – rekao sam ti, zvaću KONTRAPOLICIJU!“

U tom trenu, Beograd i Kragujevac su se stopili u jedno.

Dah više ne stiže do pluća.

„Mislila sam da me je voleo..  Za čerečenje, da!“, stisak biva jači.


Osetih drhtaj ispod grudnog koša dok sam se borila da udahnem vazduh. Usne poseduju hitnost dok izgovaraju poslednje reči…

„Ne ne ne ne! Niko mene neće silovati!“

Budim se.

„Ne zanosi se. Nisi mrdnula iz Kragujevca. Još uvek ležiš tu.. sa nama… „, ispred sebe vidim raskomadano lice Kontrapolicajca stradalog na poslu, moje bake u strastvenom zagrljaju sa Milisavom, i silan narod iđaše iza njih, i Pikti, i saraceni, Sirijci, Babilonci i Lidijci i svako od njih nosaše na ramenima svog kralja, a najjači od svih beše zlatni Levijatan, u originalnom obličju kita, mašući sretno perajama kad me vide, dok njegove reči: „Vaistinu se rodih, draga“, nije ispratio moj vatreni urlik…