BORIS’ DESCENT INTO HELL

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“The Adventures Of Boris K”
Leila Samarrai

Boris K. was sent by the Vatican to deliver sinners’ souls out of damnation.

“Just like Christ did once.” Do you aspire to be Christ, Boris? “To splatter the Lord’s blood on you?” Cardinal Pepe, flanked by authorities, smiled at him with a toothless smile.

(“Everyone has really long noses,” Boris K. observed.)

Boris K. wrapped his arms around the Vatican pillar. The baptismal tree fell before his eyes, as did flogging to death, a popular Roman sport…

His body burned in his wounds at the mere mention of the whip…

The cardinal frowned, smoothed the costly silk cardinal’s uniform, and poured expensive whiskey for Boris K.

“Calm down, Boris K. It is only hell.”

“I’m not going anywhere without Virgil!” “I’m a lost sheep without his guidance,” Boris K. moaned, turned on his heel, and boldly turned his back on the cardinal.

“Virgil has made it to the first round. Make your complaint to him, not to me. And now… Let’s raise a glass! “A present from the Roman Inquisition, son Boris,” Pepe smiled warmly, and the officials removed their congressional suits, revealing a Toledo-style attire.

Then he seized Boris K. and stripped him nude before putting on a penitential yellow robe with St. Andrew’s crimson crosses.

The Inquisitor then pointed at Boris while carrying a tumbler of whiskey in his other hand as the cardinal approached with a poker.

“Whiskey or the mark of the devil, Boris K. You choose.”

“God, if it’s your will… let this whiskey pass me by,” Boris K screamed. “At least if it was vodka, it would be simpler for me…” he reasoned.
To this, the cardinal replied: “Boris K., I swear to Hail Mary with three hands that if you execute your duty properly and respectfully, we will let you leave. You’re doing it for God’s sake, not mine “Cardinal Pepe gazed adoringly at the magnificent ceiling of the Apostolic Palace.

Boris K. went to hell after draining the liquid that a sadist monk had pushed down his throat, having nowhere else to go and fearing for his bare life.

In the ninth round, he awoke. He discovered Hitler conversing with an occultist at a back table, and it was the Roman Messalina.

“She has always shot high,” pondered Boris K., who reckoned the Roman Lolita deserved no higher than tenth…

“Yes, my blonde, that’s precisely where…” Jeremiah, you’re refilling now! And it all started with you, Paul! “

Hitler crossed something out in order to burrow further into the pile of documents on the table.

“Repent, O Führer – Boris K. before he went to Hell, he pulled out the paper provided to him by the Grand Inquisitor – The Sinner is Running Out of the Vatican.” Also, keep in mind:

“They shaved his mustache. He was, in fact, in the Andes. His hair has grown in hell, yet it burns too hot among the freezing horrors!”

“I can’t,” Hitler groaned. I’ll prepare them hell soup! Totalitarian cretins!”

“Hicco, return to Sodom and Gomorrah for me. – Messalina said — As the Roman Empress, the protector of public morality, I took Rome to its climax. Change marriage fornication, control intimate relationships, and prostitution. Let it simply be adultery.”

“Fine, just get rid of Chaste Joseph.”

Hitler and Messalina hugged at that point.

Boris K. scratched out Hitler’s name, wrote “Infidel,” and moved down to nine circle, towards Stalin.

“Everyone goes to jail! Jail, prison, prison! No, jail! “What… what?” He hastily turned left – right. – From where did the scream come? Is it becoming dark? Are you ringing, Љубљенка? Give me my Љубљенка, my honey! Ah, she’s finally arrived! I am content “, the dreadful commander, calmed down.
Then he spotted Boris K. He was staring at him with a cold, authoritarian gaze.

“I apologize,” Boris K. murmured. – You may leave hell if you wish. His Holiness has made you a tremendous offer.”

“Once again, the Vatican! What would the survival of the Catholic village children do to me? Surely, only the elite of Moscow!”

Boris K. scratched out Stalin’s name and moved down one circle, then down another. He was rejected for several reasons, beginning with Mussolini, who, according to Boris K.’s testimony, did well in the position of pimp. “I am a citizen of my own kin. After all, my trench was larger than Italy! “I have everything I desire.” Boris K. was also rejected by Mao Zedong and Kim Jong Il.

“We will turn China into a superpower!” A significant stride forward is unstoppable. Soon, there will be no feces for diners! That is the social strategy!”

Boris K. did not pass to Pinochet from the Fifth, nor to Margaret Thatcher, Nixon, Obama, or Bush Jr., who argued: “Who among us is the money god? “Is it me, me, or me?”

“Just as Dante said,” Boris K. sighed, caressing Pluto’s wolf, who looked in wonder at Western politicians.

Then he spoke to Boris K in a human voice: “I’ll request that I be moved to the crooks. This is overkill for me.”

Boris K. made it to the third round. Lawyers competed in the third level. It was not worth spending time for some souls.

Religious leaders fought in the second stage.

“They seem to be having a lovely time,” Boris K observed, expecting to discover what he sought in the First Round.

“Is everything all Well in hell?” Boris K. was perplexed. turning in the First Round, where TV hosts introduced a very popular show Almost everyone had crowded around the on-fire television set. Each round saw the arrival of fans of the TV show “Inferno.”

Boris K. also heard the announcer say, “Dear viewers, welcome to Inferno,” which was followed by ads, much to the pleasure of those in attendance.

The show went on eternally…

Boris K. discovered that everyone in Hell was content. The influence of the liquor wore off, and Boris K. found himself in the Vatican Palace before His Holiness.

– Your Eminence… – Boris K. said fearfully. Then submit a report to the Pope His Holiness shook his head.

Boris K was encircled by the Roman Inquisition. They extended their hands to him, as the friars moved in a circle around Boris K., carrying crosses in their palms. In a panic, the cardinal exclaimed:

“Do you mean we gave our word?”

The Pope broke out laughing, and the friars followed suit.

“Get him out!” The poor cardinal sobbed. “With a Spanish cutter, chop off his tongue!”

Borisa K. seized the hideous hands. The exquisite outfit was put on by the Pope’s fingers, which were edged with expensive jewels.

Boris K. realized there was nothing left to joke about, so he composed himself and accepted the instinctual, aggravating, and a bit confusing sense of survival.

“It isn’t everything! It isn’t everything!” Boris K. yelled. “I observed your coworkers; they sing dithyrambs in your honor, sarcastic tunes, with goat’s hooves and a nightingale’s voice… “Benedict, we miss you, Benedict!” they yell from the ekkyklema (1). “From the Vatican, our buddy!”

And thunder and lightning strike at every praise! You are a divinity to them, a hero!”

As soon as he heard that, the Pope leapt off his papal throne and locked himself in the papal toilet.

He didn’t go out for a few days. Cardinals and Inquisitors kept vigil in front of the Pope’s most private chamber, day and night.

Cardinal Pepe, the first candidate for Pope, was overcome with fear and ordered the Pope to leave chocolate mousse beverages and his favorite dessert, steeped in medical herbs, and told Boris K:

“Go inform the devil that the Pope is refusing to appear before him.”

Boris K. drank whiskey and there he was, already in front of grave sinners, via Phlegethos [2], suicides transformed into toxic branches, back to Hitler when he bid farewell to Wig Heil, which disgusted him, but he had no choice.

“Just right, then left,” Hitler said, raising his right hand at 45 degrees and tapping his heel on his heel.

Boris K. sends a hand signal and looks up. The Devil smiled at him from there.

“Good evening, Boris K.” Satan was surrounded by a bright nebula, from which he emerged. He had Angelina Jolie’s physique and Scarlett Johansson’s face.

“Do I resemble Grendel’s mother?”

Boris K. detected the odor of burning flesh. That is what Hitler burnt in hell.

“Boris K., we are not wasting time. I read your mind and drained the terror from your body. I want you to see me as an equal who can advise you on what to do. Boris K. cast an eye on Benedict after a long period. “They sold their soul to me for an eon and a half… – the devil calculated – and they haven’t come to me in a decade or two. It’s like paying a soul tax.”

Boris K. advances towards the gorgeous feminine body, tightening her hips as if mesmerized.

“Attacker!”, he was slapped by the devil, who said:

“Capture all of them and bring them to me.”

“Where will my soul go? Boris K. cried out and transformed into a wolf.

“She is currently with me. But don’t worry, I’ll return it to you “He promised Boris K. that the devil will exist outside of human dimensions and that his choices would not be understood, at least not in this story.

He filled his lips and smirked at Boris K., who was in a daze, as he poured a bottle of Russian-standard vodka down his neck, while Caiaphas’ priests and Judas cleaned up Hitler’s ashes.

“Allow him to be the new Pope. When it manifests again, he will have forgotten who he is.”

Boris K. envisioned actual hell plans. While changed into a beast, he squeezed the Pope like a piece of salted steak and took him to hell between his teeth.

On that day, Adolf Hitler was elected Pope by Cardinal Pepe’s body. Boris K. provided hell with numerous elderly Vatican souls in exchange for the devil returning his, this time in the guise of a humanoid hybrid.

Boris K. wept with delight and began to hug the devil when the demon thanked him and returned his soul…

So the devil freed Boris K. and told him:

“Go tell people that the world is a sad place where only I honor my promise.”

(1)
An ekkyklêma ( / ˌɛksɪˈkliːmə /; Greek: εκκύκλημα; “roll-out machine”) was a wheeled platform rolled out through a skênê in ancient Greek theatre. It was used to bring interior scenes out into the sight of the audience. Some ancient sources suggest that it may have been revolved or turned.
[2]
Phlegethos was the fourth layer of the Nine Hells

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A nonsensical dictionary


Dear Mr. Daily Prayer Approver, SA Stabschef Ernst, B.S. MS MBA MPHIL PhD, PhDD, DSc, MMSf, consultant, Zen Master of Social Word-of-Mouth

I’m enclosing a convincing block of 25 blanco stories in the hopes of obtaining a permanent professorship at the Faculty of Philosophy of the Phenomenonrepublic of the Balkans (though I couldn’t think of a more meaningless location). I chose this topic because it allows me to represent myself or my perspectives on life and contemporary literature better than the philosophical saints would have in their eternal battle for absolute nirvana…

I could never believe, sir, Dr. Application, that the subject of existence could be discussed in a different way. Each reader will use my philosophical system and method to grasp the pearl of a sense that will warm his soul to the final breath and sigh from the empty shell of existence I offer.

1. Beginning: The dictionary’s first letter

2……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

25th and final letter of the dictionary

Section on the Author:

Boris K. wrote the following:

Boris K.’s “History of Written Words on Empty Paper” (1957).

“It doesn’t feel like home,” (Phenomenorepublic Library) (1979)

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

“Never underestimate the lethal power of the bleeding creature, the women’s studies, The monastery of the harlots of the last days, Got mit uns, 1976.”
–“What’s the point of alienation?” The author of (École Primaire Socrates et Démosthenes) (333. p.n.e) is unknown.

“Reflection of Nothingness on the Nihilist Executioner’s Ax” (Henry VIII Sparknotes) (1857), author: Anne Boleyn

“Letters to an Idle Robot,” Odd Future Urban Cookie Collective College, Lecturers, Belgrade, professors Lowlife, Twerp, and A True Nobody

Travelogues, Uday Hussein, “From the Cradle to the Kalashnikovs”

The ancient Japanese writing, “Manual for Seppuku”

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We Books, too, have feelings.


There was once a critic who was so well-known for his criticism of Masterpieces of World Literature that the Guild of Acquisitors and Traders of the Phenomenopublic erected a monument in his honor, and since then he has grown very conceited – he undermined writers by any means necessary, abusing his honorable position.
He was a voracious reader and a terrible writer all at the same time!

Then something unusual happened: angry books, unrelentingly criticized, decided, at least some self-respecting ones, such as Mein Kampf and thus the Epic of Gilgamesh, to refuse to be read, let alone commented on. Due to the newly composed trash commercial book for nerve relaxation   (“The Art of War”)  , the Bible, as well as Master and Margarita and Der Steppenwolf, remained closed. This “poor wretch” refused to read great works of literature. The newspapers joined them as well. The written letters reacted angrily:

“On behalf of all the authors who have been satirized and tortured over the centuries, we books have decided to embark on a path of outrage!” They clapped their hands as well. The critic became depressed – he wouldn’t have had to read, but books were chasing him everywhere, bouncing after him, slapping him, and some would hit him on the head, falling from the best shelves. That was a mistake!

This victim quickly fell into an unusual state – a mysterious, deep, unknown land of delusions and apparitions, which opened up new vistas for the Critic – at night, he saw things that didn’t exist, he heard noises he didn’t recognize, he trembled for no apparent reason. He was stymied by fear.
“That fear escalates until it becomes terror.” I’m in agony, as if a metal hoop is squeezing my temples, and my heart is thrashing as if it’s going to suffocate me.

” The noose is tightening. “They’re getting there!” He opened up to Boris K., the painter, while drinking in the cafe.”

“Who’s going around you?”

Boris K. peering over the rim of his glass at him.

“Books,” the critic said, a provocative and cheeky look on his face.

“I’m feeling… “I felt my power dwindling or… perhaps it’s less emotional and more neurological.”

The critic stared foolishly for a moment, but quickly recovered and burst out laughing, raising a glass to Boris K., who said:

“I assure you that your “great matter” has become a state issue, that books that have been unread for a long time don’t feel good, that they feel dusty, and that it is critical to start a joint session as soon as possible.”

Boris K. appeared to be preoccupied with serious thoughts. Finally, he added:

“I believe it is time for psychotherapy.”

The therapy got off to a rocky start. Boris’s library’s books were initially convulsed by the fashion that tore them apart, and they opened their mouths to inform him that he deserved the torrent of insults that was coming; the critic couldn’t defend himself. Despair gripped his throat.

“You don’t get us!” yelled the books as they jumped around the library. And we, the books, are flawed in the same way that gods and other people are, with all of our strengths and weaknesses. Regardless, we, unlike you, are immortal! I, The Epic of Gilgamesh, am 1700 years old and was carved into clay tablets! I used to be a Sumerian folklore fresco, written on 11 Babylonian tablets! And you accused me of being bad because of the hurriedly carved 12th fragmented tablet. It was written so poorly that the Uruk people could no longer tolerate the abuse of a book written in such a sloppy manner, so an unknown shepherd created a hero willing to oppose it.

“That’s right,” Kafka’s “Trial” grew irritated – and that I, too, have flaws. “I’m burdened, full of annoyance, and ready for psychoanalysis.”

A few more fell far away from Boris’ closet’s top shelf.

“And you mention Paulo Coelho’s books here.

“You claim we’re in denial because we don’t want to admit we’re not all that great! We hid to avoid embarrassment and rage… “at the top of Boris’ closet, at the back of the boxes”

The Critic now enjoyed that debauched game, amused himself madly indeed, in his element, complacently realizing that his opinion meant a lot to books, with a lightweight layer of shame with which every critic of society entangles only the surface. Fearful and silent anticipation crept into the area, producing a profound sense of calm.

“It’s time to crack open Zen for Beginners.” To understand what is going on, you must first understand your inner selves. The microscopic immortals’ sincerity moves me. Tell me as if I’m your priest – there’s a secret.” You appear to be the type of man who is preoccupied with only one thought:

“How will they react if they discover the truth?”

Boris K. gave him a wink.

“Yes… The books’ sincerity has moved me.”

Your sincerity, Gilgamesh, especially, touched me with your kind words.” Gilgamesh retreated and screamed angrily. He then burst into tears.

“I criticized you with false enthusiasm, intoxicated with pleasure, thinking of nothing else, within the triumph of my glory, in pride for my success, in some cloud of happiness from all that adoration, of all that admiration… What I’ve always admired about you, Mesopotamian treasure, made me feel uncomfortably small and insignificant in comparison to the infinity of the universe and the forces beyond my comprehension… “

 As a deep peace reigned, terror and silent anticipation crept into the room.

Boris K. examined the Critic obliquely, with the stiff demeanor of a very careful copyist, his body tilted to one side. When it was Kafka’s turn, he began speaking in a very learned tone, solemnly as in the proclamations, smugly smiling, and concluding with a single eloquent attitude:,

“And I’d never hurt you in any way, Trial.” Except for praise, your neurosis is not for contempt.
I actually wanted to write a completely unique filled with repressed and forcibly suffocated rebukes that climb onto the accusation, you knock into the rock of my inner cataclysm with a gnarled stick, during which hopes and expectations rose to the heavens and despair and helplessness fell to hell… yes… my inability… to put it in writing like that! Such a mental illness should not be taken lightly.”

As the Critic spoke, Boris K.’s face lit up with a lighthearted apostolic smile. The critic moved from book to book, singing an impressive hymn to everyone in the patrician poses of the righteous, penitent, hidden envious, and benefactor. The books watched him calmly, uncomfortably calmly, from an unfathomably great distance, from the gap through which patients at nerve clinics are observed, and then, all of the books, along with the shelf, suddenly fell on the Critic’s head. Boris’ ziggurat-like room echoed with the laughter and whispers of deceived books.”

“You little poop, wipe that silly grin off your face!”

(Another ending: As soon as his wounds healed, the critic went to Tibet in search of enlightenment and Buddha-like calm.)

The books agreed to be read again by the critic, who did so, albeit suspiciously.)

Photo Credit: https://www.beautifullife.info/art-works/book-art-by-jonathan-wolstenholme/

Boris K and Nine Symphonic Novels

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Boris K. has been enjoying listening to The Greatest Pieces of Classical Music. While listening to Haydn (So goddamn boring! is what Boris thought) and later watching a documentary on Mahler’s death, he wished to hit Mahler’s head against a stone wall.

Boris K admired Ludwig Van Beethoven, even more than he admired communist leader Che Guevara and union leader Lenin. Seeking to know more about Beethoven’s personal life, he watched a documentary about the life of Ludwig Van Beethoven. Ludwig was adorned with bloodshot eyes… “Beethoven certainly delighted in creating music for mankind. It’s like being God!”

In tears before the monument of human genius, he came up with the idea of writing nine symphonic short stories based on his own exciting life.

“Boris K , the greatest discoveries of mankind are the toilet bowl and the shower”, he remembered the wise words of their inventor after the use of burts and night dishes in the 19th century. The legendary inventor has changed the destiny of humanity in that way!

Next up was Eroica. Boris K. it wrote in a dream. He dreamed he was a teenager in a Flash Gordon suit during a rocket attack fired by an evil emperor. He woke up with a shout, but not before being hit by the rockets. So, Boris K. woke up and wrote it.

Boris did not mind the third novel, which he called “the Pastoral Symphony”. He remembered the good old days, when, on his first visit to Zlatibor, he fell in love with a shepherdess, and then left her when he found out she was an assassin

Boris K. was angry as he wrote the last line of the novella: “And I saved her from the evil bear!” The fourth novella was even easier: “Remember, readers, when Megaimportante put me in jail and forced me to sing key parts of Beethoven’s Fourth as part of a prison ballet,” Boris K. wrote.

At least my voice was warmed up with ” Prille Prolle ” !! But it wasn’t! – Boris sighed, “However, I used my belcanto knowledge to escape from prison disguised as Beethoven.

“During the break I managed to conceal Ludwig’s death from the audience, and since the whole elite was there, no one knew he had died for 200 years.”

Boris rubbed his hands together after finishing the fourth novel. “This will be a hit! I was born to write short stories.” He approached the TV and kissed Ludwig’s frozen picture. (pressing the “Pause!”Pause!”Pause! ” button) Right in the head! “For his work Ludwig, you will receive a laudative,” Boris K promised the frozen TV screen.

While Boris was swept up in visions of all the glory from sales of such ingenious novels, he continued to speak

He dreamed up the seventh novella. He was the star of Woody Allen’s movie. Woody was Boris’ favorite filmmaker. It was jazzy.

During filming, he seduced the main actress, leaving Woody short of a load, shattering the movie plot!

When Boris woke up, he thought: “A novel based on real events!”

In addition to the eighth novella, Boris began writing the ninth. Would that remain unfinished?

Ludwig, don’t even get me started on it. Boris realized, “It will definitely remain unfinished.”

In renouncing the ninth novella, Boris K. set out on a new adventure, renouncing the ninth novella, but not before writing an explanation in the footnote of the unfinished book:

I and Beethoven renounce … as Beethoven renounces his symphonies, so shall I renounce my novellas. And not just one, but all nine! I renounce it. I resent them. We renounce ever knowing ourselves. Europe is at fault.

Boris had a dream in which Beethoven told him that Europe was hypocritically using his anthem and that he should leave the book open to allow the audience to hope that there will be a sequel.

Happy Odunde!* The Firecracker Man, Cheers to a New Year!



Boris K. has been so stressed lately. Luckily, it is New Year’s Eve, so he has easy access to smoke bombs. The neighbours can hear the hiss, thud, crash!, Whizzz, and heeeee of firecrackers Boris K. sets up and ignites one by one in the house, from the sofa. He has decided that rather than wash dishes, he will simply blow them up. So he launches rockets into the air with a loud bang that break dishes, shatter glasses, collapse walls and turn forks into shrapnel-sharp and tinny enough to pierce the roof and violate the sound barrier. While smoke and the entire colour spectrum spill onto Boris K., an event that could only happen in Neverland, Boris returns to the memory of his first marble. As the neighbours wake in horror from sweet dreams to find themselves fearfully screaming at the vision of an apocalyptic earthquake, Boris K smiles and sinks into a blissful dream.


*Happy New Year’s Eve, Odunde (means “Happy New Year” in the Yoruba Nigerian language) and other holidays! For last year’s words belong to last year’s language. And next year’s words await another voice. – T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

A word or two on Boris K, The Adventures of Boris K


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The Adventures of Boris K.

Boris K. – The First Loser of Phenomenization

Some countries were ruled by the Inquisition. Others were subject to questionable privatizations. Boris K’s country was exposed to inexplicable phenomenizations. For Boris K, a man with no permanent occupation, phenomenization was so unexpected that he had no choice but to come to terms with it.

He got into different time periods without the use of a time machine. He found himself performing strangest of jobs without ever applying for them. He kept adapting to the situation, akin to a player advancing to the next level in an unpredictable computer game.

“What have I ever done to deserve the things happening to me?” Boris K. wondered. “I am no different than any other semi-skilled worker who got carried away by the idea of equality in our Republic. I enthusiastically neglected to further my education for the sake of blind faith in “better times” when the voice of the small, the ordinary, and the nameless would be heard as well.”

Boris K. was prepared to endure greatest of sacrifices in order to achieve this goal. As one of the deserving participants at the end of the great Revolution he was offered great benefits – which he promptly refused with utter disgust. It was against just such privileges that he had fought in the first place, he claimed, hence benefiting from them would be contrary to his beliefs. So he settled for an assembler’s job on a car factory production line, where he happily worked 12 hours a day fitting mirrors on the passenger doors.

One day he was laid off. Introduction of new technologies and reductions in work force, or at least that was what he was told; he was well aware the real cause lay in that ultimate evil slowly but surely corroding the fabric of humanity – the profit. Disposed of like an exhausted battery, empty hearted and with eyes full of tears, he moved from his humble but furnished apartment to the so-called “Lepers’ Valley”. The place was nicknamed for its inhabitants: hardly true lepers, but merely desperate souls befallen by a fate similar to Boris’ own. It was dubious in which of the two skins they would have thought themselves better off. The ancient buildings huddling together in irregular patterns, the abodes of unhappy families, were not made of concrete reinforced with Pittsburgh steel; they were built with eco-bricks with insulating layers of pure asbestos, which almost certainly guaranteed the tenants a case of lung cancer. As if there was not enough trouble in their lives.

It was in such a building that Boris K. found his new apartment. It was not the vacancy ad that attracted him, but rather the unusual appearance of the landlady – who was in a habit of swatting at the heads protruding from the adjacent manholes using the highest-circulating newspapers of the City.

“Like swatting flies,” thought Boris K, eyes fastened on a greasy rosary. Frau Suzy (as the landlady was called) and Boris K. exchanged just one glance and immediately recognized each other. Brushing his graying hair back, Boris K inquired about the price. The Frau leveled one measuring, scornful look at him, flicking the ash from her cigarette holder straight onto his hole-pocked shoe. Boris K glanced at her defiantly. Frau’s response came in a raspy, ancient voice.

“Ha!”

It was a mantra that meant one thing and one thing only and was uttered by the old woman only on the rarest of occasions. Boris K. liked mature blondes with an attitude, so he decided he would start his mission in that very unfortunate place.

Mission? What mission?

You will find out soon enough.

* Phenomenization, phenomenosition, from fenomenon (gr. φαινόμενо, occurence), something observable but utterly mysterious and untraceble, and better kept that way.

PHENOMENIZATION

from

Res Publicus Phenomesationem The people of the Republic have fathomed the secret of the phenomenization by the agency of a mysterious clairvoyant gammer: since the Parliament was hit by a lightning at the moment when there were 111 storks on the roof, 222 members in the building and 333 rants under the foundation – the famous phenomenization occured. The thoughts of storks, rats and Members of Parliament commingled in the air and fell to the ground. Thus certain individuals realized they preferred living in the sewer, others keep trying to fly and carry babies, while the rest just keep babbling about politics. Anything is possible in the land of phenomenization.

 

“The Adventures of Boris K.” is now live and available for purchase in the Kindle Store


Kindle ebook of dystopian adventures of Boris K. “The Adventures of Boris K.” by Leila Samarrai is now live and available for purchase in the Kindle Store

 

DYSTOPIAN ADVENTURES
This collection of thematically and temporally interconnected stories (which would make some readers hastily declare it a novel), represents a piece which, due to many of its features, stands out from the contemporary Serbian literary production. Boris K. is, just as Josef K., a man stuck in a trial (Victor Pelevin would call it a transition from nothing to nothing), as well as a postmodern coquetting with stereotypes, twisting them, with metatextuality. Situated, not by accident, in Phenomenonpublic, a pseudo-country and a pseudo-democracy, Boris K. is a man whose life, identity, life circumstances, the world around him, all change faster than the statuses on social networks. Boris K. is “a 21st century boy – everybody’s toy”, but, as the English would say, “nobody’s fool as well”. Speaking of dystopias, we must mention Winston Smith from Orwell’s “1984”. Paranoia and societal pressure exist, Oceania where Smith lives is nothing else but a microcosm in the same manner that Phenomenonpublic is. But, unlike Smith, Boris K. has places to go. Nobody is stopping him. His freedom of choice is, at first glance, absolute. But every so often a self-appointed tribune of the plebs a la Megaimportanceshire can appear who will ruin his good fortune. Let’s not forget: there is a strong satirical lining within these stories, predominantly taking aim against liberal capitalism, kleptarchy, corporations, xenophobia, and prejudices of all kinds. And, of course, what the Phenomenonpublicans love most is to wail for their deceased to whom they attribute traits which, during their lifetime, they had not seen. The living are friable – the dead are indestructible. Sound familiar? It should.

An open call to ones, an open despise to others


as an author of the maxima: human hypocrisy should be respected because virtue is not worth the effort, I’m not surprised nor should I react differently than throaty laughter, but all those who, for some reason, secretly and not publicly address me with ah: ah, you’re so talented, I have never heard of these things to exist at all .. I have learned so much from you or — your brain is a precious instrument … etc (I can corroborate all this with letters ..) or those who persistently follow my blog when I turn to them for concrete help, they remain silent .. I do not count the famous archive -1-checkup early in the morning –  from Serbia, I know one hen that gets up earlier than a rooster ..I know who it is, it is a female mental patient under control…
I am waiting for the doomsday when the psychiatrist will allow her to call me… or whoever she chose to be her tutor nowadays. –  to welcome her.
I will not be able to continue my work that would be much better and I would write more and you would enjoy my work much more if you would only give me a little help, if not materially, then in the form of technical assistance (translations, someone
to help me with marketing and procedure)
Looks like you would love to do it, but living in the dreaded fear of what I could become if I had the crumb of luck to make money the way you made it …
I cannot prevent you from spying on my blog, reading, anyone with their intentions, I tell you openly, I despise you and if it depends on me, I would ban you on reading my works. and maybe I will.
this does not apply to people who do not know me. admittedly, neither do those who claim to know me, know me at all.
but unfortunately, I got to know them by their deeds.
unfortunately, talent and money rarely go together, and today, more than ever, money determines who will publish books and who does not.

 

Boris K. in Poland, Ernst Teodor Hoffman


Boris K. in Poland, Ernst Teodor Hoffman

Boris K. found some helpful suggestions but is still not satisfied.

“They expect no less from me than the Lairn dragons and the Minotaurs, well, that’s just unavoidable, isn’t it? ,” As he said: here is Boris in Poland, in Bamberg, Higher Franciscan, where he meets Hoffman in the theatre. His face was full of anger mixed with madness.

Hoffman muttered, frowning.

“Everything is spectre of spectres, saith the preacher; all is spectre. Life is a dungeon. Ah, Kopelius, alchemist, here you are,” he said, upon sighting Boris K.
Then Boris told him what the Russians said and Hoffman thought: “Phenomenon. It’s a scary phenomenon! Let’s say you deserved death, a hundred times over, a dark look in your eye. Touch and go between the lines. Smile as creepy resurrected with, you creepy little perv! hehe! This will lead readers into a state of ecstasy.” He pulled him from the ranks as he shook his whole body in excitement… This will ignite the atmosphere to such an extent that they will not pay attention to the story itself, but they will look at each other suspiciously of themselves just as I whisper Hoffman stood up and looked at something evil and devilish, right? as his face flushed with horror
“Back to the dead, Boris K. Back to the dead! – he grabbed his head like he were in terrible pain. – Go crawling back to your dead wife and your loser son, Ernst Teodor! Run! Run for your life! – as he said that he ran with all his might and rumour had it that Ernst Teodor leapt past the edge of Poland’s borders. Boris K. sighed. “I have no choice but to go to ancient Persia.”

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