horror, mathilde, proza

The poems I wrote for the book “Sleeping Mathilde”, under the pen name Lothair The Dark

These are poems I wrote for the book “Sleeping Mathilde”, under the pen name Lothair The Dark, with a wish to conjure up a medieval mood and to create the dark atmosphere in the book. 

  1. A short poem written for the medieval feast scene:

“Upon the end of the meal the musicians played a painful minstrel romance:

In the water I shall leave my bones
In the ground the leaves my mirrors be
It seems they’ve already buried me.
As I lay, I wait to be found and saved
Should I rebel or leave it all to fate
For if I stay with You, the heart’s silence
Will be my tomb and my eternal life.

2. – and continued to listen to the flickering squeal of the lute. It was the famed song of Fjalar, from the quill of the cursed poet Lothair the Dark:

Atop Fjalar sat a warlock, an envoy of dark desires
Resist him not, o Traveler, but pray to him
For your horses are affrighted before the abyss.
Pitiful man, that are the blood vessel within eternity
Pitiful man, your fear walks in front of you
Pray like this to the warlock:
When the sun comes out from the East, my blood will burn
When the sun sets in the West, my body yours will be
I will gaze upon you blind, o dreaded Fjalar
Let me cross my path this one time more.


A poem written for the Morning scene:
Thinking of last night, from memory, came the verses of a poet who lived out the last of his days in the gallows. I think he was a Moor… I proudly raised my chin and with a dry, thin voice I sang, treading clad in a muddy tunic and festive boots all over the cotton tapestries:

Fair maiden
You are the sun of my morn
From you the wretched I hides
I call the woeful night my home
Fair maiden
I will paint your thighs
Akin to the silk of a bright morn
You sneak away into a shifty dream

I remembered Lothair the Dark, who wrote the prophecy of Hässe under the threat of the sword. 

O Colossus, the Heavens tell me: Beware!
A carrion to you alike will clip my wings
Those of heavy heart will feast in the Heavens
Justice will freshen them like wine
And doom will come to all!

236b4e9373a8c635769497c452e6075a--gothic-vampire-gothic-art (1)

dramma, horror, odd, prose

The Bitch

The Bitch

Miss, I know it’s none of my business that you’re by yourself on this bench, in the park, your face all wrinkled. You’re moving away.


Nice doggy. Poodle? It is looking at me lovingly and growling. It knows me from somewhere, here I am assailed by a new thought.


– Fifi, I will kick you, Fifi tear her apart, down to her tendons, veins and arteries, we must reach her heart. The bite of your Fifi, so generous…Miss Ana, may I call you Ana, mmm?…you’re stepping away. Don.t  Listen to me speak so unfortunate, alone, thankful for Your ear, don’t toss me away so easily. Might we get a bit more informal? Per tu… Flee, if you think me insane. You turn your head. Lemme sit down. One cigarette stub, nothing more. I want to embrace it with my teeth, tell you something and leave. You no longer resist, Ana. You are finally responding to my words by turning your head. I am an ungrateful dog. Ah well. At least I feel full now that I can sit next to you without obtrusion, even lie down and be with you in this way. Whenever so I desire.

You don’t think that we started this off in the best way possible? You, me, an abandoned bench and Fifi. Only solitude can make you put up with an insane person. Solitude and insanity.For I am insane. This is not mere circumstance, a particular one, of insanity. Many a bench puts up with an insane person, the streetcar bars hang the retards that hang themselves atop them and brush their sweat against the travelers. We are the rapists of our life pillars. Where do I start now? In what order should I tell you of myself? Of you? When there are so many topics you would like to hear? Well, let’s start somewhere…



If you put yourself in my position, you will see that all of this is quite a normal reaction. I link things up in the moment. You are to me the only woman on all of these benches where various Fifis are lined up to whom I want to entrust my case. The brain would think that I am the only one for you too. Why is it frightening then to have trust in a stranger? I beg the Stranger to listen to me. He is our representative when troubles ensue. Why is it frightening to sit still on a bench next to a man, who…who…




You must be under pressure too and have a lot of suitors on the bench. It is hard to keep all that plastic and those boards under control. Imagine them shoving close to each other, one, two, three. The bench would crack. I hope we settled this now.


I do not want to approach to other girls, on other benches. I am not polyamorous nor do I want to get into three-or-four benches, and then not know where to go first. You can change the bench, if you still had some prejudices. You are always the same to me. Perfect. No objections.


Let me bug you about myself a bit. Let me explain a bit, about how I wound up on the park bench.


I got a divorce six or seven minutes ago. Don’t look at me funnily, don’t bite that hand of yours, angel. For I am no longer aware of what the minute is, let alone the date. It isn’t something I really need to etch into my memory. I don’t complain, I had a harmonious marriage. No kids. A fireplace. The mother-in-law was a good knitter, I had a printstore and a gift shop. Still, one day, with everything between being a perfect system, the talking in the house simply died. Each to their own wall, grabbing a piece and warming their hands. The eyes of my mother-in-law were observing the needlepoint and got stuck there forever. I no longer drank coffee with my wife, and I won’t even go into dinner.


Nobody was commenting on the movie anymore!



If you were to ask my ex wife, we never argued once even during madness, or ovulation, or upon arrival of bills, let alone gifts and the packaging of the morning coffee, if you were to ask…who is to be blamed for the divorce, she would probably say: Him. He is to blame. Peter. You asking me?You asking?

-I’m asking.

-Thank you, Ana.I will say: Pipi is to blame…



That is how it came to pass.Fate? Possibly.

‘How so?’

A SIGH LATER, NEARLY A SECOND LONG She feels how a tear rolls down his face which, again, leaves the female listener across from them in a seemingly emotionally moved state. It appeared as if both the lady and the dog were listening carefully, while he struggled with his breath which he caught again in order to continue the tale, struggling with evidently lived pain and fear.

– It was all but smoke. Ash.Dark powder. Kind of like when you breathe in something indescribably nasty. The word Divorce has its own life, its own pulse. It has a cold air about it. Like if you were mid-Siberia. Nobody around.


– Okay, let me be brief, miss, because I could go on like this like Dostoyevski, meaning, unendingly.

He turned towards her in confidentiality and hopeful, but came to realize that the bench was empty. He nodded in acknowledging the realization. Still, her departure cannot prevent him continuing the story. A female conspiracy was put into action against him which culminated in a divorce, so the pile of dames and Fifi that are running from some singles’ benches out there in parks around town was nothing to him. Still it was getting dark, and the cold wind was slapping his cheeks. Glum, he was silent, for a man who’s alone does not speak, he merely lifts his hands in the air to drive a nail or two in his own coffin of solitude. We sink into silence as if it were the ocean. Only after we give ourselves up to dark thoughts does salvation come, a new chance which slides and stumbles amid the benches and park trees. A broad or two slide next to it, sailing along in the dim night, thick-thighs and scantily clad torsos all around. The pieces made up a woman spotting a cheap, bleached hair who held in her hand a worn-out knife and a cracked mirror.

– I shall tell you, I shall tell you all…utter it, my head bowed, as a perjurer and a profligate, the wrecker of the idyllic – the woman was looking at him in wonderment, and her eyes, cold and uncompromising, slid off of the glassy catafalque of the mirror which gave with its shine shadow to all of her wrinkles hidden by the night. She is telling a tale, giving birth to subplots, plots, her face moistened by cottony tears which wet the silent paper upon which he somehow writes and is getting angry before the cheat of life that she took his home, with a sudden, inappropriate silence.

– It all died, dear Lady. The shifty woman shrunk the man to the size of Tom Thumb. What she did to me, I am not too clear on even today. – The woman with bleached hair bowed her head towards him a bit, barely controlling the laughter concealed behind two rows of her overly huge teeth, snug and tightened into her corset which leaves nothing to the imagination, feeling that some sort of evil blood is flowing through this mad man’s veins, mad man who could be a killer, a kidnapper or merely a simple worn-out and pathetic basic life form without a penny to his name.

He continues his story, observing the soil at his feet not providing him with answers. He stomped on the broken bottle glass which was suddenly there, he gets even darker and retreats into the coat which reminded him of the coldness of the moment, as he spoke, as he was complaining to the mistress of the Night, the vampiress with eyeshadow on her lips and rouge round her eyes. He grabbed her bare forearm and squeezing her nickel, he looked at her as if he will growl at her at any moment. This is how he won her over to listen to him, his face was strengthened with peace, and his eyes shined and lips moved in tiny tremors, as if he were sucking on a succulent udders of an overly giving (generous, in the mood) cow.

– After the conversation died down, I would remain all by myself with the king size bed and the fridge, a television set partway to death and nothing else besides all that! The mother-in-law, of course, picked up her needlepoints with swearing and mewling and departed the three-roomed home demonstrably, she even denounced the kitchen. A hundred square meters, my fair lady, and all of THAT in the house.

– That?

– Oil sketches, San Vincenzo and Nature Morta done in needlepoint. She left it all there.

– And the wife?

– Left on a short trip, with Pipi, of course. Her animal mask.A bitch twin. Actually, I have this notion that this is all Pipi’s fault.

– It cannot be!


artist: Sofia Bonati

I know the nature of doubt. The whirlwind of trickery contains an endless number of smaller whirlpools of seemingly irrelevant events. Upon it all, I was willing and able to face her mother’s will who suggested that I was the worst man, one of devastating actions. Seemingly unnoticeably, she used potatoes instead of a fan. She stuck she-butterflies in slight potatoes in order to wave their wings in front of her shifty face. And my Anna, she was a sort of she-Oedipus…whatever the term for women is for that.

She is, for instance, bothered by doubt of me having an affair, and suddenly she would stop with the doubt and look at the mother-in-law. She would chew on her mouthfuls and smirking on the other side, the swollen side. In her own home she put on the mask of vengeance, since the marriage of her daughter to an older printer was a motive born out of pure lust of her naïve little Annie.

– Annie, you need a powerful man of Antique build. Just like the one whose muscles I stabbed here on my needlepoint.

However, she and her doubt became one. A stone of crude profile rolling and gathering various bits and bobs. But this was far before…before…


She went silent on one particular day in May, the 14th to be exact, after I have been outside of the house, for I have complicated my own life with freelance work, the earnings of which I wanted to use to buy her that piano she so desperately wanted. And more oil paintings, that Vincenzo for instance. That morning, hung over from work and sunken from the anguish, with sunken cheekbones from leaning them on the wrist of my weary hand, with my head like a lid of a burnt saucepan, I called her in my love for that phenomenon of a woman we love, a phenomenon for she has a hold of us by the coziest place in our heads where crushed husbands separated from their needs due to her more and more prominent headaches, and also faithful and honest, are collecting all sorts of cockroaches and ossicles…

– You killed our marriage – she explained and then it was all over with.

If I did in fact kill it, it was due to vast and enormous love.

– Oh, pish-posh!

The harlot rises and drags the cracked mirror along with her. She leaves the divorced man be. He is yelling at her, interrupted in his story yet again.

– Of course, all you want is money. More money, and then you will understand. You’re not going anywhere, because I have to finish what I started. Only the Harlot of the night can understand me. Want an ax in your head? No, that would be too violent, right?

She was flailing with the night where her butchery voice pierced the heavens. She escaped under the sight of an ax which was looking at her inquisitively, seeking for a spot where it could drive its blade and lay bare any hidden molars under her hair.

– Yes… – he sighed. – Still, I need no one. I will listen to myself.

He sat this way as if he were waiting for someone or something ,surrounded by thick foliage which loomed over him like threatening Titans, baroque rhetoric which cut open the silence of the night in the form of a whisper, he was sad, but talkative and clever .

However, he did not remain all by himself. He felt the presence of a young poodle which, with its bloodshot eyes and presence, lit up to him the entire bench scene along with its gigantic trees that stretched its tentacles from the windy side of the park above the head of the divorced man. Before him she growled angrily, with a sound created by lightning which gives shade to the stormy sky using its flashes of rage and wrath. The bark of the tiny Fifi, a multiple cloned poodle, was swallowing the silence, and its mane was lined with silvery lines of the aristocratic litter that was her skin. Oh how beautiful this Dame is.

The wooly hat on her head was undergoing piloerection and took on the shape of a well-coiffed hairstyle that Anna loved. Fifi’s eyes, painfully empathetic, gave away the female Dandy which was assessing the sufferer, only to jump into his lap and take off another chunk of meat. She growled silently, but pleased.

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– A bit slim, but still gracious. You will understand, little Fifi. You, oh pleasant comfort, wife with the bark of consolation, temperamental slicker with a button-nose. Coquette of humans, warm, come to my lap, Fifi, you realized, unlike your Mistress, that I did not poison her dog which was a present from her mother, her little Pipi. I did not, and even if I did, it was not out of jealousy, but the flesh, it was the toxic flesh, and she could not control her hunger. She bit me and poisoned herself.

I am full of cyanide, for I am alone and unloved. Pipi did, however, have some of your facial features, oh you coquette bitch. I laughed aloud after I had entered the apartment, as if I were entering a batcave, but it was not laughter that a happy being stretched out due to joy, it was desperation, it was torture. Even now I grin, but bareheaded and alone, I keep hiccoughing and do vomit on occasion, right here in this tiny nylon bag. Fifi, want some? No? She has criteria.

The dog jumped onto the bench and climbed into the divorcee’s lap.

– My sweet little poisoned Pipi. After Annie left, I went downhill completely. I lost my job, my printing shop. I closed my little store even before that. I lost my car. My Fiat Punto bought four months before the divorce for ninethousandandfivehundred Deutsch marks. Everything, everything went down following her leaving, everything except Vincenzo. Oh how I remember it, Pipi! It was me who was carrying sacks of cement on my back, setting up wardrobes, because I swore that I would set wardrobes up on our wedding day. I swore on the ring and my sound mind. Why did she leave me? Did love irrelevant to our wedding vows not burn within her? She was as steady as the wind, and as passionate as Aphrodite. Without a doubt, she found a better handyman…for her wardrobes.

– You killed our marriage the moment you poisoned Pipi. You could nto stand me loving her more than you.


Hearing this word, I realized that the time for pleasantries was up. Her face was the face of an offended lover, her face was wild, red, measured only in her lip movement. – You killed my Pipi. – Her face was however as sensitive as a plank, a she-avenger of her sweetheart which…and this keeps me in turmoil. For I had wanted a Fifi of my own, I wanted her gentleness and mercy. Thus they declared me an abuser of female canines and the poisoner motivated by jealousy and unreturned canine love.

When the car goes downhill, the thread we hold in our hand cannot stop it.

The words Shipwreck of a Marriage, or perhaps Catastrophe are getting closer with a steady gallop, the broken cart is oftentimes covered with FREEDOM inscribed on it, you could definitely see in that pile of worm-eaten boards a few that were intact and that could be saved as compensation and consolation that pushes us to the surface. The horizon of new hope is banging widely against the rubble and darkness and stopping somewhere on the doorstep of the golden stars which dive into the heavens readying new surprises, well known to Cupid. Lovely, broken down cart squealing in pain, derelict in the muck where the vipers squirm, let them!

This is when Annie undertook that type of tyranny which spiteful souls wear like a vein ulcer, and it is the tyranny of silence. ‘Intolerance’ – I spoke with my own tongue.

Upon poisoning Pipi, she got the idea of her own poisoning, which she would use as a tool against me. In vain were all of my reassurances that Pipi and I did not cross over to that other side of respect which would break down the relationships we have barked up carefully over the years, all for Annie. The fact that I did not have a dog of my own, as an antipode, or a cat, was speaking for itself. It is possible that my flaunting before her cutesy barking at times caused revolt and doubt that I am doing something underhanded or at least plotting revenge, for our eyes (Pipi’s and mine) often clashed in oolivegreen shines which spoke: The time will come… I was pretending so well. I hated Pipi the same way I loved my Annie.

Why did I hate her? That mutt was whom she kept in her lap, that mutt in her bed, fidgeting against her comb working on her locks – that mutt, smug and arrogant it fumbled around with its fur turning its ass to me in the process and shaking off the bug powder onto me, with the dignity of the household pet, it would shake its hips spitefully entering the Mistress of the house’s bedroom. I had never seen a haughtier creature than that bitch, self-absorbed, self-sufficient, subordinating everything and everyone to her will. If I were to step into Annie’s room, she would growl at me, and that tongue, that smooth tongue would be lolled out in my face and I could clearly hear her say: Get lost. I had never heard her say this out loud, because I am not insane…but her thoughts were telling me this, her eyes… within those pupils where wickedness spread, those were but tiny telltale signs sent by her eyes where a laughter of pleasure was splashing about, then tears of joy would trickle along with saliva and drool onto my trouser legs which she tore off with her teeth.

One lovely day, in the hallway, in front of my wife’s bedroom, I found Pipi’s corpse. I shrugged apathetically and muttered ‘At last’, like a ventriloquist. I wanted, with my own two hands, both firm and husbandly, those of the man of the house, to rashly burry the poodle’s locks of hair sprayed with Chanel into the treetop and to throw her away in a trashcan.


Annie found Pipi dead (‘she was scratching all night, using hope, faith and her love to me, her unconscious savior, to revive the stimuli which would keep her alive’) getting out of bed and opening the door with a smile on her pale grey face welcoming the morning, when she was met by an extended red tongue and rolled up eyes. The rug on the floor and the soft meat intensify the memory of Lili, her previous dog that was poisoned (by pure accident and the fault of the cat called Lilith, which was confirmed without a doubt). Looking at her Lil Pipi, her eyes bore both madness and glow. At first a time to rise, and now a time to descend.

She ordered Pipi’s corpse brought to her with a coarse voice. She observed the dead rug with its red tongue out and kept silent. Pipi’s body had an entire carpet of dust on it. That arrogant little beast, that dirtied bride was now at long last effortlessly observing the world. Her eyes were dim plates enveloped in cortex. Her whites were gone in the darkness, extinguished, never to be resurrected. Her corpse was covered in crusty boils of unknown origin. Annie lifted her up with her satin gloved hands and screamed into the darkness of the open maw of her dead poodle.

– No, this isn’t true, you cannot be dead!

I laughed and gave myself away. The laughter of a monster on the other side of the glass which was separating us clashed with the past of all the sorrows of Annie. Namely, for Pipi’s death (as claimed by the cook as a witness) a cat-like beast with her eye out was responsible, a beast that was advancing towards the window glass where Pipi stood with her ass out observing the world. I don’t have to tell you that this window was in my wife’s bedroom.


After the mysterious death of Pipi (so, the one completely confirmed by eyewitness reports, the cat that looked like it belonged to Poe, one eye, furious to the core, offered Pipi her plate, and Pipi licked it clean) Annie did not eat for days, bed-ridden, with eyes that stared dully in the distance… and when she got up, she said:

– I want to have a coffee with my husband.

I squealed in pure joy, to which she gave me an intense stare. Still, I could not even fathom what kind of marital problems awaited me upon Pipi’s unexpected demise, may she rest in peace.

– She was bad for you anyway… – I consoled her. – She looked like all of those popular starlets with their fucked up heads. Except she was a bitch, of course.

The door to our home suddenly became heavier. Far too heavy. So did the table, and the doors, and windows, and the coffee which was getting cold. The fear that she would think I had anything to do with the…with the poisoning…you know? No, you most certainly would not even think that, see I’m not some jealous husband, and jealous of dogs no less, those little bitches? No, I knew Annie’s temperament and fear of her accusing me was overtaking me and had its tongue out like a snake when twisting itself around a tree.

Everything was still peaceful, cozy around us. At the coffee drinking table there was fruit in a miniature flowerpot, flowers of padded red hair, a tiny Cupid framed in glass, photos of Pipi. Taken by the glee with which she posed with Pipi on the photos and the aforementioned Cupid, she took small sips of coffee and shot me a few times with tiny flashes of her tinier eyes, like a hard-working questioner, with an indifferent face.

– They should all be killed.

– Who, honey? – I asked mercifully.

– Those cats with rabies.

– Oh, yes.

– Beat them to paste.

– Ah yes. – I could barely utter any words, as if I were not drinking coffee, but eating a heavy porridge of glue.

– Pipi gave my life sense, and now I need something to put me down and to sleep when the sense is gone – Annie said this and took a few chill pills.

– A shame that I don’t have a sniffer. Eh, what do I need it for, oral use is better. Twice oral, before and after coffee. Give me that silver teaspoon on the table. Those bloody cooks steal silverware. Ah well. I will crush it next time. I don’t like to swallow them whole. I always had the fear that they will get lodged into my esophagus.


Tai Shan Schierenberg : 2008 Alter Ego

I was listening to her, pale, holding the teaspoon, obedient as a dog. What does she need it for? Annie is sucking on the pill and through her tongue rolls it somewhere down to the stomach where powder and blood will face off.

Every morning since then, since Pipi’s death, whether crushing the pill with teaspoons or not, a sad image kept repeating words or the word through the image carved the gradual druggedness of Annie deeper. Blessed, ready for family life and relaxing conversations we used to have – those of water, power, the vacuum cleaner, the gift store and the fiscal cash register – she was resting on a cloud of sorts known only to her where she was with her Pipi, where anger and rage and lust were nowhere around her. The Pillmania spirit had taken his hold of her.

As she closed her eyes, while I spoke of the public utility, they appeared as two female lovers glued together, one to another. She had little eyes like two sickles. Thus the two sickles are looking somewhere on the inside, like a moon in its crescent phase enjoying itself, silent as it sails across the night sky. A little arc is sailing across the sea which is getting tangled below him and takes on its reflection which is swimming in the dim light of our cafeteria, whose walls already took on the hue of the upcoming sunset.

The pillmania made me feel sick. Unnoticeably sick, though, and the feeling of abandonment, as if I were a weak calf on some distant field, was too strong for the calf so forcefully weaned, grasping for breath and grazing somewhere far away where it will grow old and die. All in all, the coffee now tasted like bile, and I felt what it was like living in darkness by yourself, like a creature of the deep what has bright, electric lights for eyes.

Still, if only it remained like this, but she was quickly overtaken by insanity and rage. She left the pills, threw a coffee cup at me once while I was entering, telling me to go on then and get lost. This place was clearly one person too many now.

– But, I love you – I tried to play the dog love card which she appreciated so.

Annie put her hand where her heart should be.

– There is nothing here, do you understand? – her eyes glimmered, became frozen and emotionless. The neurotic laughter repelled and attracted doubt.

– What is happening to you, Annie, my Venus? Where did this come from? What does it all mean? How come you have no heart? Should I call the doctor?

– What doctor, fool? No doctor can re-heart me, for I do not feel. I do not love you. Do you understand me now? You simply annoy me because you suck.

– Why do you do this? What did I do wrong? – I flailed my hands while talking. – I will get you a new dog. Just don’t… My Venus. Will you not?

– A new dog? – her hands went over my face and she stared me directly into my eyes. I felt the coursing and the warmth.

– Besides, even if you did not love me, Annie… Screw love, right? We are after all merely husband and wife. We’re not lovers of Verona. Friendship is what matters.

– I’ll show you a new dog, Poisoner! – Ah, you really do keep spiting me. Would a pointer not calm you down?

The spite was really strong. No words, no sound, no letter. I waited. As Simonov says, wait for me, and I’ll come back! Wait in patience yet.

Suddenly, from her throat where it felt as if a ghost of late Pipi dwelled the little bitch growled, shoving her snout through her esophagus squeezing out a barrage of hysterical punches at me.

– Dear, your coffee is getting cold. – My metamorphosis as an act of reconciliation and bravery was brimming with elegance, contrasted to her squeal and her arms which wrapped around my neck like two dark serpents twisted into a ball. Her arms, I noticed, were lengthy and long, mixed with air which drained matter, bone and blood from them. She was warming up, a vicious disease of fire had beaten her, and the roots of her arm hairs stank of burn. She slowly started turning into molten gold, her hair caught fire – in short, she was burning in rage right in front of me, and this is plausible, I’ve read about self-immolation as a reaction to extensive stress.

This is how I killed my wife, fried off the wings of a butterfly, because of the sin that was her oversized and somewhat impure love for Pipi. Her loves were kept safe, more accurately her touches of love only knew of that mane, that gray mane of Lady Pipi, Her highborn highness whose bones are now drying up in the shadowy wind. But, despite spontaneous combustion, other than the experts I could reference, I had no evidence that it was indeed me who did not kill her. A petrol canister in the shed, a few matches and a motive: poisoning the bitch. I was picturing it: fire comes with the poisoner, the lousy potion is smoking in the ashes, mixed in with it and the bones of the beloved animal. I fried her with my jealousy, she was all smoking and smoking away at long last, she was extinguishing herself, turning into ash and all ashen and powdery like that she dissolved right there, in front of my eyes. I went up and down the room with an unlit cigar in hand, frantically thinking – Should I tell them she fell asleep with her cigar lit? It used to happen to her. These things happen, inspector, my friend, ha haha.

– I did not burn my wife yesterday, because when I went home at five (during the self-immolation), my salesman asked me this. – Peter, how are you handling all of this? These people are nuts. Forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing… – This I said somewhat dragging it out, all sticky-like, as if I hadn’t eaten in a while and there was a potential bread piece stuck to the inside of my esophagus. This reptile of a salesman, this schemer, could testify that at the moment of Annie’s death I was not only absent, but also filled with kindly thoughts. I was still thinking of this possibility, and then I scooped up all of the ashes into one ashtray with two fish-lipped buds and with the pedantry of a concentrated actor I laid Annie’s remains onto the canopy bed. Here is where she lay prostrate with Pipi, the two of them, inseparable lovers, feeding each other caviar pate.

I went to work by train. It was cold, but not too cold, although not too warm either. I asked myself what keeps the people warm under this gale which caresses the skin as gently as a skeletal hand would, eternally un-warm, the icy liberators of the esophagus. Confused and pondering, exactly like a man whose wife had just spontaneously combusted before his eyes, I was trudging along the street covered in snow. At least I seemed to think so. I was late getting my alibi, because I wanted to be late (ah let them get me, I confess to everything, other than poisoning Pipi, that I did not do), bearing but one thought into oblivion akin to an Unfinished Fantasy. I wasn’t skillful enough to burn her completely, and then, as we know, feelings of the loved, burned being race. Annie could talk of the consequences of an earthquake in South America and, of course, the Great Pyramid.


The pyramid is aligned exactly according to the cardinal directions of the planet.

Annie, this thing is like coffee, muck on the mouth and teeth as it seems to me, that sweet residue, and it is never wrong. It gets between my fangs, making my front row teeth look like a black star.

Stop it, you moron! What residue, what coffee?! Science stuck its fingers into the eyes of the great mystery and is digging away at it. When I was young, I noticed mysteries all around us. Hand me the third eye. Here is what the PhD MA PR Thehell says about it…

– The pyramid is in the center of the aggregate mass of the Earth.

And coffee..

– Unbelievable!

She would then take her coffee in her (right) hand, and the UFO stories in her left, while she would put the Legendary Times Magazine pledgets on her moist forehead.

– I was wrong to marry you. Now I know. Pipi, bark, damn it. Pipi is laughing at the confusion of charlatans and astral readers, those imprisoned by common sense. Pipi has no sense, hence why she makes sense of everything. I think she is aware of the mystery and its resolution. These days I feel like she is trying to learn our language. But you could not understand this. Read on, Pipi:

Dead, and once alive Pipette: bow wow wowwoooowwooow!

PIPI – The angles of the pyramid divide the Nile delta region into two identical halves.

In the cup of coffee there are the male and the female side. The river in the coffee is the sludge of Nile.

PIPI – The pyramid is the perfect geodetic swivel and directional point.


Our marriage was going really well while there was coffee on the table. That’s it, perhaps, perhaps. You know the reason was also you buying plastic cups, and the sludge and residue lost on weight. In order for you not to think that my theories are completely wrong, understand that if the pyramid is a myth, our marriage is an anti-myth.

– If the basis of the pyramid’s surface is divided by twice the half of this monument, you get Pi=3.1416



– The sum of the surface area of all four sides of the pyramid is equal to the square of its height.

To this I had no response.

PIPI (victoriously) – bow wow wow

ANNIE –That’s it. Tell him. Long live Pipi. Bow wow wow

PIPI – Bow wow

ANNIE – Bow wow

The barking stopped.

I sat on a bench of the platform housing a decommissioned train (thus I knew that I’d missed at least one) and gleefully came to a conclusion that the snow wasn’t melting for a while, which meant that leaving tracks in the snow was an inevitability. I observed the railroad before me and thought how numerous children must have died during the South American earthquake. In the distance I heard male voices, from what I could tell it might’ve been an argument regarding some unsold candlesticks.

– They argue so much, and they aren’t even married. Nothing is guaranteed to us nowadays, not-a-thing.

Gazing at the floating snowflakes, for a second, that very second I covered my face with the warm palm of my hand taken out of my coat pocket mere moments before. I did so because I wanted to feel warmth right then and there, I wanted to prevent another memory of the spontaneously combusted Annie leak from out my eyes and, most certainly, the memory of the divorce gained with a single thunder strike. With no paperwork nor complications. Under agreement – with fire. The sound announcing the train’s arrival was heard in the distance. The wind started blowing harder.

I got up and moved towards the coming train, towards the known silence. After a couple of steps I stood, hands in pockets, unruly gaze, I was looking at the train in the distance, yet closer every subsequent second. The howl of the locomotive cast me, yet again, for but a mere moment, into the memory of that one hour when Pipi was poisoned, and Annie caught fire, an hour where I decided to abandon my life, and after I had found an alibi, a proper replacement, to walk away from it. I felt dizzy.

The train was stopping at the platform. I turned back for a second, noticing people rushing with bags in hands and realized that mine were in my pockets. Everything I ever needed could fit within the contents of a coat pocket. I entered the train with an unnaturally clear desire, I wanted to stop feeling. Did that inevitably include me no longer existing as well?

This is how I found myself here. You can accurately guess that I did not board that train. I am waiting for them, to pick me up, to arrest me, toss me in the slammer and feed me pipi pates.



My hungry little snorting sweety, shall we give in? Go back to them? Pipi, you had your vengeance. See. I underestimated you. I thought you were no more than an ordinary… mutt.  I forgot that you were a bitch. I mean, it’s no familiarity, nor title. Titles are for those who moil, and also for vain monarchs. We will be desensitized, dear Pipi, towards everything from now on. You might help me better understand Annie, as well as the mystery of the pyramids, therefore I beg of you, Fifi, to do me the honor of becoming my wife, there. I will get you both a dress and a little hat. You see, Pipi, it’s not that bad being a lady with such a bitch around like you. We would be like the perfect pair of gloves. How did I miss that? I missed my wife, I missed the marriage, and here there is a glorious, clever bitch that knows how to listen. Yes, I am he who speaks, because everyone around me fell silent. All is dead. Other than the well-known spots, they never die.


My wicked thing. Let’s go home, Annie is in that ashtray waiting. I might light a cigarette, with a cup of coffee. One would say I didn’t love her, but over her ashes I will repent for all that I did, with marriage vows and the coffee-ritual. Who knows, maybe she went somewhere, I am ready for questioning, hell let them burry me even. I deserved it.


I feel a bit tired, a bit virus-stricken too yeah…I didn’t bring my hat…Annie will love seeing you alive and not killed by me, She might rematerialize and revive our marriage out of sheer happiness and in all her thickness compared to the clay pigeons walking in the parks. Maybe I’m Annie? Hehe. My left arm hurts (the muscles of both the forearm and the upper ar,), it always hurt Annie…Now her spasms are at my disposal. New life, Pipi. I have enough willpower. I fear no God, let alone those lazy-asses the cops and paramedics, hehe. Mere mortals, the lot of them. Perhaps you could help him realize…like you did with me and the pyramid thing. There. Homeward…no rush. With one break the length of a short eternity…What do you say, Pipi? You don’t care? Huh? Thank you so much. And here I missed the Champion’s league to take you for a walk. I’m not complaining. I prefer this and want nothing in return. Maybe a kiss, if we get home anytime soon. At least to make it worth something…

Horror-Wallpapers-38 (www.darkwallz.com)

Peroratio: Marco


More? There will be more when we get home and I tell you what’s on my mind. Go on and grin. He who laughs last…Not talking? Angry? I had no attention to anger nor offend you. Not my thing. Not my MO. Of all feelings I only know those that are nice and bring joy. If I went overboard or made a mistake somewhere, tell me and then gnaw me to death. How? Put your mouth to mine and don’t let me breathe. Then cast me to the cats to be eaten. Fin. No more Peter. And seek another companion, Perhaps you will find one if an old-timer is still walking this planet. Though, it will be tough.

POODLE: Bow wow wow

PETER: Bow wow wow


dramma, horror, mathilde, matilde, prose, proza

From the Quill of Chaplain Larsen, Sleeping Mathilde, excerpt from the novel by Leila Samarrai

From the Quill of Chaplain Larsen, Sleeping Mathilde, excerpt from the novel by Leila Samarrai


Mathilde confided in me often (which I hid from Amerongen like a Jew hides his gold) while alone or while we walked together along the garden tile path

‘Why are you so unhappy, mistress Mathilde? The master is trying…’, I coughed, ‘He seems to indulge you in everything, and yet…’
‘And yet…’
‘Confide in me, oh Mistress.’
‘There is no need for formalities, Larsen.’
‘Okay’, I nodded. ‘Do you suffer too much?’
‘It upsets me, it gets on my nerves.’
‘Break the silence and open your heart to me’, I said, fatherly.
‘This morning I recollected the life in Denmark… And my mother. Make a note, Larsen, and let the world see it! If the prison door ever open up for me and Hässe burns to the ground, I swear that…for something like that, I will rise from my grave!’
‘I will make a note, but I do not know what happened… Tell me the tale> is it the truth that Johana the Monster, as the locals called your mother…’
‘And the noblemen,’ the Mathilde declared fiercely.
‘…Yes…patience for the old man, young lady.’
Mathilde shot a smile back to him.
‘…she lived, as they say, in utter poverty?’
‘No,’ she stated simply.
‘Amerongen…’, I turned around and saw him fumbling around the stables – he was etching something into the ground with his knife and chanted… The guards were lazing around in front of the castle. A portion of the army, being bored on the roof of the castle and leaning onto the towers, under the Hässe sun, was taking a nap.
‘You could run away right now. I am reading your mind.’
‘And where would I go?’ I felt rage engulf her, a cold, suppressed rage, thus I fell silent in discomfort and decided to return to the topic at hand.
‘You know I always treated you like you were my own daughter.’
‘You are my solace in this home of the mad’, she responded gently, moving to caress me on the cheek but stopping midway through.
We entered the great Hall and sat on a bench one next to the other, tracked by the vile gaze of Orian von Amerongen.
‘Dearest Mathilde, the introduction is the most problematic to me. I can never seem to pin it down…Your words are sung with a lion’s strength, but I cannot discern whether you’ve written a novel of your mother and your real father,’ I started while looking at the scroll, ‘a made up story, or are these facts?’
She smiled somewhat tensely.
‘Tell me how you married Amerongen’, I prepped my quill and a parchment under my cassock.
Mathilde tensed up her body. Her countenance became brutally firm.
‘It was in Denmark. On that day, and what a dim day it was, Father, the Regenstein door opened with a bang. Seeing Amerongen, I thought the entire castle shivered and squealed, as if dying from a horrible disease.
‘The castle was founded in the second half of the ninth century on a steep cliff, from which I felt like ending my life in the endless abyss numerous times. It was a dark, aristocratic dwelling. Since I was a tyke I likened it to a monster. Toothy towers reminiscent of fangs, and dark windowpanes reminding of the eyes of Erebus.[1] Regenstein had spread venom around itself since those days.
‘Amerongen got his eye on me, tall and threatening. I stood in the middle of the hallway frozen by his gaze. I pressed the parchments I was carrying to the library against my chest. He looked at me like a bloodthirsty animal. He looked like a rustler.
‘ ‘Is this ever a beauty!’, he shouted and touched Johanna’s heart to tears, while joy glistened in Otto’s wrinkly eyes.
He suddenly averted his eyes, and his face calmed, as if the monstrous strength waned in him.
‘ ‘In the name of Yambe-Akka’, he yelled. ‘Did someone die in here? Give ale to horses first, then the serfs!’
‘ ‘Mathilde, you should be honored that this charming nobleman chose you for his bride’, the moment she said this the parchments dropped from my hands, and Amerongen looked at me curiously. I replied with a smile which surprised him and he told me: ‘Do you perchance like me? Truly it cannot be so!’, he pouted like a child and winked at me, which made me feel sick to my stomach. I assume he just wanted to make me feel better.’
[1] Greek god of eternal darkness.






dramma, horror, proza, roman, samarrai

BERNARD’S HOURS, The story of a schismatic misanthrope, Leila Samarrai, Part Two, Skin – Walker (excerpt from the novel)

PART ONE https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2015/03/06/bernards-hours-the-story-of-a-schismatic-misanthrope-leila-samarrai/

‘A smuggler, and yet so knowledgeable of Mozart?’, she giggled.

I took one good look at her again… She took one of me as well, giggling, but confused now. Behind the deep confusion I detected that along her face, like a bugger in the night or a snake dragging her belly across the red-hot rocks, slithered and crept a shadow of disgust.

Am I so vile, so unbearable to everyone?

True, I hold nothing against whores. If I did, it would mean that I maintain a rage against civilization as a whole within me. Ever since culture existed, whores existed. And every single society has its whores. If it did not, it lacked culture. Does the word “cultus” nor remind one of coitus? Who am I to moralize or change anything? Who cares for the virgin Ishtar under the fertile crescent moon of Mesopotamia who goluptiously sucked Marduk’s dick in the hot Arabian nights? And thus it went by in history… an endless vastness of whoring – and the Japanese kind is somewhat dearest to me – I was unaware that I was saying all of this out loud.

And everything else, reduced to the point of being invisible. A fount of artistic fire, a poetic flame, a superspiritual beauty, no!

‘For you, madam, I have a book… A whore through the centuries. It might be of interest to you.’


excerpt from the novel



dramma, horror, mathilde, prose, samarrai

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Three, THE SHAITAN HORSE, part 2, The Old Woman of the Dead

With this chapter, titled “The Shaitan Horse”, I will temporarily pause sharing the material from the book of Mathilde which is currently being translated. I hope that the introductory passages piqued your interest. Mathilde will soon be available on Amazon. You will be notified in due time. Thank you for reading.


Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter One, A TALE OF ORIAN VON AMERONGEN

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Two, THE HÄSSE CASTLE

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Three, THE SHAITAN HORSE


I looked at him with bloodlust in my eyes, but I did not erase the wolfish smile off my face, quite the contrary, I grinned all the harder.

– You see, Olof… The architecture I am inclined to lately is a strict and monumental one. Vast wall structures are without a single opening. Soon I will wall off all those tiny light windows through which you’re looking.

He gave me a funny look. – By the by, where is thy lady? She was here a moment ago – he took a good long look around him. She was here all along, right next to the two of us, silent like a shadow, peaceful like a sword resting in the sheathe. She seemed as if she were surpressing laughter.

A frightening silence suddenly fell upon the castle.

“Approach, Olaf!”, I yelled for a serf. His shoulders shivered.

“Here I come to my master to obey his command!”, he dared not look at me.

“You see, Olof, how faithful my serf Olaf is to me? If the king would weep, he would weep along with him. If the king died, there Olaf would be howling for him, such is the love of serflings of Hässe to its ruler. Is this not so?”, I embraced my serf. His lips were quivering, and teeth aclatter. “I re-reckon it’s cuh-cold, Guard, let me get the fire going.”

“I want you to take us through the secret door”, I gave off a bloodlust-laden grin and took a good long look at the hump under his tunic. “Look at him, Olof. Is he not like a statue which speaks? Good old Roman Pasquino , a damaged sculpture, of course, but well spoken, because when it hears the vile tongues say ‘Even Amerongen can’t reign forever’ – a prideful look on his face – Olaf would cuss and say ‘Let me find the coward in the shadows! And if I don’t find him, you, master, will blow into him the icy breath of death and the bastard will fall only because he wanted my master to die.’”

Olof raised his eyebrows and said “Incredible.”

“Brave lad” – I patted the serf on the hump under the tunic which stuck out a bit crookedly. “You do not fear the secret door?”

Olaf rose the steel chin to me, grinned and revealed a severe lack of dentures: “I am loyal, milord. My name is Olaf and all live long day I eat and drink profusely and in the name of my prince I would…” He was deep in thought for a while. I waited patiently enjoying the whole thing. Something almost like a thought sparked in his pupil. “I can do this. I can go through the secret door. I will be the guide. I have heard that master Olof is going sightseeing.”

“And if the doors are sealed?”, I laughed.

“I will knock them down with my head.”

“Is he an idiot?” Olof giggled pointing to the wee hunchback. Olaf laughed with him, and his whole face went dark. He clenched his fists. “I will crush the door, here…with these hands!”

“I actually believe you…” – I paid no heed to Olof’s jab – “Peace be upon the kingdom, Olaf.”

”Long live my prince”, Olaf lowered his gaze and knelt before me.

Olof coughed uninterestedly, while strength raged within me.

“Come with me…”, I took a few large steps and stood in front of the secret door

“I don’t see how we can pass.” – Olof wondered. – “Perhaps…”

“Quiet,” I frowned. “I wanted to show you this.”

I stood on a precisely marked spot, which was the Eye of Argus on the mosaic, and used my weight to start up the secret mechanism. The door squeaked creepily, rising upward, while Olof stood in tense expectation – what is on the other side?

His astounded facial expression amused me. He hesitated for a moment or two, and then carefully came after me along the tight pass. He was in the state of complete horror, while we crawled by grotesque gravestones. Soon we arrived at a big room whose stone walls were adorned with a low, narrative relief, similar to Assyrian ones.

There was little to no furniture in the room. Two chairs and an oaken table colored red took up the middle of the room. The table was covered in a pile of parchments and unusual object, one of which was my fancy – shaped by the hands of Mathilde – a miniature replica of the Kraken. The rest of the furniture was colored green, with a figure of a three-headed dragon Buné engraved onto it, as were many other pagan symbols. A fresco was on the wall above the fireplace, a fresco which, according to my instructions, was made by Mathilde. It was an all-black monstrosity, a smirk on her face gnawed to the bone, my protector Yambe-Akka[1], the angel of death.

Not paying attention to an astonished and terrified Olof, in a knightly stance I knelt before her horrific visage.


Heed my prayer, Yambe-Akka

Habituate my eyes to the blade of vengeance

Let me hold it in my hand

Let my hand not quiver when vengeance recognizes the cause!

Let the bowels howl in fear, bowels of all those

Who wanted you unmade from your way!


I got up unladen, breaking the silence reinforced by Olof being quiet.

“Impressive, no?”, I said self-lovingly.

Olof shook from unease, and his face wrinkled.

“I come here to enjoy myself… The room is full of objects which bring me peace” – I paused – “There are all sorts of things here, from Iram, Ubar[2]…”- as I was saying this, I picked up a crooked J-shaped sword from the table, “a cursed Arabian knife”, a gift from Ubar. “Whomsoever has it in his hand, he must…”, I looked at Olof, and his eyes were aflame bloody-red.

“My friend, I see that my dark humor upsets your soul. I’m afraid that I must stop doing that. You’ll lose your appetite,” I mercifully added and pointed to the direction of the spiral staircase.

“They lead all the way to the balcony, and from there on…you’ll see…”

“You surprise me in a horrific way, Orian…Let’s go…”, Olof added nervously. And so, over the balcony, we found ourselves in a hallway, adorned with numerous columns. The end of the hallway was crowned by an arch, made in an Arabic style.

“Down the hallway, keep going straight, you will reach Mathilde’s solar”, I said wickedly.

“Let’s go back”, Olof felt uncomfortable.

“My solar is on the opposite side. We can visit it as well?”

Our conversation was suddenly cut off by a female voice. “Hässe, including the secret passageways, has at least fifty-two rooms. It is a monumental complex, master Olof…”


[1] Yambe-Akka or Jabme-akka is a Sami Goddess of the Underworld. Her name means ‘The Old Woman of the Dead’.

[2] Historical lost cities



dramma, horror, leila, mathilde, prose, samarrai

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Three, THE SHAITAN HORSE


Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter One, A TALE OF ORIAN VON AMERONGEN

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Two, THE HÄSSE CASTLE


Part One

“It’s hard to maintain friendships under the steep mountains whose sklents they spread like Icarus spreads his wings towards the icy sun in an attempt to touch the gods. Sun-scorched tops delve deep into the soul of the locals of Norrbotten. It’s hard to maintain friendships, because the abyss is indestructible here. Sven Olof, on the other side of Norrbotten, did not fear the trip. His name was described with a wondrous strength of myth.

“As he was riding on his horse across the slope with no discernible fear of any kind, hoarfrost covered the sven’s eyelashes. Cold shades danced on his cheeks long ago burned by the Norrbotten sun. He got off his horse and observed with his beady eyes the eternal chill of Hornavan.

“When I saw him, I left the solar running, crossed bridges that connected the towers, all the way up to the watchtower where I could see him swing under the swipes of the winds. It appeared as if he were supported by the light piercing through his massive body. He turned his face towards me and gave a wide grin, exuding all of his beauty, to me unbearably all too familiar, a mixture of fear and impending doom. We were looking at each other like two misbehaving boys after a dangerous game which they weren’t caught for, sensing Lindworm’s tongue standing between us like a beast, and the Fjalar hill behind it as well as the abyss whose bottom was paved with the crystals of winter. I was looking at the cracked eternal darkness of ice and felt like Olof was included in my thoughts as well. He removed his gloves and looked at me, mouth agape like with a skinned fox.

“He wore a black silk shirt with a laced collar and sleeves covered in multicolor tapes, a velvet robe and a huge cloak which cast even darker shadows on his already darkened face.

“I had rough wool trousers on. Boots, with rolled up top edge, reached up to my knees. Beneath a fine leather tunic, with corduroy edges and embroidered crosses of silk, peeped a collarless linen shirt. I wore an earring made of darkened silver, and a signet ring with a lion paw engraved on it on my hand.”

Orian lifted his hand and had a good long look into the distance. He memorized every detail. He dipped the quill in the inkwell and continued:

“In the inner yard of the castle we were smitten by a gaze of a female eye. It was my beloved wife Mathilde. Beneath the fine smooth plush dress one could make out the cotton and silk edges embroidered with a silver wire. She had a leather hat adorned with pearls on her head. The see-through organdy scarf floated above her head like a halo, and fell back all the way down to her slim waist. A silver filigree earrings with dark river pearls shaped like tears gave her face a particular beauty.

Mathilde and Olof’s eyes crossed paths. It was then that I felt all the weight of an unclear feeling smoldering within me like an unspoken suspicion and a secret unrest  during every single visit of Olaf to the castle. That force of feelings can only be triggered by an injured self-love. Rage grew within me. A cold, suppressed rage. Why was I being silent? Did Olof rule over me with the shackles of friendship?

I pushed the servant away and took Olof’s horse to the stables. Sunlight was following me and casting hot flames onto the unlucky face of the one who neither loved nor was loved. I pulled the horse with one hand. The wind was an enemy to me, a fierce companion who scooped up lumps of earth and with its icy breath threw it in my face.

I pulled on the reins. The horse revved and tried to pull away. I opened the stable door and drove him into the box stall.

What exactly did I see?

A muffled, female laughter in the background.  It was Mathilde thinking Olaf’s remark to be humorous.

No, no doubt that he wants her! I am aware of the fact that this is the last time I’m talking about this, about the misunderstanding, about the kisses that didn’t happen. My gut feels wrinkled up… I heard a murmur and steps of serfs who started genuflecting to Olof. He, as if in his own castle, started walking up the paved trail bounded by oak trees with light steps towards the mistress of the castle, towards Mathilde.

I made my way to the castle entrance. The vile suspicion burned in my heart threatening to crush me.

A vast room of magical beauty stretched well into the castle. It had been an enormous chamber magically lighted by thickly arranged torches. Above the entrance there was a richly done façade with a big window shaped like a horseshoe (a gift from an Indian architect whom I had killed for a bad joke at the dinner table, or for the remark that we serve tasteless meals in Hässe, I’m not sure). Down the hall stretched a row of chambers which flowed one into another. The solar could be reached via stairs from each of them or via the porches and terraces built in the Oriental style, right into the lavish garden of Hässe.


From a gelded, richly adorned throne, set at the bottom end of the hall, I would stare at the pane, resting my nude feet on the stone statue of a prostrate lion with a human head. Befitting my dark being’s tastes, the imposing ceiling, supported by a forest of columns, was adorned with complex, dark frescoes. Gigantic tapestries warmed the cruel stone walls. The castle floor, Greek style, was adorned with black and white pebblestone mosaics, and if the observer would take a good detailed look at the painting, he would notice the many-eyed Argus, the All-seeing, surrounded by wolves with their maws agape. My eye did not miss a single solitary detail. It was the temple of my curse, carved in the living flesh of Hässe.  My inner being, my soul, whichever you prefer.

I chiseled the sweet venom of battle into the walls. I invested a lot into paintings. The fresco above the very entrance of the Hall (this was my pet name for the enormous hall of Hässe, a rare architectural jewel in an eerie wasteland of the surrounding nature) was presenting a head of, one would say, a beautiful woman. Eyes full of fright and tears were chiseled into her visage. Opposite to her, at the very end of the Grand hall, the fresco above the throne was presenting the merciful eyes of a man, who bore a scepter in his hand. The fresco was hiding a secret passageway, and the passage hid – mortuary statues. I would often open the secret door as the nobles were engulfed in merriment during feasts, followed by the merry music of the manor minstrel.

– Master Olof – I nervously paced the Hall – I do not recall ever taking you to see the castle. My servants have covered the floors with a new material – I grinned like a wolf, nonchalantly toying with the silver earring in my ear. I was tapping on the floor with my boot, giving the terror a beat. – Approach the throne, master Olof – the boot tapping increased. Olof’s gaze paused with admiration on the walls which were adorned here and there with gelded carvings and unavoidable arabesques.

– Come with me and see the castle, my friend. Delve into my soul, and then we feast – I approached him and put my arm around his shoulder. I caught Olof’s gaze directed at Mathilde’s cross which hung from the stained glass. – You are impressed by the cameos of the pious Mathilde of Essen? I brought it from Cologne as a gift to my god-fearing lady.

– Fascinating… – Olof mumbled. – Really… you built a shrine in the castle, master Orian. Your care for the proper upbringing of lady Mathilde is touching almost as the care for her soul. I thought you would corrupt her with your gods.

to be continued…

dramma, horror, literary diary, novel, samarrai, short story


Soon it will all be over. Damn them, the reverse optics of my intercranial madness are picking up the pace. I am no longer a woman, but a macroscopic particle. A peg-top. Call me Peg-Top. This I will do so suddenly, so feverishly, and yet so calmly, my hand will not quake. I will lightly lean forward, legs spread to the width of my shoulders, yes… Calm your body. Aim carefully. Pull the trigger. Take a deep breath. Aim, pull, calm…calm…
horror, proza

“Uspavana Matilde”, roman, Leila Samarrai, “Sleeping Mathilde”, published!

Moja novela “Uspavana Matilde” počela je da, u odlomcima, izlazi u Časopisu “Kult”. Zahvaljujem se Časopisu “Kult” na profesionalnosti i divnoj saradnji. Uživajte!

My long expected novel “Sleeping Mathilde”, finally published in Serbian magazine KULT. (it will go in chapters…)

I would like to say thanks to magazine KULT for their professionalism and wonderful collaboration.


The closest video I could find to reflect the tone, mood and atmosfere in “Sleeping Mathilde”. p.s It has nothing to do with “Camelot”, make no mistake. This story is more cruel, more passionate and there will be some vampires, there… The story is set in 13 century, in northernmost point of early medieval Sweden, in highly isolated Norbotten. It is a story (amongst other things) about very interesting woman who… You will read it in English, soon, so you will see.


She would be perfect for the role of Mathilde. 

Full cast & crew:

Mathilde: Eva Green
Örjan (OErjan)- James Purefoy
Olov – Kevin McKidd
Hjalmar – Jonathan Rhys Meyers
Hilda – Kathy Bates
Johanna – Helen McRory
Leticia – Gabriella Wilde
Agnes – Amanda Seyfried
Umar, arabian sorcerer- Alexander Siddig or Jason Momoa
biography, boris k, horror, leila, proza, samarrai








Možete čitati odlomke i odvojeno. Sve je dozvoljeno….

  • Optužena je razjapila čeljusti i priznala sve pred Bogom, Porotnicima i Kafkom, pijana kao letva. Boris K. je ulovio kit ajkulu, Ali, uzalud.. Strah me je iznova savladao.
  • Kakav strah? Zar ne vide i ne ču Kafkinu presudu?
  • Oh, o tom suđenju moram… – zastadoh. – Umorna sam. Ova priča je zamarajuća storija beskrajno istovetnih delova, od kojih su neki nepokretni (nevidljivi spokojnim, zadovoljnim očima Čitaoca kojih ih lista površno, žilavo nastojeći da prevaziđe konfuznost kad na nju naiđe.
  • 54c5b9fb2271b96987e73e696dc2ffa3

I misli (kao i ja): Kad i kako ću doći do dna, do podrumske plesnjivosti, kad i kako ću JA, ČITALAC omirisati tamničarsku udubljenost ovog pisca u vlastitu moru?

Priča je ukleta. Spisateljica je progonjena. A opet, ništa nam ne daje do lepršavosti. Ona se krije u senci noći I tumara između zidova. Njen strah se ne može omirisati.  Ni sa sto pedeset probrano napisanih knjiga ne može ona doći do krajnjosti pamćenja, ne izostavljajući niti jedan deo, a ono što piše jeste tek odabir skrivenog da se prikaže na platnu stvaranja.

Ljudski san. Duga i tegobna rečenica. Ili kratka, zauzdana nota terora. Sve. Ili Ništa-  uglavnom, ona oseća sablazan.

  • Čitaoci neće ništa razumeti.
  • Da, bolni su to napori. Ko je dželat i čija trunka istine je veća. Kome se sudi? Koga ona prekoreva?

Otvaram oči u snu.

Nema veze. Imam li ja nekakve namere? Puštam li priču da slobodno teče? Ima li uopšte ovde ikakve priče?

Ja sam poput zarobljene sablasti u zakopanom, tajnom lavirintu. A lavirint je pun oštrih krikova zveri. I svaki od njih je jedan pasus, jedna priča, jedna knjiga, jedna dosetka.

Ja stenjem poput duha u olujnoj noći negde, zarobljena, začaurena u tamu ljudskog sna. Žderem vlastito meso. Moja samoća traje tri hiljade godina.

-Ali, ova priča ti ipak treba. Ne možeš se sakriti u avetinjskoj kući. Tamo more ne prestaju. Pomiri se s tim – izostavljeni delovi koji su izgradili priču u zaboravljenom subplotu usamljene sobe tvog detinjstva neće pojasniti išta više negó što je jasno (ako je išta jasno, onda će biti jasno i bez tih starih, melanholičnih delova, bez gorkih osmeha demona koji su rodili nove, a ovi nove, i ne možeš izaći iz tih snova jer tu nema izlaza) Ispravka: ne možeš izaći dok ne napišeš svoju storiju, punu izostavljenih delova i pokoriš se opštosti. Malo trivialisa ne bi ti falilo. Čitaoci i to vole.

Svakom piscu je glava ucenjena kad mu je priča za vratom. Izaberi materijal. Zagospodari njime. Prožderi zver.


  •  A ako je zver među zidovima? Autokanibališem li se? Projektujem li se to ja? Više ne mogu verovati zidovima? No, samo svojoj teatralnosti. Umeću skrivanja nevidljivog glumca u neotesanom tekstu, kao i metodu ubacivanja Lude da zabavlja široku masovnu publiku dajući im privid da u Knjizi o Sudijama postoji bilo kakav redosled scena koji se može pratiti.

Sve je to senka.

  • Senka?
  • Nalik na kadrove iz drugih scena koji se ubacuju npr iz lavirinta o kojem sam govorila i u kojem odista obitavam, iz neutešnih uspomena prve dečje sobe o kojima više ne umem ništa reći jer ih je senka vremena progutala – to je Prvi melanholični narator – odlučuje se da li postaješ Pisac sa jedva četiri navršene godine života. Recimo da je moja noša bila napola prazna.
  • … ubacuju u? Digresija vreba. Vodi računa. Nemaš urednika.
  • Jebeš urednika. Nikad mi nije niti bio potreban. Kadar iz scene 2 ubacuje se u scenu 1. Npr kadar iz detinjstva nesvesno ubacujem u priču o Suđenju. Uopšte, cela priča o Suđenju zbog jednog kadra iz detinjstva. Nisam lepo piškila, pa mi danas svi krivi, ha? Nije ovo loše.
  • Ili se ista priča zapravo izrodila negde daleko, van ljudskog oka i sećanja, negde u detetu lišenom ega. Ili ne daj bože, hiperegoističnom detetu.
  • Ne pratim te. Niko te ne prati.
  • U svakom slučaju, jednog dana ugledaću te iste zvezde, isto nebo, ja pasionirani zapisničar patnje..
  • Mislim da će ovde patiti samo čitalac.
  • Ja sam čitalac, sve vreme ti to govorim!
  • Ko je pisac?
  • Nikad nisam znala. Čudna pojava koja čini čuda, stvara alternativne svetove, beži od zidova, usnula u srednjem veku I probuđena u budućnosti. Prazna školjka ispunjena okeanima koje ne može ispljunuti.
  • A sad da motrimo šta se dalje zbiva s Optuženom. Ispraznila si creva od straha, popila čašu vode, razmišljaš da li da skineš sa sebe taj očaravajuće “tamničarski” duks dok pišeš jer u sobi postaje strahotno vrelo.
  • Ne bavim se trivijalnim detaljima.
  • Da kojim slučajem ne bi pomislili da si avangardni Pisac, daj primer ovoga o čemu si govorila gore – pričam o kadrovima. Zajebi zvezde koje će iznova da te zaslepe.


  • Savršeno. Dakle?
  • U prethodno napisanom delu Suđenja, Boris K. napija Optuženu koja govori istinu samo kada je pijana. To je sušta istina, ali i pomalo bizarna trivijalna činjenica koja je poslužila narativu. Ne znam kako bih drugačije uspela da izvedem takvu scenu. Tolika brbljivost i pokretljivost jezika kod sociopate. Drugačije nije moglo ići, ni farsično. Tako dolazimo do Borisa K., Lude.
  • Lukavo…
  • I rekla sam da se ne bavim trivijalnim detaljima. Zapravo to činim sve vreme. Trivijalno,  obično i banalno nije uvek toliko trivialis koliko to Pisac, ako mu je namera,  želi da bude. U ogromnoj želji za oneobičavanjem teksta, opet, Pisac mora da zagazi u trivialis. Otud burleska u razgovoru Narandžuše i Borisa K. Nalik na borbu žabe i miša. Podrugljiva starogrkoljivost koje se ne mogu odreći.
  • Sve je dakle isplanirano…
  • Od antike do danas, tako nekako.. U pisanju nema slobode.
  • Opet, primer, primer!
  • Ima li ičeg trivijalnijeg od Borisove Ode Narandžuši.
  • Boj žaba I miševa.
  • Opet, tu vidimo na delu Borisov karakter. Njegovu lakomislenost, razuzdanost, a i moju slobodu da zbog svega toga prođem nekažnjeno podmetnuvši sirotog Borisa da peva moje ludorije, zauzvrat iščekujući novu avanturu (u ovoj ponajmanje uživa, jer se suspreže da ne bude zajedljiv, a uistinu se oseća i sam (što mu se retko dešava) kao kompletna budala vodivši u moje ime nešto tako isprazno, obično, prizemno, pritvorno (deo u kojem joj se poverio da je sociópata ne bi li joj razgalio srce i osvajao njeno poverenje.. ne, to nije Borisova uloga u mom svetu) Jedno vreme ga moram oporaviti od traume, stoga pravim pauzu, ali Suđenje ću, dakako, nastaviti.
  • Zašto je onda sve što sam rekla u vezi s duksom pogrešno!
  • Začepi! Začepi užasni a la poeta ružičasto nebo zore, kako da ne. Materijalizam! Materijalisto, snoviđenje ja sam – Dovoljno je što sam se ubacila u san u liku neželjenog gosta na izložbi arogantne, zajedljive slikarke čija zloba prema meni uveseljava i bogove i rogate anđele u toj meri da joj se čelo razvedrilo kad me je ugledala i ruku mi je smrvila samo stiskom, dovoljno je što je ta prostorija prepuna paučine i namenjena samo za mene, kao Kafkina kažnjenička kolonija jer se prava izložba zapravo odvija na drugom mestu, a ja sam došla tu, na nekakvo mesto zločina, prepunog slepih miševa koji lete i beže od mene i govore “Bežite od nje, svi van van! Ko ti je odao lokaciju ovog mesta? Govori!!!”
  • A ja kažem, za sve je kriva Džezebel. Rekla mi je da dođem u Paučina – sobu. U topli trbuh podruma. Toliko topao da mi se pripiškilo, kao nekada davno… u nošu.


  • I jedna gatara prilazi, opali mi šamar i kaže: Daću ja i Džezebel jedan karate – šamar što ti je odala gde se svi mi nalazimo. S turbanom na glavi, okreće se ka slikarki koja me s mržnjom gleda i opet bi da mi smrvi ruku koja je u međuvremenu izrasla, a druga ruka je čekala na Prvo kafkijansko smaknuće. Onda mi je otišla u tom snu – javi i glava, a čitavo telo, tačnije ostatak, je lebdelo okolo, prolazeći kroz zidove.
  • Bila bi to interesantna slika za Izložbu.
  • Da, oduvek sam bila vizionar.
  • Gatara, slikarkina majka i ona, slikarka – rospija razbarušene kose su me pažljivo zaključale, uz jedno; ovde ćeš ostati sama zauvek, bau bau, a mi idemo tamo gde svi drugi odlaze, gde se raduju, gde su srećni, gde je žurka,radost, umetnost, Prava i Jedina Izložba Svih Epohalnih Muzičko – Scensko – Slikarsko.. nabroj sve šta ti padne na um, dela i mi.. i naši dragi gosti – pogodi ko?

UNISONO: Ostatak sveta!

  • Pa su okrenule ključ u bravi i obmotale trošna vrata katancima, a ja shvatam da ne postojim, da nemam nikakav cilj, da sam apsolutno nevidljiva i ostala bih takva čak i ako bi neko upao uprostoriju, neki Salvatore, ne bi li me spasao, ne bi me ugledao. Na kraju, nada se san nastavio dalje… zastala sam zaglavljena između dva zida.. i.. i… zapevala.
  • Neminovno takvi snovi utiču na tvoj odnos prema javi. Sama si i gledaš kako su drugi srećni, a nema čašu vode ko da ti doda.. Zvuči kao vlaška kletva.
  • Ipak, vlašku kletvu raščereči arapska magija, očas posla.
  • Mnogi su te zbog lepote kleli, pa i Arapi.. A tvoja stvarnost? Kako stojiš s njom?
  • Vrlo realistično. Pravi je podvig osluškivati zvučnu tišinu moje samoće.
  • Jesu li ti likovi iz sna poznati?



  • Ma jesu, to su Džezebelini zli rođaci iz Beča. Uskoro će neki erefnung ili tako nešto da IM bude. Otvara se druga samostalna izložba Džezebeline sestre od strica, a ja sam odnekud u sebi iskopala želju da odem za inat, baš kao u Zapisima iz Podzemlja, na Noć svečanog otvaranja, bez pozivnice, svesna da me tamo ne žele, a ne želim ni ja njih, no naprosto želim iz zloće da odem.
  • Ti ne radiš ništa iz zloće. To ne objašnjava tvoj san.
  • To objašnjava moje stranstvovanje na kugli zemaljskoj. Mala simbolika. Sledeće noći biće neka druga I neko drugi.
  • To je noćna mora, sabatovski túnel iz kog želim da pobegnem. Nema izlaza. Jedino ovaj. Izvršen je zločin. U snovima, tragam za zločincima. Na javi, sve bazdi na posledice zločina. Želim da ih prevedem u razumljive znakove. Želim da uhvatim Džeka Trboseka. Želim da podignem ploču groba u mračnom manastiru u kojem san zatočena i da rastočim sve demone, pa i tebe, kao Leila Leili ti govorim, da nas materijalizujem u male literarne leševe i presudim nam u vlastitoj priči. Vlastitoj noćnoj mori. U mojoj režiji, a ne u režiji tih gadova. Ovo je (samo)osvetnička priča. Ovde nema ni traga lepoti, niti avanturi u rečima. Eto, to su te izopštenosti koje nedostaju svakom literarnom dnevniku. To su nepriznati motivi. To je mazohizam.
  • 990e5c41e4fb2b27fb8821f57fdfaac1-d8tg1fh

To je… (umorna sam, jako mi se prispavalo, uskoro ću se probuditi…)…  istinska, prava izdajnička priroda pisca koji upravo zbog toga najviše od svih nepočinstava prezire izdaju.

I kažnjava je.

horror, proza

OPTUZUJEM! dosta je bilo.

Meni su dosadili apeli jednostrana dopisivanja na fejsbuku u pokusaju da dokazem, pokazem vase kriminalno delo, jer vi ste samo to. jedan olos. ja vas mobing vise ne mogu da podnesem i vreme je da se izvedete na mesto gde fejsbuk komande ne vaze, vec dokazi.
Amra Sirbegovic  https://www.facebook.com/amra.sirbegovic?fref=ts


, kriva za sirenje glasina, lazi, u okviru marginalne grupe LGBT, koja ima svoje specificnosti zbog koje je bilo lako izvsiti mobing i izolovati osobu na 10 godina. Posledice po zdravlje su nezamislive.
Nikolina Bobic https://www.facebook.com/bobic.nikolina?fref=ts

nezakonito privodjenje na saslusanje preko svoje policijske veze motivisana, samo ona zna cime. Kao svedoke pozvala je Amru Sirbegovic i Vesnu Vuksan https://www.facebook.com/vesnavuksan?fref=ts,


a kao dokazni materijal stavila je moj javni jutjub klip gde secem krastavac koji je bio javno dostupan, a sve, navodno u strahu za svoj zivot.
Istovremeno sam, dok sam chatovala s njom u Kragujevcu, toplo i prijateljski, dosla do saznanja da je doticna sve vreme pricala da joj revolverom pretim pod prozorom i trazila pravni savet.
Nakon nezakonitog unakrsnog ispitivanja i naravno dozivljenog soka nikakav papir – zapisnik nisam dobila.
(moram ovde da kazem da je Bobiceva ismejavala moju zelju da je tuzim za klevetu, jer to kosta, a ja nemam pare za advokata, to “ne ide tako” – a kako ide? pitam se i da ce me poslati na psihijarijsko ispitivanje), sto je za advokata bila istina, ali sad vise nije.
Treba reci da su inspektor i dve policajke vrlo slobodno postupale prema meni govoreci o psihickom stanju pedera, da je meni “razgovor s Bobicevom” prijao nakon sto su me ispitivale, citiram: “Pa lepo vam je bilo.Obe ste krive. Sto na kafu ne odete”
Ovo pricam u kontekstu toga sta sam dozivela, a onda je inspektor, sta li je, samozadovoljno rekao da sve zna o meni, da je proucio moj zivot od kolevke do tinejdzerskog doba, sto ne rade ni najvecim kriminalcima, a sve uz cudjenje: “pa zar ti nikad nisi bila u policiji” posto sam zaplakala kad je pomenuo i moju mrtvu baku i prodaju kuce. Policija mi je nezakonito upala u jutjub nalog. Takodje, kad sam ulazila na ispitivanje, moju majku su zadrzali van, uveli me i zatvorili vrata. I dva sata su me maltetirali uz krajnju poruku: Nemoj ti sad da se svetis, da kazes “jebacu ti majku” pa da nadjes nekog.. a ja cu Nikolinu (inspektor je zove Nikolina) da smirim. Mi saradjujemo sa LGBT. Ja sam na to rekla da ja ne poznajem nikakvu bitangu da bi to bilo izvodljivo.
Nakon toga, moja majka je dobila dva mozdana udara na sred ulice.
Nije bilo dovoljno, vec su ubacili trojankog konja, tacnije ponica Nevenu Tarlanovic. Tadasnji predsednik GSA koja vise ne postoji zvao se Lazar Pavlovic https://www.facebook.com/lazarpavlovic?fref=ts

, tj jos uvek se zove tako. On je fizioterapeut Nevene Tarlanovic (ah da, policajac/inspektor koji me ispitivao je govorio bas o saradnji sa GSA) On i Nevena Tarlanovic  https://www.facebook.com/nevena.tarlanovic?fref=ts

su me nagovorili da povucem sudsku tuzbu za klevetu protiv Nikoline Bobic.
Dosao je jednog dana u moj stan, rekao je da je pogresio sto je verovao Nikolininim pricama i da je jadna Nevenica jako patila zbog neuzvracene ljubavi Nikoline Bobic i da bi bilo lepo da se druzimo. Tako je uvedena, taj trojanac koja je sve informacije zapravo prenosila svojoj dragoj Nikolini Bobic kojoj je zelela da se umili.
Glumila je kucnog prijatelja, stekla je nase poverenje, pozajmili smo joj novac za operaciju da bi mogla da hoda (inace, osim sto sam je drzala u wc – u dok je pisala, videla sam svojim ocima da moze samostalno da hoda. Kad sam je pitala zasto ne jaca tu sposobnost, rekla je: ali kako mogu onda da IM uzimam pare.
Fejkira da ne moze da hoda.
To je primetio cak i moj izdavac, ex fudbalski sudija Boban Knezevic.
Cim bih nekog kog bih srela upoznala s Nevenom, nestajali bi. Osim sto se zarekla u dokumentu koji imam da ce srediti da mi povuku drama s Rastka, posto je “dobra” sa Zoranom Stefanovicem koga je u potaji vredjala i podsticala me da verujem da su svi protiv mene osim nje i da izbacujem kontakte jer je to “GAMAD”, a nas dve cemo ziveti kao prijateljice kao u Svedskoj tako da moja dela zasluzuju medjunarodni proboj, a ne “ove gmazove”, igrala se s mojim mentalnim stanjem jer mi je jako tesko padalo sto sam izolovana, jer sam ljudsko bice.
Vracala je novac, bez naseg insistiranja i onog trenutka kad joj je majka rekla da vrati jos 500 evra i da ne mora da vraca vise, onog dana kad je navodno podigla kredit, prijavila je i mene i moju majku za dugogodisnje maltretiranje i iznudjivanje novca.
Nakon toga sam ostala bez stana zahvaljujuci njoj, a i inace su gazde mojih predjasnjih stanova na njenom fejsbuku, jer je smatrala da moja majka ne ume s novcem i da ce ona resavati odnose sa gazdama oko placanja kirije, placanja racuna, a s obzirom da je poznajem 8 godina, nisam imala nikakvu sumnju. Sve dok ne bi dobili otkaz. Tek tako. A onda vidim gazdu stana na njenom fejsbuku.
Dakle, nakon prijave i izlaska iz stana u Zemunu, nasle smo smestaj u sojenici, blok 45 i bile bez vode i struje 40 dana na 50 stepeni. Imale smo vodu samo zahvaljujuci komsijama. Taj uzas se ne moze opisati mada pokusavam da napisem knjigu.
Potom krece ljudski faktor: prosirili su svoju verziju price, moji dotadasnji preeostali prijatelji su me uz vredjanje napustili.
Podmetala mi je lazne “menadzere” da mi nude poslove, sve za sta bih nasla resenja u vezi objavljivanja, a njoj rekla, srusilo bi se kao kula od karata.
Nermam gde da objavljujem u Srbiji zato sto nisam htela da budem deo mizoginisticke sredine, ksenofobicne i homofobicne.
Istrpela sam verbalno zlostavlje i mobing u klasicnom smislu i od strane knjizevnika.
A narocito im je bolo oci moje poreklo.
Dakle, prestajem, ja, u koju su u sojenickoj noci bila uprta cetiri oka dva vodena pacova, ja koja sam pisala preko trule ograde, ja, mozda Lara Kroft, neko bi rekao – trebalo bi napraviti igricu gde heroina propada gladna kroz trule daske zajedno sa grobnom svecom, jedinim izvorom svetla nocu.
Osudicu vas. Sve. Za pokusaj ubistva.
A Sabini Nore https://www.facebook.com/SabinaNore.artist?fref=ts

pisem sve ovo jer je u srodstvu sa Amrom Sirbegovic, tu Sabinu mi je zapravo dovela Nevena, imam njihovu prepisku, valjda je znala da je Amra na profilu.
I koja je znala, za razliku od mene, da je Sabina Amrina rodjaka.
Sabina mi se prvo dopala, a onda se sasvim lepo uklopila u njihovu igru prethodno iskoristivsi moje pisanje i talenat za svoje fokuse, odnosno slikanje.
Vidimo se u Beogradu, vidimo se u Becu.
A svakako na Sudu.
Izolovati ljudsko bice na 10 godina ravno je pokusaju ubistva.