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There’s no place like home, Version 2


Boris K. meets a man who is crying uncontrollably. Despite being a loser, he complains to him about the fact that he cannot fulfill his one passion for life, which is visiting exotic and beautiful places, metropolises, and so on.

He sympathized with him, explaining that he had had trouble visiting these places because he had learned that not every city is as beautiful as it seems. Only a few living heads were left in the bucket.

1. Scottland

It is believed that the missing 9th Legion was slain by the Picts behind Hadrian’s Wall in present-day Scotland, huge, red-haired warriors who painted themselves blue. In the dark Scottish forests, there are ghosts of the Picts that attack tourists, and even in Edinburgh, he is not safe from them.

2. Prague

It is said that there was a German noblewoman in Prague in the 18th century who became a vampire, sucking blood from tourists by posing as Rosabella Smetana.

3. Paris

Paris – a 300-year-old creepy grandpa has a guillotine in his basement in the 3rd arrondissement. Named after Robespierre.

4. Australia

Benji, a creature from Aboriginal legend, lives under the Sydney Opera House and tickles passers-by until they die laughing.

5. China

Beijing’s circus master Jo Po isn’t a master at all. You were asked to enter the box that he was going to retest, so he did.

6.

Mauritius – the dodo bird is still alive, enormous, bloodthirsty, and cannibalistic

7. Greece

You will be harassed by Parnassus – philosophers who argue that Pythagoras or Heraclitus are better. Boring as hell…

It is dangerous as well.

Serbia, the land of vampires and werewolves, should not be left behind.

Boris K na Rússia 3 Turgenev


 

cropped-12499139_535870049903599_1094217109_o.jpg..ele apertou a mão de Chekhov e continuou escrevendo, enquanto resmungava: “Deus sabe onde ele te levou, não vê que estou a terminar a minha tese de licenciatura? Se eu não a entregar a tempo, não me vou tornar médico. Volte para onde veio! O próprio Monge Negro enviou-o para interferir na minha carreira! Tenho de me pentear e calçar! “, disse o russo, tentando livrar-se do viajante do tempo. Na história, eles são Sholokhov e Turgenev. E deixe-me em paz “

Boris K. encontrou Turgenev, poeta da paisagem russa, sentado num banco em São Petersburgo, lamentando a morte de Gogol.

“Por que está a chorar?”, Perguntou Boris K.

“Fui expulso do funeral … Al, não enxugo as minhas lágrimas, elas são como uma tempestade após a qual uma pessoa fica mais calma”, disse o pensador revolucionário e gemeu ainda mais alto.

Boris K. sentou-se com ele. Choraram durante dois dias, cada um com suas próprias lágrimas, após o que Turgenev adotou uma atitude cavalheiresca e virou-se com desprezo para Boris K. – Você deve estar exausto! O que quer de mim?

“Você quer dizer os paparazzi?”, Boris K. refletiu depois do que contou a ele sobre o acidente.

“Eu nunca escrevi uma história assim, nem sofri um acidente. Você está realmente com problemas. Mas também há uma cura para isso!”, Turgenev piscou os olhos e deu uma palmadinha no ombro dele. “Você se parece com Gogi.”
(que era a alcunha carinhosa de Gogol)

“Venha ao fenómeno !”, Lamentou Boris K., percebendo que o russo não o ajudaria. (Talvez esteja escrevendo na Nova Inglaterra? Ou na Polónia? O endereço de E. T. Hofman? Boris K pensou…

– Boris K. Por experiência, afirmo que a erva arde como motivo da história e fonte de toda a inspiração. Turgenev disse. – A história começa “in medias res”, mas honestamente … É tão sincero que você quase acaba na prisão ou na fogueira. Vá: “Um homem – um ser que não pode amar! Então mulheres, homens e mulheres

(Boris K. ofegou de dor) …

… vao arrancar-lhe o cabelo, despir-lhe o casaco (o seu cabelo ainda está fixo, mas vejo que a sua máscara fica louca pelo reflexo na pia) –

Boris K. ficou surpreendido com o conhecimento de Turgenev.

Ivan, chamado Turgenev:

“Então chame a sua atenção para o outono escuro e o silencioso grito de amor que cheira à brisa de uma tarde ensolarada. Isso os acalmara. Depois, cite todas as ervas em que você puder pensar para fazer uma poção do amor.

Apenas citar as ervas dá uma página e meia. Enquanto cita as ervas e canta para o celebrante, os ouvintes bocejam e adormecem. Quando eles acordarem, você contará outra história que não tem nada a ver com a vida, e na nova história os pica-paus cantam e cantam … – Turgenev ficou silencioso – É tudo o que consigo pensar.a8cec49721b19826945c4fd228ec3a31.png

Court 21


In Court 21, the defendants entered one after the other, accompanied by prosecutors, witnesses, defence attorneys. While the judge, the scorer, and the jury followed them, the five defendants sat on chairs, and one of them was a timely and powerfully built woman. In all cases, of all the chairs they sit on the weakest and the slimiest. And as she sat down, so she fell, one second, second, third, fourth while the bearded prosecutor with fedora hat cross-examined her, but under no circumstances to finally fall, and so, the moment she was falling and falling, the prosecutor ran up hastened forward, picking her up, while she kicked him as falling down, her black large head with two distressing disturbed eyes, alternately reappeared and disappeared. Just a minute ago badmouthing her, the Prosecutor rolled up his sleeves, a lisping voice, worried, but helpless, he went round and round… and spinning and spinning… and dancing and flying. : “Ma’am, are you okay, help ma’am help!” And she didn’t hear it all because she kept falling and falling, a curvy line, like a piece of the divider, like the trash can got knocked over, and the stuff fell out of her.
When she finally fell, after five minutes, the Judge ordered the courtroom to be emptied, and he and the scorer looked at each other silently, and then the Judge sat back in his chair and laughed so long that the whole Courtroom echoed.
The judge was laughing like hell.in an empty courtroom when all of a sudden the rest of the chair broke and the judge and the scorer and the jury fell down, too, not long after the big lady departure.

Recommendation from a dog “The Adventures of Boris K., an excerpt from the story


The subject matter of the novel “The Adventures of Boris K” is Serbia in her transitional age, without mentioning this specifically, but can be understood in a far broader context. Obviously a work of satire, but avoiding that which satire has become today – institutionalized, watered down, overly present, and cynically and arrogantly used by those whom it should by definition be targeting because they cannot be touched, and it creates the illusion of democracy.
Boris K. is represented best as a video game character – without much character, he goes to different ‘missions.’ With his facelessness, one moment overly and nigh-drunkenly involved and another barely mildly so, adding the bizarre nature of the missions, he describes all of us people of today – forced to adapt to various roles with the purpose of maintaining an existence, most assuredly losing our way and accepting worthless roles and habits, we lose our essential self.

I place my confidence in “The Adventures of Boris K” coming out soon, to begin with, the extended Kindle edition.
This is an excerpt from one of the stories…

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 favourite 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 rumours 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 odour 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 odour 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 travelled 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, travelling 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 kilometres away.

41e14afa6add424d019d77069c5fed49--moon-child-poet

PART TWO

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

Letter travelled 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 saviour 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

Should Boris K. learn English?


Boris K. would like to learn English to be understood by 0.01% per cent of the Chinese people who speak English (which is not a small number) Although, adds Boris K, the Chinese do not even know Chinese, let alone English. So there his inclination goes in the trash! Boris K. would like to learn English so that he could say “Long Live Grandma!” to Queen Elizabeth though, her “younger brother” cannot celebrate his third term! …! Boris K. would love to learn English so that he could greet Obama, but Obama does not speak English, he speaks American. And that’s why Boris K. decided to say hello to Obama in the Swahili language, which is the dialect in Central Africa, where Obama was born. “Habari za jioni Rais, kama wanawake na Watoto!” Obama was thrilled! Boris K. realizes only Obama understands him. Still, Boris K. will not vote for Obama because that would be his third term which is impossible. Boris K. would vote for Putin as Putin could remain Russia’s life-long president and spread his influence even further but Putin wouldn’t need Boris’s vote in that case either … Boris K. also, will not vote for “The Pussy Lips”, since Serbia already has enough fools who will vote for him. Boris K., in the end, would love to say ‘Hello!’ to the Red Indians but they are dead and gone, due to The Buffalo Bill. Boris K. would like to learn English so he could say something to Buffalo Bill, but The Buffalo Bill Bill is dead and gone. Thus, Boris K. realises that there is no need to learn the English language, at all.

The Birth of a monster, Hail Hydra!


I woke up with surplus five heads. I was running down a Žička street, hoping that a kind soul finds us, some Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley sort, to sew us back up into a whole.
For a time, I was sneaking around in the shadows, facing ridicule, disgust, and dread.
No particular way to go, I was heading to the mountain Avala. Somewhere along the way, I got lost, exhausted by a long voyage and dying of hunger and thirst.
A lot of heads to feed!
Well, that lasted.. there re-arose an outstanding feud between heads; they say they have headaches, they cannot sleep, they raised their voices and wept some more.
The latest effort to speak the same language ended in failure, therefore, turning to the macabre practice of survival cannibalism absolutely was the key to our ultimate continual existence of the organism.
And the only survivor became the only suspect, the soft tissue monster head, bull shaped with serrated teeth, a pincer-like mouth, however, no one could clearly define its mysterious monstrosity.
A spineless reborn blood-drinking creature, whose name eludes me, was charged with four murders on August 24, 1776, defending itself in court, without a solicitor, that it has been acting in a manner befitting a sensible head, against her unhappy, yet brutal, and violent companions.
The acquittal based on self-defense was decided by a simple majority.

Sect


hello, Readers. If I am not asking for too much, I see you are all too busy cherishing your own worlds, but I do have problems with some sort of cult… knowing how it does sound, I transformed it into a short story. A comment will mean much to me, and sure you can try to ask someone enough insightful and not too scared of books to comment it too. #praying_for_feedback
***
From a distance, I suppose it’ll seem funny, this butterfly game of THEM I did not want to know and whose goal is to take me to the bottom.
It’s their only role, an awkward, desperate purpose, motivated by nature or nurture.  I’m not the only one. It is their interest, it is their absurd display, in fact, to destroy, not only writers but also artists in general.
Especially in humans.
I’m not sure why they do it – I believe that’s because, when they recognize something and especially someone they badly want to be and cannot, they have the urge to especially assailed a true creative.
They round upon a surprised individual like a pack of wolves devastating them like avalanches devastating the slopes every winter.
“We will seal your fate, you…  Creative!” – it’s in a whisper. So tangible…
In my case, it doesn’t work that way.
I have long ago said goodbye to those thousand tangible whispers a and I  found a place to launch a church, in the eternal vortex of discovered and permanent creation. It houses a stage for me, as for other actors, it’s a theatre in sacred time, with new games
which are destined to be lost and found simultaneously.
Reptiles do not know that.
I have seen through them, therefore we know their ambitions, it’s my comprehension, a responsive chord as the keynote to my success.
What I got is the confidence that makes me laugh at them. Their predicament makes me laugh.
I am laughing at the idea that they would ever get any idea on controlling a clear whisper, they, eyeless spectres of the abomination, hidden among uncomfortable shadows, those… germs. *
Thie hidden plot is the place I crucified and revealed their true nature until they are praying in public gathering places.
My understanding of them, as the pack of germs, makes them weak, until I, as an individual, grow stronger.
I see them twittering on a heating plate, sie zwitschern, zwitschern! they are floundering underneath the dampening pads, thinking they touched me. Admirable is simply how hard they try.
By the way, I know that they hacked me WordPress and email. Why did not I report them to the police? Who says I didn’t …
They are safe now.
*germs, their heart so blackened with depravity, their very existence such a web of violence and crime 

Happy to share that I have a story in the Fall issue of CultureCult Magazine


My short story Keeping up with Time was published in CultureCult Magazine’s Issue #8. 
As a token of my appreciation for the utmost care and creative zeal in featuring one of my works in CultureCult n0 8 Magazine Issue, I tongue the words in your ears, with an ardent appeal, to buy a digital/print copy of CultureCult Magazine’s Issue #8. 
keepingup
 
Order a print copy via Createspace e-store: https://goo.gl/Ts4nHU
Order a print copy via Amazon (US): https://goo.gl/YKC1Nn
Order a print copy via Amazon (UK): https://goo.gl/bWn22u
Order a digital copy to read on your Kindle devices and Kindle Android/iOS app via Amazon (US): https://goo.gl/KiATPj
Order a digital copy to read on your Kindle devices and Kindle Android/iOS app via Amazon (India): https://goo.gl/7pV3ko
 
CultureCult Magazine is available in all European nations and most other countries on Amazon, in digital and print versions. Simply search for “CultureCult Magazine – Issue #8”
***
I only hope that you like my literary efforts as much as I appreciate your reader’s attention and literary judgment.
Sharp reader’s mind such as yours is the strongest support and I require it for my essential artistical sustenance.

kp

ko

Closure


Note: How many times do you wonder why someone is avoiding you and not getting any closure, judicially speaking. Kafka’s stories have no closure. Real life stories don’t either. Let me tell you mine.
Back in the bygone Nineties, I had a friend whom, without delving too deep into her private life’s choices, I had been very close with. We hung out in high school only for her to, all of a sudden, upon graduation, start ignoring all of my calls, moving the other way when she would meet me in Kragujevac (along one street, at the time well specked with hot spots for hanging out – therefore it was easy to run into her and vice versa). I asked her, whenever I managed to get to her, having passed her protective mother, her sister (whom I also used to spend schooldays with) why she was behaving like that. The moment she heard my voice she would have a panic attack, screaming. Later on I would receive strange phone calls at midnight, odd sentence structures uttered by her and I’ll stop there before it drags on longer than the royal bloodline…
It was odd to me what was happening to her and rumors reached me that she had had some “problems”. I connect the dots, some semblance of an explanation was there, but not enough of one. Why is she screaming only when running into me? I felt like Ed Gein, the serial killer.
I found out who her psychologist was (in Kragujevac this was doable) and decided to book a session with him as well in order to learn why a dear friend considers me a Michael Meyers mere hours after a field trip to Greece, and fast forward a few years, screams when seeing me, why she only invites me over on her birthday surrounded by a multitude of people and receives flowers as a gift from me. Psychologists had even then been playing professional ethics and, between two insulin shots, the weary-eyed diabetic psychologist told me all of her secrets, both known to me and unknown, adding ‘The very second you came into my office, by your friend’s description, I knew right away that you’re Leila.’
I mention this because I had openly stated my name and surname as well as my intentions, I added that I had no intentions of delving into the intimate details of my friend’s life, merely to provide additional info to the psychologist so that she might help her… and maybe even begin to realize why the sudden shift of behavior towards me. Were these some midnight cries for help? Still, she had been a remarkable friend to me. She was there for me when no one ever was! I had to find out what was it about me that disturbed her so much. Did I do something wrong? Something I was unaware of? Was I at fault for something?
And I added, maybe I too could get a piece of advice from an expert such as her, and then the psychologist suddenly burst out at me saying ‘She wants you to stop calling her! You’re harassing her! She’s sick! She has–’ and this is where she told me what my friend was diagnosed with.
I repeat, the psychologist growled at me and said ‘Ah! Look at you, as fit as a fiddle, and she’s so frail, and yet you’re the one disturbing her!’
‘But all I want to do is talk to her… Let her know this, and I will stop trying.’
And I really did. But her calls did not cease.
But that is a long story, my vain attempts at trying to reach the person I had spent schooldays with and shared a room with in Greece for five days were just that – attempts in vain.
But you know how it is – when in Serbia, even as an LAPD employee when you go to a psychological consultation, that is where you are – a psychological consultation. Period.
I come to Belgrade and lo and behold, I immediately meet a different, new friend who was there for me in the same manner the last one was – she was there for me when no one ever was! But she had also started avoiding me and in an attempt to prevent this, learned in the antique mysteries, I kept pushing and pushing for her to divulge the secret to her shift, to which she had suddenly said ‘Leila, I have a stomach cramp and I see a psychiatrist every day. You should go to, because I really have no strength to keep on giving advice to you! I really don’t!’
To this I sighed and said ‘Well, I did go.’
Suddenly the friend was flabbergasted and much like my at the moment next-door neighbor upon seeing the Halley’s comet, the second sun of Nostradamus and the follow-up moment of making the sign of the cross, she said in an accusatory, almost Kafkian way ‘Oh, oh so you DID go!’
I stopped trying to talk to her or get any closure, I think about a year or so now…
Did I do something to her? Something I am unaware of? Was I at fault?
giffi