Category Archives: proza

Recommendation from a dog, “The Adventures Of Boris K.”, Leila Samarrai,


image found here

Recommendation from a dog

A not so brief review of the history of the letter that has never been read…

Letters suffer. And they have a soul. You don’t believe me? Are you shaking your head in disbelief? In that case, lock up the oak door with your rusty key and settle into a favorite chair in front of the fire. Don’t mind the sweat that will be pouring gently down the sides of your body by the time I reach the end of this story.

One could trust the opinion of Sofronije Sofronijević (also known as S.S.). He became so rich from writing his reviews that he bought a villa between Cannes and Nice, his own beach, a luxury apartment in Andorra with a minibar and a bedroom, and an indoor Olympic-sized pool, which was named the eighth wonder of the world.

Daily expensive massage treatments, with a focus on the deep tissue of his tormented heels, were something that went without saying, as well as his daily steak breakfasts with fresh squeezed juice under the light of a plasma lamp

After breakfast, he would put his slippers on and struggle to tie his robe over his ever-increasing girth (he grew larger with every review he published) before setting off to work. Few people knew that S.S. actually was a fake critic.

The real critic was actually Wolfgang, his rottweiler, who was so close to Sofronijević, he inherently understood his convictions. Unlike most dogs, Wolfgang knew not only how to read, but also how to critique the masterpieces of contemporary authors.

For years, instead of Sofronijević, Wolfgang criticized the timeless classic works from a radical canine perspective– he bites each paragraph of Anna Karenina that old about the harvest, and there were rumors that he ate “The Peace” in delight. He would have left “The War” for later, but he remembered the book could serve him as a chair to observe the world, with disdain in the muzzle, from the bird’s-eye view.

Sofronijević spoke proudly of Wolfgang:

“On the works of the Surrealists he growls, at texts of fiction novel writers, and any novels, generally speaking, he barks. When he remains silent, that is… something … ”

With this admission, Sofronijević would light cigarette, offering one to Wolfgang as well, while winking his eyebrows densely planted on his forehead.

Both dog and man, best of friends, were into all kinds of criticism, writing reviews for nine years together. However, after enjoying great fame and reputation in the Republic, something suddenly unexpected happened.

One morning, just at the moment when the dog and his master (and it was often hard to decide who was who) simultaneously choked on their beefsteaks, a mysterious letter arrived in Sofronijević’s mailbox. Instead of a full sender address, one word was written on the top left corner of the envelope: Hurghada. It is said that Sofronijević and Wolfgang reacted furiously after reading the letter.

Wolfgang, in his style, ripped off the first half of the letter with his teeth, destroying the half of it that was written in Phoenician, while the Egyptian part remained. The letter burnt his hands and screamed at him in Egyptian. Then S.S. dropped the letter on the ground but felt his mind beginning to spin. While he could still hold onto his reason, he called for the help of a well-known expert, Tuthmosis, the most famous interpreter of hieroglyphics in the Republic, to investigate everything about the letter that had arrived at this home address. But Tuthmosis was too slow and the letter wouldn’t stop talking, and it was redolent with the odor of carrion.

That’s how Sofronije Sofronijević finally fell off his rocker and went nuts:

“This letter is a curse!”, he proclaimed.

“Whoever reads it loses his mind. I must kill it! Ba-BUM BUM BUM!, he giggled, revealing teeth blackened from gunpowder residue. When S.S. shot off his gun, he simultaneously riddled the letter with bullets while also blowing a large hole in the window, and he and Wolfgang watch the letter blow out in the wind. When Tuthmosis arrived, he detected a strange odor in the air and Wolfgang barked to him some of the sounds he heard.

When Tuthmosis arrived, S.S. had already gone insane. It is said that Sofronijević’s great-grandmother was a distant ancestor of Cleopatra’s maid who refused to die from the bite of a snake, and like Cleopatra, was also cursed by ancient Gods. So when S.S. communicated with Tuthmosis, he suggested to him that perhaps the letter was a tool of revenge from those ancient Pharaohs. According to Tuthmosis, the letter was also soaked in poisons and all sorts of Egyptian herbs that possibly led Sofronijević’s fall into a state of fascination and infatuation. As such, he could not control his thoughts or resist the strong effect of the curse. Shaking his head, Tuthmosis headed back to his apartment.

Upon Sofronijević’s descent into madness, Wolfgang took over his master’s personal study. He would rise early in the morning, have breakfast, take a nap until the afternoon, and then he would write reviews after tidying up Sofronije’s mail. He would lick the letters and place a stamp imprint on the envelopes with his paws. In moments of leisure, he would stare at the Phoenician alphabet, whining, tilting his head to the side and thinking:

“If I could only get hold of the Egyptian half!” Then he would begin to growl.

Many years after the terrible events attributed to Sofronije’s neurasthenic crisis caused by the crisis in culture, there were speculations about the last place of rest of the cursed, Egyptian letter. Some speculated that the haunted letter traveled North to Hyperborea, to Ultima Thule, the land of eternal brightness in the far north, a sole nomen habens. Wolfgang, on the other hand, believed the letter had followed in the footsteps of Apollo, traveling to Greece, perhaps in the mausoleum of Alexander the Great, where the body of the magnificent deceased lay carved on a stone crypt. In fact, Egyptologists reported sighting the haunted letter in the Valley of the Kings, under the influence of moisture, completely destroyed, but still alive! At night, across from the Luxor, screams echoed.

“It’s Nefertiti’s mummy, she rose from the grave, unwrapped her dirty bandages and read the damn letter after putting it together with the glue”, whispered the tomb guardians, as their voices streamed upward toward the heavy white stars.

On one fact all agreed. The letter was unjustly accused of inflicting emotional distress on S.S. But still, no one could explain why it had been so cruelly punished and still continued to be victimized. The cursed letter bounced from the mummified wings of Neferneferuaten-Nefertiti who pulled it by its blackened ends as an ox is pulled by his tail. Despite the abuse, the letter could not be overcome because it had its own appetites guiding it: KICKBACK/LANDING. BOUNCED! LANDS!

The letter spent three years in the tomb of Hatshepsut, diagonally bouncing off the walls of the massive tomb while reading (some say screaming) itself to the queen aloud. Since these actions aroused a revolt of awakened pharaohs in the Valley of Kings and Queens, the letter briefly hid behind the 132nd pillar in the temple of Luxor. While there, it spent nine years plotting its revenge.

“This is all Sofronijević’s fault!”, moaned the letter to such an extent his sorrow plucked at the heartstrings of the innocent bystanders who were forced to watch the letter in an eternal game of KICKBACK/LANDING. Finally, the letter lands on the Sphinx’s head, who as a diligent guardian of Pharaoh’s dreams, shrugs the letter of his stone mane, bouncing him into the air and thousands of kilometers away.

41e14afa6add424d019d77069c5fed49--moon-child-poet

PART TWO

Boris K’s apartment, an emergency department for crazy (desperate) letters

Letter traveled and bounced around for nine years until it finally found itself lying on the table of expert hieroglyph interpreter, Boris K. He spoke the human language with a strong accent originating from the Lower Nile.

“I am suffering!”, wailed the letter as it folded over in pain. It was pale and exhausted from nine long years of wandering. Boris K. put on some gloves and removed the remaining bullet fragments from its pulp with professional finesse. He bandaged it with cellophane, saying:

“You will stay a few days in my drawer until you recover, and then I’m going to decipher you.”

Three days later, Boris K. gets to work on the long and weakened letter. It contains many pages, some of which appears to be written in Phoenician, while other parts seem to contain Egyptian hieroglyphics. As he studies the letter, he sees that it includes more than 7,000 characters repeating in various combinations of three letters, that when translated to English are: D-O-G. In addition, there are also drawings that mesh with the letters. He notices drawings of the savior with nails on his hands and wrists around the letter ‘D’. Then there are drawings of mesh capturing tropical flies around the letter ‘O.’ And then finally, there are drawings of what he thinks is a famous Literary Critic from the Republic… Sofronije Sofronijević, who is depicted with a dog’s head in the shape of the letter ‘G.’

The letter speaks to Boris K. in an increasingly demonic tone:

“Your task, Boris K, is to unify me with my Phoenician twin and return me to my addressee. If you can accomplish these tasks, I will be connected and completed and all will understand me. If you do this, I promise to stop buzzing in everyone’s heads. I just want to be reunited with my better half. With only my evil half present, I continue to suffer. I was bitterly attacked, bitten by a dog and shot full of bullets. And I haven’t even told you what happened when I was in Egypt. Please HELLLLLLLLLP me! I’m begging you! Decode me or kill me!”

With that, Boris K. starts to think, smiling to himself secretly.

Determined to accomplish this task for Letter, Boris K. sharpens his high-quality Graf von Faber pen that is a knockoff and begins writing his own letter…

an excerpt from the story

 

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AU REVOIR, ŠARLEN


sarlen.jpg

Kaješ li se, Šarlen
Stvarno nisam očekivala
a trebalo je, ne znam kako mi je promaklo
da se nađem u takvom sosu
stvarno si me zeznula
to nije samo tvoja greška priznajem
htela sam da se obesim kad sam saznala kakva si
to nije ništa neočekivamo
u mojoj porodici je bilo puno ludaka
nije neobično da ih srećem i ovako
ludaci me privlače, priznajem
i ja njih
obešenjaci, reklo bi se
ne znam… teško mi je da se odlučim
da l da me pregazi kamion ili da pratim tradiciju svoje porodice
pre nekoliko dana konopac je pukao i treba nam nov
a opet. možda kola.. i na to sam mislila
da me pregaze, ili samo da lenčarim i čekam da me neko
pokupi
niti kročiti u zatvor neće, to ćemo se dogovoriti
s njima ima dogovora
nisam još odlučila, a moram jer
treba brzo da se izgubim.. taj auto presvučen grimiznom svilom..
a onda sam se setila da sam ih ostavila na drugom mestu
daleko.. ta kola.. ne slušaš me? Pa da
Tipično za tebe. Baš si gadura
Šta bi čovek od tebe pa i očekivao
Ili žena
nežna, zamišljena, misliš da u sebi imam strasti
čudno ti je to
smeješ se
drago ti je što je neko umro, možda ja?
pa da.. ne bi se ti smejala uzalud
nestašno povučene linije studijskog portreta
tipino lirski, namešteno, prijateljski
tako sam sigurna u to
da to radiš
ne pratiš me, pa i kako bi
propala si ka naš građanski rat
ne ide to tako
ali, srećom da imam Memfis, želela sam da to znaš
da sam zato došla, da ti kažem au revoir
da ću odleteti u ružičasto nebo zore
dok ti.. opet se smeješ..mračni planovi među borama osmeha
znak da se ništa ne sumnja
ssigurna sam da je tako
u jednom trenutku sam te pustila da odeš predaleko
tako da nije to samo tvoja greška
konopac je pukao
ne da ti se
a taman si mislila a si sve isplanirala
praviš od mene negativca
Šarlen, kaješ li se?
Čuješ?
Konopac je puko?
Šarlen, jesi li još tu, ili.. razgledaš svetinu
tražiš me po Memfisu, ali me tamo ne možeš naći
odoh sad do svog štampara a tebi nisam dala knjigu
makar ne sa posvetom
u knjižarama je dostupna za svakog
nikad nisam želalea da znaš sve o tim stvarima
iako sma znala da ih znaš
izigravaš žrtvu, kriviš se i mučiš i trepćeš
samo si mi nevolja, brukaš me, pitaš se zašto ..
ja se pitam zašto se ja kajem Šarlen
što me sve to dotiče
evo, opet deluje na mene
deluje, postajem osetljiva
postajem
zašto me tako gledaš, pa ovde se radi teškom zločinu, tako je..
oduvek si izigravala žrtvu
kad te gledam nemam volje da živim
stidim te se
ubila bih se sad. evo
evo, daj konopac
odlazim iz grada
srećom, srećom da imam Memfis
i on me čeka
i apartman i oni mnogi vredni pažnje s kojima još nisam poslovala
a ne idu okolo kao prebijeni psi i zbog kojih se ne kajem
a ti? kaješ li se? ne
ja, da.
Takav je život.
Konopac…
Šarlen?

Noćni posetioci, Skinvoker, kraća verzija


СКИНВОКЕР, odlomak, nastavak romana Bernardovi sati
https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/…/05/17/bernardovi-sati/
Fidbek bi bio dobrodošao i utisci s obzirom da je ovo početak rada na nastavku drugog dela romana, premda može da stoji i pojedinačno. U suštini, to su dve novelete…. koje zajedno mogu da čine formu romana.

На почетку сам сан -путовања. Ноћне море су ужасније него икада. Хуле на мене гласови ужасних анђела, шаљу ме у пакао. Можда је то казна за почињено убиство.. Хрле ка мени језиве руке..
Балави ме неко.. то је одсечена коњска глава. Врти се на рингишпилу око ког обигравају деца. Црн је то, снажан коњ. Рингишпил држе четири одсечене ноге пастува.
„Никакав си јебач“, Барни. „Не! То је глас оне курве што сам је убио! Нисам морао!“
„Нисам морала да умрем!“, схватам да савршено подражавам њен глас, непробуђен, слепљених трепавица док ми се зној слива низ чело и орловски нос. „И ја сам имала право да живим и умрем и то не природном смрћу, неизбежно, како кажу, већ.. Била сам планирала да се убијем. Од своје руке! А ти си ме у томе спречио!“
Парче море попут пламена заталаса се, осетих како ми се у сну читаво тело загрева и изгара у ватри.
„О, Барни, ја сам отац Бојл, црквени поглавар цркве светог Патрика од Северне Ирске. У блад енд гор жанру си, сине мој. Твоји греси су ти досањали снове, довршили маштарије док се париш међ вриштећим ватрама пакла. Покварен је то јаук у теби, скврчен тако, јер Господа за милост и покајање ниси молио усрдно. Твоја невиност се одлива попут менструалне крви корумпиране девице, демонлине Ханту Копек.
„Ханту Копек! То си ти, демонко ноћне море преузела лик оца Бојла, нееее!“, вриштао сам, док су се шапат и самоћа спајали у намученом, мозгу пратећи уз урлајући осмех и кикотави плач моју патњу, слинећи као бесно псето од задовољства ме гањајући кроз мору од мог јада до бескраја.. Трчим, трчим ка хоризонту. Чујем милозвук. Хоризонт је плав, живахан и радостан и по њему плешу девице. Ширим руке ка њима. Хватају ме у коло, преливају се преко мене и уливају у мене своје сокове. Наткриљују ме телима, лагане су, очи им дрхте од суза. Плачем, ридам, држим главу међу шакама, све док не схватим да ме сустиже нечији снажан додир, да мекани гласови израстају у гробни глас као да допире из дубоке земље..
„Која није грешна нека прва баци камен!“
„Све смо безгрешне, сестро по Богу.“
И камење од некуда, с облака хита ка мени. Каменован сам на хоризонту наде. Девице то учинише, а ја схватих да то не беху свете деве но салемске вештице и да једна од њих има пола главе..
„Не! Оне ме дробе у месо! Живо месо! Помозите оче Бојл, кајем се, кајем се, убио сам нечасну жену, ишамарао нејако дете, убадао сам људске душе, злочинство ме допуњује и кад се каже злочин моје име ће вечно ићи уз злочинство, сломљене ватре ме облизаше, горим, горим..!“
„Од срца ти се мисао родила или какав други мотив те нагна да грлиш невиност слађу од усана женских, па макар и у проститутке. Знаш ли ти да је твоја жртва под заштитом наше свете патронашице, Исусове апостолке Магдалене чију светињу увреди, жабо крастава! Ниси управљао својим бесом на тај начин повредивши онемоћалу остарелу продавачицу љубави која те је изнајмила на сат, усхићена облацима, цвећем, знањем и шармом сједињеним у теби. О филмовима си јој говорио, крила јој вратио, славу јој женску вратио, а онда је разголитио у убио, но она је васкрсла у Господу.“
„Марија, ох Марија.. Узалуд за опростом жудим!“
„Зарастао си у грех и он те нагриза као коров. Одувек си маштао да одеш грешан с овог света. Безгрешан умрети, страх те је било.. сад сазнаде звер да пакла има и да ватре… ватре.. – замуцкивао је ноћни посетилац у магли сна – обучен у одежду протестанстког бискупа, с роговима на глави. Какав клише, сањиво сам помислио.
„Морам под хитно да се пробудим. Пре него што дођу..“
„Не тако брзо. Стижу.. корали!“ – загробни свештеников глас поприми још нељудскију ноту ако је то уопште било могуће.
„Не, не, корали..! То је сан о фонтани! Не могу.. не не.. Сутра ме мучи с фонтаном, новчићима и базеном, док ја…“
Крикнуо сам и пробудио сам се. Око себе угледах сабласни хор духова. Прекорише ме:
„ „Не вришти пробудићеш комшије, маму ти јебем!“
О, врата пакла, затворите се, па то је нечија рука на мојим устима.

Како то изрекох, окретох се ка зиду и наставих да спавам.


СКИНВОКЕР, odlomak, nastavak romana Bernardovi sati
https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/…/05/17/bernardovi-sati/
Fidbek bi bio dobrodošao i utisci s obzirom da je ovo početak rada na nastavku drugog dela romana, premda može da stoji i pojedinačno. U suštini, to su dve novelete…. koje zajedno mogu da čine formu romana.

На почетку сам сан -путовања. Ноћне море су ужасније него икада. Хуле на мене гласови ужасних анђела, шаљу ме у пакао. Можда је то казна за почињено убиство.. Хрле ка мени језиве руке..
Балави ме неко.. то је одсечена коњска глава. Врти се на рингишпилу око ког обигравају деца. Црн је то, снажан коњ. Рингишпил држе четири одсечене ноге пастува.
„Никакав си јебач“, Барни. „Не! То је глас оне курве што сам је убио! Нисам морао!“
„Нисам морала да умрем!“, схватам да савршено подражавам њен глас, непробуђен, слепљених трепавица док ми се зној слива низ чело и орловски нос. „И ја сам имала право да живим и умрем и то не природном смрћу, неизбежно, како кажу, већ.. Била сам планирала да се убијем. Од своје руке! А ти си ме у томе спречио!“
Парче море попут пламена заталаса се, осетих како ми се у сну читаво тело загрева и изгара у ватри.
„О, Барни, ја сам отац Бојл, црквени поглавар цркве светог Патрика од Северне Ирске. У блад енд гор жанру си, сине мој. Твоји греси су ти досањали снове, довршили маштарије док се париш међ вриштећим ватрама пакла. Покварен је то јаук у теби, скврчен тако, јер Господа за милост и покајање ниси молио усрдно. Твоја невиност се одлива попут менструалне крви корумпиране девице, демонлине Ханту Копек.
„Ханту Копек! То си ти, демонко ноћне море преузела лик оца Бојла, нееее!“, вриштао сам, док су се шапат и самоћа спајали у намученом, мозгу пратећи уз урлајући осмех и кикотави плач моју патњу, слинећи као бесно псето од задовољства ме гањајући кроз мору од мог јада до бескраја.. Трчим, трчим ка хоризонту. Чујем милозвук. Хоризонт је плав, живахан и радостан и по њему плешу девице. Ширим руке ка њима. Хватају ме у коло, преливају се преко мене и уливају у мене своје сокове. Наткриљују ме телима, лагане су, очи им дрхте од суза. Плачем, ридам, држим главу међу шакама, све док не схватим да ме сустиже нечији снажан додир, да мекани гласови израстају у гробни глас као да допире из дубоке земље..
„Која није грешна нека прва баци камен!“
„Све смо безгрешне, сестро по Богу.“
И камење од некуда, с облака хита ка мени. Каменован сам на хоризонту наде. Девице то учинише, а ја схватих да то не беху свете деве но салемске вештице и да једна од њих има пола главе..
„Не! Оне ме дробе у месо! Живо месо! Помозите оче Бојл, кајем се, кајем се, убио сам нечасну жену, ишамарао нејако дете, убадао сам људске душе, злочинство ме допуњује и кад се каже злочин моје име ће вечно ићи уз злочинство, сломљене ватре ме облизаше, горим, горим..!“
„Од срца ти се мисао родила или какав други мотив те нагна да грлиш невиност слађу од усана женских, па макар и у проститутке. Знаш ли ти да је твоја жртва под заштитом наше свете патронашице, Исусове апостолке Магдалене чију светињу увреди, жабо крастава! Ниси управљао својим бесом на тај начин повредивши онемоћалу остарелу продавачицу љубави која те је изнајмила на сат, усхићена облацима, цвећем, знањем и шармом сједињеним у теби. О филмовима си јој говорио, крила јој вратио, славу јој женску вратио, а онда је разголитио у убио, но она је васкрсла у Господу.“
„Марија, ох Марија.. Узалуд за опростом жудим!“
„Зарастао си у грех и он те нагриза као коров. Одувек си маштао да одеш грешан с овог света. Безгрешан умрети, страх те је било.. сад сазнаде звер да пакла има и да ватре… ватре.. – замуцкивао је ноћни посетилац у магли сна – обучен у одежду протестанстког бискупа, с роговима на глави. Какав клише, сањиво сам помислио.
„Морам под хитно да се пробудим. Пре него што дођу..“
„Не тако брзо. Стижу.. корали!“ – загробни свештеников глас поприми још нељудскију ноту ако је то уопште било могуће.
„Не, не, корали..! То је сан о фонтани! Не могу.. не не.. Сутра ме мучи с фонтаном, новчићима и базеном, док ја…“
Крикнуо сам и пробудио сам се. Око себе угледах сабласни хор духова. Прекорише ме:
„ „Не вришти пробудићеш комшије, маму ти јебем!“
О, врата пакла, затворите се, па то је нечија рука на мојим устима.

12.54

Кад небески јахач ноћне море одлепрша, обично се догађа тако да први зрак сунца објави прогонство ужасног, тад се будим, облачим, дозвољавам себи луксузе оних који се усуђују себе звати нормалним људима, али они то нису, они су, СВИ ОНИ, укључујући и курву коју сам убио.. (срк кафе) разгрнуо бих завесе, али се бојим да се сунце не уплете у моју рашчерупану косу и МОЈЕ зидове.
Испијао сам кафу док су ми главом јуришале буновне, полусмислене мисли. Натраг на посао. Ноћ проклетства је прошла. И још многе ноћи. Да ли је неко тражио курву, какав непристран, страствен истраживач? Јављала ми се каткад у сновима, посматрајући ме неодређено, без мржње, тек исплаженог црног језика. А ја бих је запиткивао: па, како је тамо? Дочекивало би ме ћутање. Поставила је препреке, она, антистварност, свемир, бог и његови демони, свет досаде и немаштовите море кроз које сам пролазио.
„А како маштовите да буду кад у мени нема ни трунке кајања?“ Ипак, магличаста светлост би опстајала неколико сати након буђења. Чинило ми се да кроз светлост, попут зноја, капуцка крв. Кап..тап.. кап… тап.. Скупио сам зене крволока. Мора да је осећала детињи страх док сам је давио…
Била је још једна, можда је време да сад признам. Назвала ме је шверцером.. Аааах! Након првог убиства, три дана сам лежао у бунилу и грозници. Очи су ми дрхтале, гризао сам јастуке, пена ми је шикљала на уста, савијао сам труп напред и назад као епилептичар, испрекидано дисао, а четвртог дана сам отворио врата антикварнице потезом звери и закрвављених очију сам се загледао у свет. Ја, шверцер?
Мада сам пуно знао о њима. Гадили су ми се. Ситни препродавци са својим импровизованим тезгама на којима излажу картонске кутије препуне робе. Зими, стиснути испод тезги тапкају по расквашеном снегу не би ли угрејали ноге. Лети се шепуре својом робом на узаврелом Булевару. Крај њих су напирлитани купци у улози немилосрдних моћника, ах како они воле да окрену нос од понуђене робе. Шверцери за то не маре. Гађају се трговачким досеткама, између псовки. Тако сам упознао и њу, док сам обилазио… Зашто сам обилазио? Да бих могао да их презирем, па управо зато!

Свугде ме има. Излазим из најгушћег мрака и из најдаљих предела осамљености и забачености. У потрази за… неким. У потрази за оним најређим, а то је људска доброта. Зашто о овоме говорим? Време је да отворим антикварницу… Шверцери.. Хм… Била је лепа, као пролазећа звезда која заблиста и нестане у неком кутку свемира без обличја. Волео бих да се све завршило на том првом убиству, јер чак није нити била курва, само жеља коју сам пронашао у својој нејасној потрази. Нашао сам је и убио.

Да ли бас крајолик моје прошлости плаши? Тако је то.. Путовао сам прошлошћу као необуздани путник и чудовишне су знам ове ископине, за оне који ће их пронаћи.
Свугде где сам био, свет се показао ружним и прљавим. Гостионице, барови, бордели, моја бивша антикварница чији су зидови на смрт премлаћени од стране мојих мрзитеља, деце која су на МОЈЕ, СВЕ МОЈЕ бацали камење и гомила која урла за њима, сви на мене.. и сви имају лица боје суморности и сивила.. Моју антикварницу су затворили, а онда су је дали неком другом, то је неки постарији човек, можда пробам с њим да уговорим ствар, пишем овај спис и трљам модре, промрзле руке, на Булевару, скупа с уличним лешинарима, дилерима картон ситија, уличним харамбашама који окружују пролазнике и добацују им.. грозничаво, набацују им се, као блуднице, маме их, покрај тезги, баш баш као дроље избачене из јефтиног бордела на улицу.
За мене говоре да сам нервозан, црномањаст човек, налик на оне из чеховљеве футроле, каже ми Професор, он продаје шалове и рукавице, а некад је студирао философију на Сорбони док га нису преварили.. Ту се искључујем, не слушам га даље, не знам како су га преварили, помиње некакав старачки дом у који га је сместио син, а онда се заборави па каже да је и он неког убио (а ја сам се Професору поверио на шта се нацерио откривши црне зубе) и да се сам пријавио, али му нису веровали на реч. Говори да ужива, ох да ја уживам у свему овоме, Барни, јер ме овде не могу пронаћи, нити мој син, нити они из масонске ложе – ад би ме злослутно погледао – Дошло ми је до ушију да су и тебе шронашли и зле вести се чују по овоме крају – наслонио се на картонску кутију облепљену нетачним ценама с нажврљано – нечитким рукописом, како тврди Професор, на латинском је, све је или на латинском или француском, и шапуће ми:
– Барни.. Скресао сам ја у лице тим хуљама све шта мислим и знам да и они мисле да сам луд, а ја сам као и ти, човек у футроли, ја се страствено разликујем од свију.. и.. – ућутао би се – вести брзо путују по овоме крају, а мој син… И он је радио овде. Барни, мој син, то је неоплаћени ђаво. Нико не верује, нико не зна да је зачет у древној Персији, и тамо сам био, мисле да сам луд или да је старачка ћуд моја.. Ишчекивао сам његов долазак на свет, а напокон кад се родио, пригрлио сам га..
Насмејао сам се. Питао сам га како то мени може доказати, да сам распарач и да ме се то нимало не тиче.
„То је зато што си ти он“ – рођен из великог страха и мрачнога пакла, нашао си пут кроз врата овог света у онај други, црни.. – мрмљао је Професор. – И ја сам те поново нашао сине мој на стравичном месту, без страха. Ти си без граница, ти си без граница, свет је твоја разбојничка мапа, кад би само знао.. а ја тражим само једно, да кад умрем, да ме покопаш на хришћанскоме местугде су нацерени крстови и нахерени помало.. укосо!“, на неком запуштеном гробљу, ту метни крст… ти, чија је ђавологија само једна карика уз ланцу до последњег, најбитнијег преображаја у звер, груба карика у духовној зими твог постојања“, он устаде и отплеса уз махнити смех до једног половног старинског клавира, заигра крај њега валцер, закука потом, настављајући да изводи гротескне плесне фигуре.
Тезгароши праснуше у смех, а онда ка њему нагрнуше и бесним рукама га гураше „Тераш нам муштерије, псето.“, а професор раздра изношени капут дозивајући неког Павла Балаша, „јер ти си за мог сина капут сашио и за краља, а све шалове и рукавице остављам ником другом до свом новом сину, јер се једини он сажали на беду његовог рођења, пакосници, трговац душама међу вама седи, идите и поклоните му се“ и још додаде: „Види види сине мој како ме ударају као логораше док раде склекове хи хи хи, аонд акад ме буду претукли, ставиће ме у хангар број 5“
Напокон га оставише кад се старац онесвештен срушио у снег, пузећи полако према мени и дозивајући ме: „Змијо, змијо…“, док је у руци држао кухињски нож који је однекуд извукао, а трговци се вратише својој роби, а старац нагло испусти нож, зајеца и потом се сав зацени из плача. „Тако су побуњеници пресрели и разрушили спровод мртвог краља и покрали му посуде, све у злату и сребру и кад све однеше од тад луташе, као војници Христа, баш као и мој син по свету.До сукоба ће доћи!“
„Ене га, опет лег”о! – запали цигарету без филтера мушкарац погнуте главе у рамена ког су звали Вођа – надувеног лица које се белело спрам сумрачног неба и тамних подочњака док је мотао ситно сецкани дуван златножутебоје- Нисам дошо овде да вучем будале, него да преживим, да радим, своју породицу извучем на пут“.. О, госпоја, ви сте! Имам нешто за Вас – извади две паклице цигарета – Ово је за праву даму, а овај сецкани може и баба Перса преко пута. Тад су жене навелико пушиле. Неке крадом, неке јавно…“

Nastavak sledi…

‘But…we are ARTISTS!’


The Artists

‘I’ve carefully gone through your text of Wagner, madam. Quite passionate, a tour de force. This is precisely why I don’t call myself a Wagnerian, you will permit me (I hope) to provide some of my critical input.’

Mary Lynne allowed herself a minute smile and crossed her legs at the table.

The man tried his hardest not to look at her lovely, thin legs.

‘You start the text off strong, with a title that cuts to the chase, that doesn’t wander. The readers think that you will…that you’ll…’ His frowning face softened. ‘As early as the first, then the second paragraph to expand upon, to provide arguments to the qualification you laid…laid out, oh dear, I’m losing myself…in the title, yeah, that’s the word, IN THE TITLE! He gathered his wits for a second and started banging his head on the table – and yet nothing.’

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Vincent D’Onofrio (Cholo) with Mathilda May (Stephanie) in the movie Naked Tango the end of the film.

https://www.etsy.com/il-en/listing/276627324/black-and-white-nude-acrylic-painting

‘You say that he bullied his colleagues, and also that you cannot cite a single example, because there is nothing written, or disclosed. Funny, one would wonder: where did the daring claim come from that the man was a witnessed sadist when there are neither examples nor evidence of this? ’

The man extended his hands towards her. ‘Oh, Maryyyy…I will strangle youuuuu! With a wire string, dude!’

The man panicked. He grabbed her throat. He screamed. ‘I’m panicking! I’m panicking! I have to jump!’

And he jumped at her mumbling how truly unhappy he is.

‘Look at her, how easily she gives herself to me! You are no longer so prideful! Get yourself up, you low-browed dunce! Oh if only a wind could blow right now to lift your skirt up, and here I am having to put up the effort, they’ll even call this rape!’

‘And it would’ve been romantic’ Mary Lynne said coquettishly.

‘Right, like in Tannhäuser. Sing to me, sing to me, be my…Wilhelmina Schroeder!’

‘Is that like Venus?’

He lifted her leg in lieu of responding as if he were plowing a field. He flung it over his left shoulder.

Venus sang.

‘Do forgive me never more will IIIIIIIII

Come to me if fortune’s what you seeeeeeeek’

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Sophie Koch as Venus in Tannhäuser

‘My fortune…’ He uttered between heavy panting and then flung her left leg over his right shoulder (where the other one went, he wasn’t sure). ‘My fortune lies in Mary!’

And he added:

‘I also think that the text would have had more impact if Hitler hadn’t been mentioned. What, there’s no bloody way that Stalin, who was none the lesser a monster and a murderer than Hitler, didn’t love Glinka or Borodin, or more likely Mussorgsky. That does not mean that these composers were vile men. There is a sizable possibility that Idi Amin loved Tartini or Paganini, why not. There are counterexamples as well. Beethoven loved Napoleon for years, he even devoted ‘Eroica’  to him, after which he got disappointed, gave up on Bonaparte.’

‘There.’ Mary said, after an explosive finish a la Eroica. ‘Now, will we do some Wilhelm Friedman for me, sweet lover?’

‘Start!’ With Mary’s dress at an arm’s reach, he quickly put on a dress and made-up and groomed in a manga style he lifted his hairy legs up high, swearing that the Cliven depilatory cream was not handy.

‘You know how much I care for hygiene!’ He wept.

‘Cold waxing is the best with the Tiger tire glue.’ She smiled. ‘Now have a listen…’

‘Oof…’

Between Expressions by Hamish Blakely

‘Wilhelm Friedman was spat upon to the point of pain. A boozehound died poor…(SIGHING) They then admit that he was the greatest instrumentalist of his age. The dude hit the clavier, not a single person could challenge him. A biography that on the surface looks like the buckish bios of notable rock musicians. Oy vey, there was a movie as well, I think the title of it is, in fact, Wilhelm Friedman, where he, apparently, suffers and struggles (SHE SIGHS LOUDER AND MORE PASSIONATELY) as a gifted son of a well-known father. The catch is that his father was nowhere near as noteworthy when Friedman was playing, and his problem was neither living in his father’s nor in his brother’s shadow (Mozart said about Carl Philip Emanuel: ‘He is the father, we are all his children’ (OH GOD!!!!), which reckless historians transposed as Mozart talking about Bach, and he didn’t.) (BOTH SIGH AND MOAN), but with all those flies, fleas and planktons that make up life and make up us humans, like a living organism, dead center in that life itself. Leopold Mozart, Wolfgang’s pops, picturesquely and colloquially described the habitus of Friedman Bach. ‘A remarkable musician, an unrivaled composer, but a heavy, heavy drinker.’’

He was panting. ‘I love Händel a lot. I have some undocumented version of his Water Music, therefore I do not know either who performed it or when, and the version is, just, it’s the balls, it tears ass… I listened to various different versions, but most of them are shit, can’t even come close to what I have. Händel and Telemann, by the way, I view as bigger composers than Bach. ’

Lars von Trier’s Antichrist was playing in the background during all of this. An erect phallus added to the magic and romance of the two. Candles were too much with all of these other stimuli. At the peak of arousal, they were slapping each other, arguing which composer is better.

antichrist

‘Boozehound, spendthrift, died poor, boozehound, spe…e…eh, dear husband, I think that will do for the evening.’

And while he was putting on man’s clothing, Mary Lynne sang Messiaen: Turangalîla-Symphony (Joie du sang des étoiles) in front of the mirror, the director of the Artist’s Trilogy Ron Gabe Bonester went upsy-daisy and with a ‘Camera, cut!’ he marked the end of the shoot.

‘I gave you too much freedom! None of that was in the script!’ He paused for thought. ‘Now you, kid, get Mary a gun to blow your brains out!’

The actress went upstart. ‘That wasn’t the deal!’

Bonester shouted in response to this. ‘Nobody questions my authority! For two hours behind that there…glass compartment…the Australian minister of culture is sitting and waiting for the script which will present his arduous devotions at the Art Conference focusing on non-profit management. Our country cannot develop economically without innovation in that particular field. And education! Who do you think you are? Who bought me this Canon EOS 6D to shoot you guys? Get serious, woman, and continue the oral, along with Chopin and your husband.’

‘But…we are ARTISTS!’

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‘An overrated term. I do not exchange my ideas with the personnel. We directors laud a vibrant and growing creative economy!’

Then both He and She approached him and pounded him into the ground, while Bonester slid on the floor in his oversized suit.

‘Shall we continue where we left off?’

‘You mean…while the Minister Behind the Compartment observes?’

‘And then a gun to the head, like Romeo and Juliet. Or was it poison? But let’s not split hairs.’

‘That would probably be a mistake, but…as I said… we are artists, dear colleague, and a happy couple in Art. We cannot live on without the drama.’

‘And voyeurs,’ someone whispered, sat in a chair where the now unconscious director lay and followed this up with a thunderous applause.

Then the trio continued the show agreeing that the Husband should be given any old name.

Mary’s gaze flew up and she said: ‘He will be named Frederic. Like our unborn son.’

Nobody objected, therefore Frederic could begin.

The Minister, who physically reminded one of the head electricians, would record something with an expensive video camera. But under the condition that he played Chopin.

‘Bah bah, the Best Boy.’ Both send passionate kisses to him. Then, with an erotic play, they embraced.

‘Artists, such artists,’ mumbled the Mysterious Traveler, the Spectator, the Third Without Whom You Can’t Go On, from the artistic Kingdom of Heaven.

But Mary Lynne and Frederic were in their own world, wreathed in music and gifted with a gift worthy of the Gods.

The camera buzzed. Reflectors flashed.

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SCENE 25:

‘I’ve carefully gone through your text of Bach, madam. Quite passionate, a tour de force. This is precisely why I don’t call myself a Bachian, you will permit me (I hope) to provide some of my critical input.’

SCENE 26:

‘…as far as the Bach family is concerned, I love Wilhelm Friedman and Carl Philip Emanuel, they rule, each in their own way, but I dug up some other guys as well – for instance, Johann Bernhardt Bach is also excellent. In the classical era, Johann Christian Bach stood out. Imagine that wondrous family tree, this beast of a family, which branched out during a good hundred-and-so-year period, and bore nothing but interesting musical fruit. Crazy.’ (SCREAM)

CUT.

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:

TO BE CONTINUED

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?’

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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]

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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.