prose, short story

Boris K. and The Serial Killers, “The Adventures Of Boris K”, Leila Samarrai

Boris K. and The Serial Killers

Boris K. was a good driver. He never had trouble finding a job as a taxi driver for the Republic because in his younger days he drove in Formula One races, though only in amateur competitions sponsored by the Socialists. On one occasion, while lighting a Lucky Strike® cigarette and waiting for riders, he sees two black silhouettes apparating from the dark. They were a man and woman, moving in rhythm and snapping their fingers at exactly the same time, so in sync, their heads appeared conjoined. They ask him for a ride, giving him an unfamiliar address, and Boris K. grudgingly stubs out his cigarette and gets into his cab with the mysterious couple. He puts his hands on the wheel and then looks ahead, focusing on the dashboard where the mobile command center tells him where to go.  He peels out into the street, while glancing in the rearview mirror.  Puzzled, he watches while the man takes off his cap and the woman opens her Louis Vuitton purse so she can check her lipstick.  She opens the tube, revealing a deep violet color, freezes her face, puckers her lips, and begins making circular designs around her nose and face. When she’s done, she turns, revealing her horrific appearance to her man with the spiky hair, à la Hans Holbein, and says:

“Put that cap back on, DAMN you! ”

A second later, she screams:


Startled, Boris K. hits a pot hole and bounces off the seat.

Through the mirror, her gaze momentarily meets with Boris K, who quickly but unsuccessfully averts his eyes to avoid her demonic stare.

“But, honey…”

“Don’t you dare try to talk sweet nothings to me! I should have known that for our fifth year together, you would secretly buy a Louis Vuitton purse for another woman…a Venetian no less!”

“There’s no way in hell I would buy her a Louis Vuitton purse!”

He pauses, “think Aschenbach from Death In Venice!”

“Do you swear it was just a knock off?” she stares him down.

“I swear.” He answers.

The woman cries out violently and slaps him, leaving a red stain on his face.

“I’ll give YOU Death in Venice… Suddenly This Summer!” she yells.

Distracted, Boris K. almost collides with a car coming towards him.

“But you screwed it up. You got it all wrong!” the woman said smugly.

“When I found that purse you had gift wrapped for your lover, I sprinkled anthrax inside the middle pocket so you could watch her die when she opened it!”

The woman laughs demonically as Boris K. feels the seat trembling beneath him.


“I’m used to your murders,” says the man nonchalantly, as he places his cap back on his head and sinks comfortably into the back seat. The woman looks up and subtly lifts her skirt, giving Boris K. a view of her lacy thong from the mirror.  He starts to sweat and averts his gaze once again. The man continues:

“I got over it when you poisoned my dog. I even forgave you for killing my mother. Nothing surprises me anymore. Not even if you slaughtered this taxi driver!”

She smiles at her lover.

“Ah, my dear, you know how it goes…an eye for an eye …

And YOU killed my mother that summer…! ”

“In your house on the Coast of the Cantabrian Sea …” the man finishes her sentence and sighs.

“How romantic that was! We were so happy back then, and now look at us.  We’re two murderers in retirement.”

They turn toward each other wistfully.

“We should just live in the grace of the victims we meet on the road coincidentally. No more careful planning… ”

They smile and embrace each other.

Boris K. feels a quick tightening in his chest. He goes pale from the awareness, feeling fearful and dark. He pulls over to the side of the road, worried he might crash. Suddenly everything goes black. When he wakes up, he feels as if he has left his body and is watching everything unfold from above the seats.  He sees himself lying on his back, eyes closed, while these two killers bring him back to life.

“I think he had a heart attack!” he hears their excited voices overlapping, as if the sound is emerging from the depths of the sea. They appear disfigured, slowed down and distant.

Slowly, like soul threads being wound back onto a spool, he feels himself returning to his lifeless body. As he comes to, he wipes his hand over his sweat-drenched forehead and murmurs:

“The murder … the murder”

As soon as his blurred vision clears, he looks into the worried faces bending over him.

Their long noses seem to be waving back and forth at him. His eyes widen, and a cry breaks from his throat. Suddenly, he feels the water they’re splashing on his face. Boris K, now completely lucid, jumps up quickly to defend himself, while the man and woman reassure him:

“Don’t be afraid. We were just rewriting our dialogue, “says the man.  The woman adds:

“We are writing a series.  It’s called THE WINDSHIELD. These are just our scenes, buddy. If all our scenes are as brilliant as these, we’re sure to be a hit!” With that, they all get back in the car and continue to their destination.  However, Boris K. is too shaken up to drive and he crashes, thus ending his illustrious career as a taxi driver.

poetry, poezija, proza

Angry poems, Recommendation of Nemesis

Hunchbacks, butcher clowns, villains!

With a cloud on their back
Butcher clowns
Regana’s daughters
Who hate my day
And all my mornings
Born from the wound
Of glistening narcissuses
Litter of Lucrecia
You exchanged venoms
Compressed into pitchers
In grinds sweetly
To stain the knife
With ancient cause
It is the artist osculating
He butchered the night
Of silence
And hush
But I will further hear
The eternal echo of my death.


in the hour of celebrated departure
the warriors slumbered.
They breathe out under banners
And bloom in the hollow.
Flowers separate them.
Or are those
Intersected roads,
Time fell asleep
In ambiguities.



They lied to the constellations, and stars
The colorful fireflies with drums on their wings
Hidden inside the flakes of chitin
About the origin of the dinosaur bone and silence of the cosmos

In the image of god by which – they lied about this too!
Pulse the rivers of light
Hypnos weeps, and the tears of ice are a gruesome cure
Weeps on the catafalque of the Queen Kai and Gerda

Eternal Herman watches the game, he will hunt you down
Quickly! Do not say how foxed dreamer does not warn

They lied to me that I am fertile, dreamy and fertile
The mortal mouth of lies bent like a toy
They lied that there are addict giants
On the Cape Verde
And the faces of savages are like an ironing board
The smell of clean laundry is mixed with salt
And the eternal prince with the yellow heraldry of the irises
Circles around their feet

The scalding grip of a lie
How she embraced you
Like some kind of a law is crumbling or
The steadily Nothing is being demolished
Within the inconsolable Truth
The ship is sinking!
Munchhausen pass the gun, you lurid earl
Mammoth killer, you crocodile, you dreadful rhapsody of white
A vixen your mistress Mother – Lie!
Uneasy, work-eaten, strong
Are the poets of your Hell,
On the pyre of the sea drowning like the truth

This is why my laughter is no longer heard,
This is why my womb is pillaged, for
The sea torn from laughter clamors:
“Oh, naïve daughter. . .!”
The sun does not exist
After 25th ideals are dissolved in hydrogen chloride
All the dark and cynical faces
Are the alcoholic dream of the universe
And the gale of everyone’s laughter is the start of a thunder
Make-up is smeared in the circle whose path
Follows the Eternal Beast with its intestines of pickled love

The lied to me that they lie!


You, with a wax masque of a Summer rain, inconstant scatterbrain

Know: the love of fathers is hell on a st(ake)rand!
You, with your limb more stiff than the dogmas of Lucifer.
Who have you forgot to permeate:

The Woman: who is a river ( for she flowed to you)
The Daughter: who is volcanine ( for she burned for you)
The Earth – which swallows you (ultimate mistress)?
You, who are present but not present, Know:

Hate has a heart! The green heart of shot Lorca and wrath of God!
He, alike you:
Does not love!
Does not forgive!
Does not kiss!

To gift the legal age he rapes the Vestales .
Bloodsucker! Anathema! Harpy!
You growl too loud, desert fa(ng)ther.

I know you encircle girls before the door.
I know you flow down their thighs sweaty.
Like unborn milk flows from me to you.
Like chrome sand flows from my eyes instead of tears.
Like thorns grow within my body and not children.
You, who are a corpse in formalin,
the mute vocalist of the torn wire,
the chalice of poison before sleep.


My shadow takes you off the wall,
a wingless bird in the darkness of the room,
will skin the marble face and his smile of a victor!


Even hope at times answers to the mute.
The dug away umbra from the extinguished lantern.

Oh, Burn! Burn!
Flame Pompeii, die in anguish!
May the abandoned children clap their hands!
May the thrilled audience scream of laughter!

Like I . . . Like I who screamed
When Creator waded over me with words:
Maasalam*, my Child! Maasalam!

*ma’a salama good-bye in Arabic


Recommendation of Nemesis

We met by the reflection of the eyes,
Echoed the enamored god
Like Echo mortally in love with pretty Narcissus,
The future suicide from who will grow
The flower and myth of sin with oneself.

With oneself I found that:
My mouth is sutured
My hands mourning songs without masochistic pleasures.
Do you seek within her the aesthetic artistic utterance with truth and freedom?
Or merely an attempt to put things in their real place.
I knew I shall say the monstrous everything or I will say nothing.

(The Minotaur of Tales)
Kill her!
May the sword taste her stomach and breasts
After your fingers and face!
Kill her, and do not mourn her!

It is a gamble, card playing,
A splendid, glorious and retched plea,
To disclose and discover the flaming blade.

(Joan of Ark)
Stab her!
Stab her with a spear!
Remember the dungeons and betrayals!
Remembrance is death for repentance!

We met at one of the impossible places,
We were a pair of unforeseen miracles.
It was a gift, a curse and futility.
Where the glance hits both the one and the other.
The glance that brings and takes away.

The abyss among people laughs in the faces of those who give away their deepest thoughts
Or the histories of loved beings. At the end, a tatter thrown to the road is left.
A fable interesting to none, the secret in the service of the one who scares and enchants.
Will our great freedom and intrepidity judge us out of most noble incentives?
Will our anxieties, the magnificent relics with brutal renditions, whirl in other letters?

Monstrous legislations are governing people and the black hour chokes within us
Both the thinker and the emotive man.
Wrapped in black atmosphere, we buckle , grow pale, the throat spreads its limits
And fear sprouts outside with words attacked by assumptions
And the horrible remembrances followed by cruel pain, self pity and remorse.

(Shepherd Henry Roberts of Salem)
Burn the witch!
Hair by hair let her burn!
May she scream helpless!

Without the strength to continue the letter,
Stumbled by the free to:
Say more!
Say faster!
(necessarily trivial)
I wish to sing
The way it should be or should never.

(Recommendation of Nemesis)
Kill the heart memento
Pertaining to the mocking bird!

She (it) is the boil in my stomach,
She eats it and minces it, destroys
The nightmare from which you cannot awaken by anything except walking and sleepwalking,
While she climbs to heights with a view to the Precipice,
That fills the eyes of the caught sleeper with horror.

(Poe’s recommendation)
Kill her in her own vomit
Without right for mesmerization.

Confession at 3.33

I confess to you, I of an unusual nature,
And all the kingdoms I offer to you- plain.

Lying tongues- orators and benefactors
The first one is of giants of song as of hay,
Through games of ancient history they peck on the intestines
Filled with the substance of nasty virtue,
With fruitful mouths they drink the wines.

Serpents hiss with human tongues…
The orator is amidst the ball and casts off damnations… with love.


Washerwomen wash the shores for incessant feasts,
For the water trough of the early morning peacock.

Tigers roar- damned by the fables-
To washerwomen, for labours sake, and the dishes plentiful
Fools drink the honorable regal wines.

Casanovas, drunks, erotomen and everybody’s merry Big Brother
Far less then geniuses
Who lead the fools
With fornication, cunningness and booze
To hidden thoughts.

Scared dogs.
Skilled at stuffing bones.

I raise my right hand and swear on the darkness of
With an unburdened mind and a truth in my heart
Within the light dewy with the ability of
Your knife cut through all the conditions of disorder.
It’s entirely safe in my hands.

With a frozen smile,
I walk through the fall
Of a zillion kingdoms.
Flags are waving and ships are sailing underneath the sky
Of a broken magnificence.
After years of absence
Colored in oddity,
I stay…
To guard them while drowning in tears

Of my Arabian wrath.