MASK, a fairy tale for adults

MASK, a fairy tale for adults

written and translated by Leila Samarrai

It happened in an empire, in the mountainous Balkans. Its name was Serbia. And like any other empire, this place had his Emperor who was just, wholesome and kind-hearted and above all he loved beauty. He did everything to keep his subjects happy, especially children.  He responded to their needs and further than anyone could think possible. He wanted them to enjoy the beauty, games. So he built a castle in dark crimson, furnishing the rooms by filling it with some special mirrors and toys like Judas Cradle, Cat’s Paw, Guillotine, Iron Maiden. Children had been playing with  Emperor’s toys to adulthood.

By all accounts, he was a good Emperor, a man of great stature. But if he had one shortcoming.  One single flaw.  He had an awful, disfigured face, all covered with scars, with scary side effects, caused by skin changes caused by leprosy.

The scars were terrible. Scars never went. It was an extraordinary ugly head instilled horror to anyone who would see such a thing if it wasn’t for his mask,  made special for him. He was removing his mask only at night when he was all alone, hating his people vigorously.

“Why is everyone so pretty here? Everyone but me! Others have had similar disease all those years ago, in 1999…  Then again, their faces are chaste and pure,  no sign of a terrible disease. There’s some devilry there!”

As a result, the Emperor never married. Although he was wearing his mask, nobody seemed to notice, thanks to the craftsmanship of the greatest scientific minds in Serbia. The Scientists took a strict vow of silence, in fear of Emperor’s wrath.

In that way, The Mask was no different from other human faces, hiding a face out of a nightmare, with full lips, a long nose and And the blossom in his cheek, made quite an impression. a pretty face and such a pretty body, fit for the Great Emperor!

All the women were crazy about him, hoping he would marry one of them. But he was looking for his bride in other empires, someone who is like him.
However, in spite of a massive search, roaming, and wandering,  searching was pointless. He couldn’t find his equal.

But one day, rumors spread that,  in a far away Empire /- land, in Sweden’s north, an ugly princess does live there, with a disfigured face, eaten by some terrible disease…

“There is a God.”, he thought – I won’t grow old alone! Finally, I can share my soul with a monster like me! Just like me, Disfigured and alone.  I can  take off my  mask in front of her, finally, finally!”

And every day, The Mask had put him under painful pressure, burning his monstrous face like fire, tormented him.

It was all material the Mask was made of fault! The top secret ingredient is known but to an honored few Scientists.

Emperor was also born with a rare genetic condition that made his head growing every day, more and more.

His mask  was stuffed terribly, while Emperor was yelling, screaming, howling like a dog, in a lot of pain.,

One day he realized that his mask has grown back into the flesh. Emperor couldn’t get it off.  He looked even more cruel,  more grotesquely evil, more than ever before!
The Emperor has called an urgent Science meeting.

Scientists, All of them fell on their knees, full of stress and fear, their arms in the sad knot.

“O great and magnificent Emperor, spare our worthless lives… The mask can’t grow with your head. We found out too late… Everything was in place when you were a child.

Now that you’ve turned 16.. (for, It was a young emperor), it can’t take any bone pressure. Not to mention scars and..”

An Emperor ’s hellish scream cut them off.“

“I want a new mask. A new one. If I don’t get it, I will cut your heads off! their heads chopped off.! a whole kingdom!”

In an instant, they ran to fulfill Emperor’s commission, shivering.

The unfortunate Emperor hurried on to the table, too, grabbing a pen and a paper to write off a letter to ” to my dear, beloved Alicia”, to complain about a deep suffering, breaking off their engagement:


written and

‘Open The Gates.’ Sleeping Mathilde, an excerpt

‘There are many wild animals roaming around.’ She had a bloodthirsty smile on her face. ‘But this is not reason enough to explain you. Amerongen never cared much for hunting.’

‘The deciding factor was me being Gol’s best friend. He was an excellent swordsman and had taught me skills few guards know.’

‘Gol’s friend…’

‘Yes, mistress Mathilde.’

‘Gol had no friends.’

She approached him very closely and never had I seen in this long life of mine, me, Jonas Sverker, such effort in anyone, man or woman, to keep at bay their desire to slit someone’s throat. Her gaze went wild with unbridled rage, and her chin was twitching. Still, she all but whispered the following.

‘I know all the guards Orian ever spoke to. You were not among them. You did not follow a single command I issued. I know what you did with the trenches. You buried them, and in them you’ve buried the bodies of my many loyal guards. You brought your own men. Do you think I am unaware of the dagger at my throat and that the tower guards’ arrows aiming at me, or of the gate being unlocked? I wonder who dragged you here to begin with.’

‘Almric, Olof’s brother.’ He smiled and lunged at her with a dagger.

She grabbed the sharp end with her hand, confusing him for a moment, then giving him a powerful knee kick to the crotch.

The guards pulled out their arrows and tightened their bows.

‘Stop…’ Tamson gurgled, but I could no longer hear him, for I went numb out of fear for our fates.

At that moment, from the highest point of a tower an arrow pierced the rebel’s leg, and then the other went into his palm. The mistress grabbed him and blood covered her long, white fingers. ‘Almric, you say?’

Dark shadows were dancing on her face, while the guards were returning the arrows to their quivers.

‘Are they dead as well?’ Tamson asked. His confused look was aimed at the archers, many of which, as he knew, were hidden in the deepest parts of the tower. It was the last line of defense, therefore it had to have been heavily guarded. ‘Where are my men? Maybe in that trench you mentioned?’


Mathilde burst out laughing.

‘Give me my sword back, you damn Norrbotten witch!’

The shivers that had overcome his body up until that point were gone completely, which she noticed and whispered ‘Almric…’ anew, adding ‘I can understand that. I would have done the same myself. Raise an army of monsters and crush Amerongen, bathe in his blood under the light of the pregnant moon. But where is the wretch now? There he is chanting to himself in the solars begging the serfs to ride him. There are no living here, not anymore.’ To this I, Jonas Sverker, quivered in fear, but Mathilde had already sent away the guards that wanted to shackle Tamson. There was a tumult in the air from all the rage. Tamson looked at their faces, but they were cloaked. ‘This is your army?’ He laughed. ‘Yeomen whose blood you drank?’

‘How poignant.’ She laughed and tossed him a two-handed sword. ‘I like your courage. What else can you do besides being brave? Since you cannot fight, which we’ve established during regular training.’ She turned her back to him, giving him the chance to cut her down. ‘I can hear the trotting of feet moving to the gates. The monster is here, to lay the beast to rest.’ She spoke without rhyme or reason.

Tamson stood on his shaky feet, the sword in his hand equally as shaky.

‘You wear the robes of Amerongen, giving out the same commands he would, drink blood far more greedily and suck the life out of Norrbotten more rammishly and passionately than he ever could…You are Amerongen. Your soul is rotten, words vile, innocent blood rests on your hands!’ He shouted, swinging his sword to Mathilde. She swiftly turned and he landed on the sharp end of her blade, his heart pierced.

‘You should have killed me first, then give a speech,’ she said, wiping the sword on Abaddon’s back. She turned to the guards.

‘Open the gates for Almric.’ She uttered this verdict under the flaming ball burning away in the open sky, for it no longer was the sun, but rather a burning monster, a flaming torch about to start a wildfire.

‘It’s as if lava is about to run from the sky, followed by blood. Then fire comes and swallows all,’ the Undead one concluded.

‘You are right, my love,’ none other than my undead daughter Laetitia added, dismounting Abaddon, and then, hand in hand the two moved through the garden, along a narrow alleyway to the castle gates which closed like a maw behind them…

The entry fortress was open for Almric’s army to enter on their lavishly clad horses. The infantry threw boulders at the defenseless towers of Hässe. Almric’s knights rode through the gates armed with spears, swords and maces. One part was made up of simple peasantry clad in animal hides, armed with axes and pitchforks.

This was how Amerongen was abandoned by his gods. Alfhild, goddess akin to our immortal mistress Mathilde, joined forces with Loki’s daughter Hel, ruler of Niflheim.[1]

The Road of Death, a bridge stretching over Hornavan, joining the isle of Naki with the surrounding mountains, was Amerongen’s concoction just like the Bifrost connecting Midgard to Asgard.[2] We decided that, if we were to survive the wrath of gods, we would ride out of Hässe, the realm of eternal cold, the miniature Niflheim of Amerongen’s tenebrous mind, which started burning under the swigs of flaming swords of Surtr, the god creator of stars and Bergelmir.[3]


Hässe was disappearing, under the rain of flaming arrows, in a fiery vortex. I saw a strange apparition at the tallest tower up which, along the ladder, the enraged villagers were climbing, howling wolfishly.

‘Amerongen is here!’ Taken by anger, they cursed his name, called on him to surrender the ‘bitch of Norrbotten’, while the great sven looked at them cold, tall in a long gown, cloaked.

A sword flashed which he held in his hand steadily, calmly, as if he were in a world of unnatural coldness. Too far for me to notice any other detail, it seemed to me that he stepped forward, as if he is about to dive into the fire at any moment. The curses and begging of the villagefolk were interrupted by a whip cracking in his other hand. Some fell from the ladder, pierced by arrows from the opposite tower, the ‘Eyes of Hässe’, fired by surviving guards of Orian. I listened in carefully. I heard his mumbling and a whisper to nobody in particular, except to one…the Sun!

‘Let me see you now.’ I was sure he was talking to the sun, for his entire body was turned to the flaming mass in the sky towards which he seemed an alabaster statue, solemn in his motionless stupor and lack of interest to the battle behind him. ‘Mock, shaman, keep on mocking. I will see you there…any second now!’

I could clearly see his skull grinning and his skeletal hand (‘Is he even alive?’) that he held up his sword with towards the sun. En garde, he started moving along an imaginary line along the edge of the tower, measuring up the opponent up in the heavens. I was certain then that he had lost it. ‘And now a lunge at the opponent!’ This he said, blessed Thor and jumped, laughing maniacally, into the fire.

After the master’s fall, the remaining guards charged and clashed blades with Almric’s army. Through the smoke, sword clinking and the all-devouring fire, I spotted a distraught Hilde with unkempt hair and torn garb, running towards me, so I took her into my arms and threw over one of Orian’s Arabian horses, defending myself along the way with an ax I took from the battleground, and I rode the horse to save us from certain demise in an insane trot.

The flames shivered around our heads, but by the grace of the gods, or some other miracle, we were unharmed, and what a miracle it was, I gave myself the task of finding it out after I had found myself on the other side of the Death Road, for I knew the shortcut that lead into the hills specked with muddy village huts that during the rebellion, I believed, were abandoned.

As if reading my thoughts, to the noted above Hilde said to me. ‘This Arabian horse was gifted to us by our mistress Mathilde. She is already in Valhalla with our daughter, Jonas – they dance with the Valkyries.’

No other option remained for me but to hold her words as true and that the mistress sent her this message from hell itself, for we rode the battleground filled with cries of those fallen from the towers, that dropped, with deafening noise, one after another, in a fateful battle and clash of two-handed swords with axes and iron bars. Not one bit of that touched us, nor were we seen – by either Almric’s troops or Tamson’s infantry made up of the Norrbotten village men – as we rode past them. At one point, the shaitan-horse passed through the body of a guard in armor. ‘See? Not a regular horse,’ my wife said triumphantly, the moment before the horse flew over the drawbridge and into the fire which we then left unharmed.

Hässe was convulsing and breathing its last breaths, while I prayed to Odin, begging him to send the Storm, to have at least a flower or a rock remain of the castle, to which Hilde bumped me on the head, and I thanked dear Odin that my head had never been filled by unsightly thoughts, to which my wife laughed heartily. ‘The mistress gifted me as well, not just you.’ I looked at her, spurred the horse far away onward, as far away as possible from the castle that the devil himself claimed.

Odin split the gut of the sky asunder with his thunder and smacked the ‘Eyes of Hässe’. A lively colorful fire burst over the decorated tower. Hässe was moaning amid its death rattle. Dying slowly and finally exhaling one last time, leaving no man alive, for Hässe belonged to no one other than Yambe-Akka.

I tell all of this in your mercy, chaplain Larsen, so that you could take pity on our fates and, considering our knowledge and fealty to the masters while they were alive, take us into Västerås to live in peace and pray to one god.

Captain Larsen coughed reading the scroll written by the unskilled hand of a simple serf.

–         He writes like a king or a monk would…There must be an explanation for this as well.

He scratched his head and started reading the stableboy’s writing in pure Latin.

–         ‘And mistress Mathilde, with our daughter Laetitia Sverker, came to our dreams these past days, forcing us to plead with you and explain what really happened in Hässe during your absence.

Wishing for her will to be done properly, she greets you, chaplain and Father, and she hopes not, for your sake, for an upcoming encounter.

Your humble servant,

Jonas Sverker.’



– I am Ishmael.

– Umar told me of you.

– Have you read the history of Hjalmar and what had happened?

[1] One of the Nine realms, the land of the dishonored dead who did not die heroically.

[2] Home of the gods.

[3] Giants living in the fire realm of Muspelheim.


A Shaman’s Curse, (Serbian original included), an excerpt

At it’s core, this story is about an altered perception during any creative endeavor. (author’s note)

Posted on the website Ljubitelji i autori sf/f/h umjetnosti u BiH

Dediicated to Plato

In medias res

#horror #satire #parody #psychedelic

Why murder? Because of vanity? – an unimaginative mind would say. Your shoes are salted with it and you walk around bloodied like that. You! The author, under the veil of suspicion! There is something fascinating, I speak while I shake and hit a pole, then another, dazed, probably under influence of the spell from that diabolical fiend and his Halverson – I laughed wildly, then growled – something obscenely fascinating in falsifying the work of another. Within the success of an average mind, without cleverness, that which is adorned by incompleteness, that which loans all it has from the Complete one. He is a voyeur, this plagiarist and falsifier. He peeps through the keyhole of your overflowing imagination. He uses voodoo magic! He walks behind you with a smile while your statement, your bleeding, your desperation flows…Or is this a simulacrum, an exaggeration, an illusion, tension caused by a simple fact that Lucius and Ignatius have similar, if not the same surnames. Fact that in the Zerynthia novel one of us was a literary character, and that the other one wrote it. (This secret, dear reader, I’ve kept from you until the very end)And that the literary character dies in a puddle of blood, just like this, with a knife. So who was I? What soul? The one of Zerynthia? And who here is an Earthling, and who an extraterrestrial? TURBAN! – that was my final mad IDEA after which I passed out…

While he’s dreaming…

“Two mad loves”, hahaha, Ignatius. Oriental poetry is not the current trend with us Scandinavian folk.

“Not true. The influx of Arabs in Sweden is growing on a global scale. They have houses, are covered socially…”

“But you’re saying that Zerynthia is east of the Moon.”

“I say that her hair is, which is how he sees it, like the treetop of the Canadian rhododendron. The Moon has nothing to do with it. East – that’s just a direction. From hell, from heaven, was it not already written… But, then the oriental directions have enlightened the people, now hell and heaven and east and west, even the rhododendron and the Moon just confuse them.”

“Who is he, Ignatius, who is he, and who am I”, the publisher with a turban on his head asked.

“Lucius. He gets into different situations where his behavior turns abnormal. If he is even capable of love, that love is damaging, mister publisher man. Still, his work is finally gaining traction. Words are becoming more picky amongst themselves, they defy each other, they even defy publishers and the public, as blind as Homer the topic of reading a good book, the provincial taste over which Lucius reigns inviolably. Margarita agrees with him and once, at a Georgian terrace where they were at in the Bedford Park villa, she confesses to him that not only will he become the new Aki the Pig, but an enlightening reformer in the age when Zerynthia alongside China will be the sovereign ruler of the world – she confesses to him and speaks…ah, speaks and this is one of the most powerful parts where her role shifts from a supporting to a main one, at least in his head, where she speaks to him on a personal, intimate level. The novel becomes novelist-ish, so to speak…”

When he heard this, he, the publisher, a man of quite noticeable facial features covered in yellow feathers and with a flat head in the shape of a hammer, jumped on me and rode me, starting to grind me…down to dust. His body was that of King Kong. In his hand he had a baseball bat and he whack whack whacked into powder, whack into one nothing nothing. YOU ARE AWFUL, IGNATIUS HALVERSON! AND NOW YOU ARE OFFICIALLY NOTHING!

Serbian original:

Posvećeno Platonu
image Shaman ~ Jeff Wood

#horor #satira #parodija #psihodelija

Čemu ubistvo? Zbog sujete? – rekao bi neimaginativni um. Njome su ti posoljene cipele i tako krvav koračaš. Ti! Pisac, pod velom suspicije! Postoji nešto fascinantno, govorim dok se tresem i udaram o jednu banderu, potom o drugu, ošamućen, verovatno pd dejstvom čarolije onog dijabolika i njegovog Halversona – divlje sam se nasmejao, potom zarežao – nešto opsceno fascinantno u krivotvorstvu tuđeg rada. U uspehu prosečnog uma, bez pameti, onog što ga krasi nepotpunost, onoga što od Potpunog sve svoje uzajmljuje. Voajer je to, taj plagijator i krivotvor. Viri kroz ključaonicu vaše nabujale mašte. Koristi vudú magije! Za vama sa osmehom korača dok teče vaše kazivanje, vaše krvarenje, vaš očaj… Ili je ovo privid, preuveličavanje, iluzija, napetost izazvana pukom činjenicom da Lucijus i Ignašijus imaju slična, ako ne ista prezimena. Činjenice da je u romanu o Zerentiji jedan od nas bio književni lik, a drugi ga je napisao. (ovu san tajnu, od tebe čitaoče, čuvao do samog kraja) I da književni lik umire u lokvi krvi, baš ovako, sa bodežom. Ko sam bio ja? Koja duša? Da li ona sa Zerentije? I ko je tu Zemljanin, a ko Vanzemaljac? TURBAN!– bila je moja poslednja mahnita IDEJA nakon čega sam se onesvestio… ,

Dok sanja…

„Dve lude ljubavi“, ha ha ha. Ignašijuse. Istočnjačka poezija nije aktuelna u nas Skandinavaca.
„Nije tačno. Priliv Arapa u Švedskoj raste na globalnom nivou. Imaju kuće, pokriveno socijalno..“
„Ali ti govoriš da je Zerentija istočno od Meseca“.
„Ja govorim da joj je kosa, a on je tako vidi, nalik na krošnju kanadskog rododendrona. Mesec s tim nema nikakve veze. Istočno – to je samo pravac. Od pakla, od raja, zar ne beše napisano.. Ali, tada su istočni pravci prosvećivali narod, sada ga i pakao i raj i istok i zapad, pa i rododendron i mesec samo zbunjuju“.
„Ko je on, Ignašijuse, ko je on, a ko sam ja?“, upita izdavač sa turbanom na glavi.
„Lucijus. Zapada u različite situacije u kojima je njegovo ponašanje abnormalno. Ukoliko i voli, ta ljubav je štetna, gospodine izdavač. No, njegov rad napokon dobija zamah. Reči postaju izbirljivije međusobno, prkose jedna drugoj, pa i izdavaču i publici, slepoj kao Homer kad je u pitanju dobra knjiga, varoškom ukusu nad kojim Lucijus neprikosnoveno vlada. Margarita se sa njim slaže i jednom, na gruzijskoj terasi gde se nađoše u vili Bedford Park, priznaje mu da ne samo da će od njega postati novi Aki Svinja, već prosvetiteljski reformator u doba kada će Zerentija zajedno sa Kinom suvereno vladati svetom – priznaje mu i govori.. ah, govori i to je jedno od najsnažnijih mesta gde iz sporedne uloge prelazi u glavnu, barem u njegovoj glavi, gde mu se obraća lično, intimno. Roman postaje romansijerski, tako reći..“

Kad to ču, on, izdavač, čovek izrazito markantnih crta lica prekrivenog žutim perjem i spljoštene glave oblika čekića, skoči na mene i zajaha me, počevši da me drobi.. do praha. Telo mu je bilo kao u King Konga. U ruci je držao bejzbolku i udri udri u prah, udri u jedno ništa ništa NIŠTA NE VALJAŠ , IGNAŠIJUSE HALVERSONE I SAD SI ZVANIČNO NIŠTA!

Inscriptions in the darkness, Rabisu (“the vagabond”)

Inscriptions in the darkness, a little paragraph
written in Serbian and translated into English, by Leila Samarrai

image: “Le cauchemar”, huile de Henry Fuseli

A vicious being, Rabisu*, takes all kinds of form, he lasts to the bitter end, to the dust, in a lifetime, before waking up, only for some breed of men, claims Rabisu and adds:
“You are the chosen one”

He adds that he is flattered by the expression on my face when I wake up, ““So beautifully lined with fear, a face of the loser, the being bearing her cross with Christian fortitude, the cross built of the entire human experience, Ms. Masters in the art of loneliness. The archetypal example!”, the demon said enthusiastically. “I’m fascinated by your wicked and lucid appetite for your useless life”, Rabisu grabs my meat and bones whenever I I’m ready to jump from the window, after awakening.

“Whoa whoa, okay, easy. Take your time, author. Not that useless. You have a difficult task ahead which must be fulfilled no matter how much you will hate it. Using only your words, you must, in a hilarious way, to put night time monsters in the pillory until it reaches hangman! (I’ll contact you with the exact location of your future ancient tome whereabouts, soon as you’re done with them… Monsters! It’s been years since I’ve seen that kind of monsters, so twisted, it’s… quite disgusting, even by nightmarish standards. Expose those clowns, throw them into mud pits and ensure their eternal destruction. I do not tolerate rivals. There’s only one Rabisu doing what is bad to his neighbor.!, an old demon frowned. : Who do they think they are to compare with my malice, those vicious monsters!. My malice is going for theatrics. Seeing them circling above you in the physical world, I realized our encounter was no accident, right? I received word of you… that say you were.. you, in your own way, my Morrigain demoness of the corpses, my Mora, my queen of the nightmare.. We’re exactly the same. Ah, I cannot tell more But, now I believe.. In intentional encounters! it’s almost like a one-way love affair.”

*In Akkadian mythology Rabisu (“the vagabond”) or possibly Rabasa is an evil vampiric spirit or demon that is always menacing the entrance to the houses and hiding in dark corners, lurking to attack people. The book The Religion of Babylonia and Assyria by Theophilus G. Pinchesdescribes the Rabisu as being “the seizer” which is “regarded as a spirit which lay in wait to pounce upon his prey”.

Chapter 4 of Genesis lines 6 and 7 reads:

So the LORD said to Cain: “Why are you so resentful and crestfallen? If you do well, you can hold up your head; but if not, sin is a demon lurking at the door: his urge is toward you, yet you can be his master.


A dictionary of nonsense, The Adventures Of Boris K. the second part

A dictionary of nonsense, The Adventures Of Boris K. the second part

Dear B.S. MS MBA MPHIL PhD, PhDD, DSc, MMSf, consultant, Mr. Supplication Approver, SA Stabschef Ernst,

I enclose a convincing block of 25 blanco stories so I could get a permanent professorship, at the Faculty of Philosophy of Phenomenorepublic of Balkans (though I could not think of a more meaningless place). For this topic, I decided, since with it, I can represent either yourself, or their views on life and contemporary literature, better than it would have been done by the philosophical saints in the eternal assault for the absolute nirvana…

Never, sir, Dr. Application, I could never trust that the topic of existence can be discussed differently. Each reader will be using my philosophical system and method, from the empty shell of existence I offer, grasp the pearl of a sense that will warm his soul to the last breath and sigh.

1. Start: The first letter of the dictionary

2. …………………………… 16

25. End and last letter of the dictionary

Author: Boris K.

Sources: · “History of written words on empty paper”, (1957), Boris K. ·

“It does not feel like home”, (Phenomenorepublic Library) (1979)

“Transparent, I Love You, Transparent” (Transgender Study) (1946)

“Never underestimate the deadly power of the bleeding creature, the women’s studies, The monastery of the harlots of the last days, Got mit uns, 1976

“Why the alienation? (École Primaire Socrates et Démosthenes) (333. p.n.e), the author is unknown

“Reflection of nothingness on the ax of the nihilist executioner “(Henry VIII Sparknotes) (1857), author: Anne Boleyn

“Letters to imaginary robot”, Odd Future Urban Cookie Collective College, Lecturers, Belgrade, professors Lowlife, Twerp and A real Nobody

“From the Cradle to the Kalashnikovs”, From Saddam to the grave, travelogues, Uday Hussein

“Manual for seppuku,” the ancient Japanese writings

Safo, Poetisa de los frágiles


(18 versos)

La más prudente, divina, presionada con el desprecio
Oh poetisa de los frágiles, este mundo que lideras
Evangelios sensible con la fuerza de relámpago derrumbas,
Deformas, doblas, aterras y creas
Decididas festejaban musas celosas
Naturalmente te envenenan con este ruido insensato
No hay cosa más triste que el ajetreo horrible
Paralas masas enloquecidas con suspiros y alegría
Mientras el cielo en su malevolencia arde
Más inocente tú eres
Cada vez más que en el fondo del verso pases
Eres la magia que al deseo del satisfacer escapa
En el jardín de lo azul ornamental tú quedas sosegada

Que más ridículo esté el desprecio tuyo
Que hacia la ofensa deambuló
Los cielos infernales se vuelven,
Y la tierra mancos asquerosos lleva encima
Tú virgen santísima, ¡ornamento cada aniquila!


image: Miguel Carbonell Selva, Safo

Now that´s what I call a threat! (the excerpts from my semi-fictional autobiography, Inscriptions in the darkness, Intro…), inspired by true events and characters

I will translate this demonic inscription in all the world’s languages because I want to at least post this to them on the internet, for them to see, a part of the inscriptions in the darkness, for them to see that I am still alive and kicking. Hurry up, I tell myself, hurry, make it tonight, to the first crack of dawn. I have to do something, all of the dinosaurs resting in me, being revived in that final clench of humanity for me to trick them, to expose them to all humans to see.

Before I kill them all.

I will kill them and this shitty cage will be torn down. The cage they put me in.

Fighting them is impossible. Their world survives, their red eyes are aflame with a glow of a killer’s sword. They chop off heads, eat limbs, and all of it together, as per a deal. They are so well organized that they shit and piss on us, they cut us, so-called normal people, us who also shit, puke, get disgusted, moralize, read Plato, shake after what they do to us, fall to pieces – and they do not stop. But we shit, moralize and read Plato like humans. Not like a…

A cult.


How many are there? Hold on, let me count them. Five. Maybe more. They network…I don’t know. Let me see… Maybe three. Does it matter? They count. They know the exact number. They know how many of us men remain on this earth. They come for all of us. I…

When they die, maybe there is some hope for humanity.

Tonight, around 1AM, somewhere in Arizona on an online platform Seven Teacups a consultant awaits for me after I told him, a few days ago with a howl nobody could hear, that I would end it all in order for him to convince me that I should live, and I have been preparing to tell him this story and I know that, just like my mother, even with his professional upbringing, he will tell me – Do it… Terrified, stunned.

Nobody would believe me, nobody will believe me. Not even him, because is it really possible to believe it?

Let’s go.


They mold us. When they are done, they use us as manufacturing material, they stuff the remains of our mind in canned food. This way they change the genetic structure of the Chosen Ones. Scientists! Scorpions! One living human system upon another – they transfer the universal genetic code, they intertwine hereditary material of pure, living instinct and submit to it friendship, love, affection, and humanity.

Then they group themselves in chains, they synthesize their stinking fluids of ancient origins in human genes. Thus a gene of wickedness is made.


Of their method, wherein he helped me, in part, to work it out, that it is about a particular type of implanting self-possession which is dictated by a trigger, like a revolver trigger which tears down every cell of the HUMAN IMMUNE system.

It is a corpse – a scientist said, former gravedigger, long gone. Or maybe even turned. At any rate, one morning all trace of him was lost.