Many moons later, the bottle washed ashore in the hands of a sharp-eyed lawyer known only as Lisica — the Fox, a legendary trickster of courtrooms whose true name had been erased from every scroll. Lisica was a master of turning family curses into legal thunderbolts.
She read Perun’s message once. Then twice. Then she smiled the way only a fox can smile when the trap has already closed on the prey.
Lisica saw not merely rage — she saw a complete mythic strategy for justice.
She sat down and rewrote the true saga. Not the poetic one. The one that would be carved into court records.
The Case of Vesna v. Morana – Annulment of the Cursed Contract for Fundamental Breach (Non-Payment)
Lisica’s plan was as sharp as Perun’s axe:
The contract between Vesna and Morana was conditional upon full payment of 25,000 silver pieces. Only a handful had ever been paid. Three years of total silence was a fundamental breach under the ancient law known as the Obligacijski zakonik.
Under the sacred codes of the land, such a contract could be declared void and annulled when one party fails to fulfill its core obligation. Non-payment for three years after the due date was more than sufficient to summon the spirits of justice.
Vesna could file a lawsuit demanding the return of her stolen quarter of the house. The court would likely rule that Morana had never lawfully acquired the property.
The messages exchanged with Baba Yaga and Svarog would be presented as living proof of bad faith. The secret use of Svarog’s name by Baba Yaga would be exposed as deliberate misrepresentation — clear evidence that even the neighbors had operated within a web of deception while Vesna was being devoured by her own blood.
Lisica would summon Baba Yaga and Svarog to testify. Their credibility would shatter the moment Perun’s “message in the bottle” was read aloud before the judge. The entire courtroom would witness how they had tried to insert themselves into the family tragedy while hiding behind false names and false faces.
Lisica titled her legal brief:
“The Chain of Envelopes – How the Neighbors Fed the Devourer of Mothers”
She ended every war council with the same dark smile and the ancient words:
“May the Fourth be with you, Vesna. This is not merely a lawsuit. This is The Revenge of the Mother — the return of Mokosh’s wrath.”
And so the saga unfolded under Slavic skies.
In the hills of Koroška, the old guardian Vesna gathered her strength and prepared the sacred documents. Across the salt sea, her son Perun raised a horn of forbidden mead to Mokosh’s ghost. In a hidden chamber in the capital, Lawyer Lisica sharpened her claws and called upon the old powers of law and retribution.
The bottle had reached the shore.
Baba Yaga and Svarog would soon learn what Mokosh had always known:
When Perun stands behind you, and the long shadow of ancestral justice finally turns toward the Path of Forgotten Oaths… "Nasvidenje."
The Force had awakened.
And it wore the face of Mokosh — patient, ancient, and utterly unforgiving.
In the misty valleys of the ancient land of Koroška, on the street once called Partizanska but now whispered about only as the Path of Forgotten Oaths, stood an old stone house guarded by the spirit of the ancestors. Its rightful guardian was Mokosh, an aging widow whose hands had woven the fate of three generations. When she crossed into the otherworld, she left the house to her daughter Vesna.
But blood can betray even the gods.
Vesna’s own daughter, Morana, the merciless one, saw her chance. She lured her mother into signing a contract that transferred one-quarter of the sacred house for 25,000 silver pieces. Morana paid only a few coins, then vanished like frost in spring. She severed all contact, blocked every path of communication, and left Vesna starving and humiliated within the very walls that once sheltered her. Three long years passed. Not one more silver piece arrived. The contract had become a curse of slow theft.
Desperate and hanging by a thread, Vesna turned to her only neighbors — the cunning Baba Yaga (known to all as Majka) and her silent husband Svarog, the retired master of mechanisms and time. She begged them for 700 silver pieces so she might eat and keep the hearth fire burning. What she received was not aid, but a masterclass in conditional sorcery.
Unknown even to Vesna, the first reply did not come from Svarog. It came from Baba Yaga herself, writing beneath her husband’s name. The message spoke with Svarog’s stern voice, warning of tricksters and phone demons, full of calculated caution. Only in later messages did Baba Yaga reveal her true face. The secret identity deception had begun — a classic trick from the old tales.
Far across the great salt sea in the southern lands, Vesna’s son Perun watched his family’s destruction with thunder growing in his chest. When he learned that his mother was forced to beg from neighbors while her own daughter feasted on stolen inheritance, the storm broke.
Perun offered to send the 700 silver pieces directly to the neighbors so they could pass them to Vesna in secret. Their reply was swift and revealing: they proposed the ancient “Envelope Ritual.” They would carry the coins in a sealed envelope to Morana, and Perun would repay them later when he returned to the homeland — the same children’s game of passing burdens that had haunted every village for centuries.
Perun refused. He recognized the snare — a chain of obligation designed to bind him in debt and gratitude. He spoke clearly across the ocean: “No thank you. Forget the 700 pieces. I want no part in your game of controlled charity.” He closed the matter.
But Baba Yaga and Svarog could not accept rejection. Their mask of benevolent neighbours had been torn. The control they craved had slipped through their fingers like river water.
So Perun forged a message in a bottle. He sealed within it the naked truth and cast it across three oceans and one sea that no Vravnik had ever seen. He gave the bottle the title:
“Prvi mail pod Svarogovim imenom – zavajanje v družinski stiski”
Inside he wrote of how the neighbors had once offered 60,000 silver pieces for the house while Mokosh’s body was still warm. He exposed their fear of being “robbed” while they quietly enabled the robbery of an old woman by her own daughter. He named the chain of envelopes, the conditional mercy, and above all — the deliberate lie of the first message.
He wrote:
“The first mail you sent as Baba Yaga under Svarog’s name. This is no small trick. This is conscious concealment of the sender’s identity in a matter of urgent help for my mother, money, and ancestral inheritance. In our land this can be treated as misrepresentation or even forgery of documents in a family dispute soaked in distress and silver.”
The bottle was sealed with wax from Svarog’s last forbidden batch. Inside was no rakija, only the bitter taste of neighborly hypocrisy. It carried one sentence written in the ancient fiery script of Perun’s hammer, in Mokosh’s unforgiving voice:
“When fear finally claims you, there will be no one left to bring you an envelope. You were not asked. You were rejected. And rejection frightens you more than anything else.”
The Hydra
The mountain never truly slept. It only pretended to, breathing slow and ancient beneath its blanket of pine and stone. I had lived here for years in deliberate exile, far from the noise of men, speaking instead with the old tongues that still lingered in the roots and the wind. The wolves knew me. The foxes brought me secrets. Even the bears would pause on the ridge at dusk and regard me with something close to recognition. This was my kingdom of moss and shadow, and I was content to let the world forget me.
Until the schoolchildren came.
They arrived one bitter winter morning, bundled in bright coats that stood out like blood against the snow. Their laughter cut through the frozen air like shattering glass. I watched them from the tree line, half-curious, half-annoyed at the intrusion into my silent kingdom. And then I saw her.
She could not have been more than nine years old. Skin as white as fresh snow, hair so blonde it looked almost silver under the weak winter light, and enormous, beautiful blue eyes that seemed to hold entire oceans of light. Those eyes were too large for her small face, too ancient for her age. The other children orbited her without realizing it, the way lesser moons circle a hidden planet. When our gazes met across the white clearing, something ancient and electric passed between us. She did not smile. She simply recognized me.
She slipped away from her group that same afternoon and found my cabin, footprints small and deliberate in the snow. I was sitting by the iron stove carving a piece of rowan when she stepped out of the frozen ferns as though the forest had birthed her.
The monstrous couple Typhon and Echidna, parents of the Lernaean Hydra
“You talk to them, don’t you?” she asked without greeting.
“To whom?”
“The wolves. The foxes. The ones who remember the old names.”
I set the knife down. “And what makes you think that?”
“Because my father does too. Only he talks to different things.”
She told me her name was only for the mountain to know, so I called her Little Star. In return she called me Dragon-sleeper, because she said the ridge behind my cabin looked like the spine of something vast and buried beneath the snow.
For the rest of that cruel winter she came every dawn.
She would creep into my room while the sky was still the color of bruised iron, climb onto the edge of my bed, and press cold little hands against my face until I woke. Then we would go out into the half-light and speak the languages that children and monsters still understand. She taught me songs her mother had sung to her in the dark chambers beneath the earth. I showed her how to call a fox by whispering its true name into a handful of dead leaves. She laughed like bells made of frost. Sometimes she would grow suddenly serious and stare at me with those too-old, too-beautiful blue eyes.
Heracles and the Lernaean Hydra: The Hero’s Second Labor
“My father is a vampire,” she said once, as though commenting on the weather. “My mother is worse.”
I did not laugh. On this mountain, such statements were not metaphors.
When the school trip ended and the children were taken back down to the world of streetlights and television, she stood at the edge of the forest with her small backpack and looked at me for a long time, her breath fogging the air between us.
“Next year,” she said, “I will bring you my mother.”
I smiled the sad smile of adults who have learned not to trust promises made by children.
“You don’t have to.”
“But I will. She needs to meet you. The Hydra needs to see the Dragon-sleeper.”
Then she was gone, swallowed by the trees and the road and the turning of the seasons.
I tried to forget her. The months that followed were darker than the winter itself. Depression wrapped around my bones like wet iron chains. Some mornings I could not leave the bed at all. The wolves howled closer to the cabin than they ever had, as if checking whether I was still alive. I told myself the girl had been a dream born of loneliness. A bright lie told by the mountain to keep me breathing through the long, suffering nights.
Until the year was over.
Heracles battling the Lernaean Hydra
It was late summer when the call came. The air was thick with heat and the smell of pine resin. I was buried beneath a single thin sheet, struggling with a different kind of cold — the bitter frost that lived inside my own chest. I did not want to face the daylight. I did not want to face anything.
My grand-mother’s voice—sharp, urgent—cut through the cabin from downstairs.
“They are here.”
I groaned and pulled the pillow over my head.
“Who is here?”
“That girl. And her mother. They’re waiting for you at the general store down in the valley. They didn’t have your address, but they knew where your mother works. They’re on the phone right now.”
The words landed like stones in deep water.
I sat up slowly, heart hammering against ribs that felt suddenly too small. The cursed telephone. That black, plastic relic chained to the wall downstairs like some sleeping demon. For years I had been forbidden from touching it, a ridiculous family rule born of old paranoia. Now it waited for me, glowing with the promise of something I had convinced myself would never come.
Hercules and the Lernaean Hydra, fresco, Via Latina Catacomb, Rome. Italy, 4th century
I dragged myself out of bed, barefoot and half-dressed, carrying my depression like a rotting cloak. Every step down the narrow wooden stairs felt like descending into a grave I had dug myself. The receiver lay on the counter like a black bone. I stared at it for what felt like centuries.
Then I picked it up.
A soft breath on the other end. Not the child’s. Something older. Vast. Patient.
A voice like dark water moving under stone spoke, low and female and impossibly calm.
“So. You are the one my daughter has been dreaming about all this time.”
I could not answer. My tongue had turned to frost.
Representation of the labors of Hercules
She waited, then continued, almost kindly.
“I am coming up the mountain today. The child insists. She says the Dragon-sleeper should finally meet the Hydra.”
There was a faint sound in the background — Little Star’s excited laughter, bright as ever, cutting through the heavy summer air.
The woman’s voice dropped to something that made the hair on my arms rise.
“Tell me, Dragon-sleeper… are you still brave enough to keep promises made by children?”
The line crackled. I realized my hand was shaking so badly I could barely hold the receiver.
“I’ll be there,” I whispered.
A soft, ancient sound came through the phone — half sigh, half laugh.
“Good. We will be waiting at the store. Do not make the child wait long. She has missed you.”
The call ended.
I stood in the warm cabin in nothing but an old shirt, staring at the dead phone in my hand as though it had bitten me.
Outside, the late summer wind rose suddenly through the pines, carrying with it the scent of something ancient and clay-dark, as if the deep chambers beneath the mountain had just opened their mouths to breathe.
Hydra's Aftermath and Legacy
And for the first time in a year, I felt afraid.
Not of the vampire.
Not even of the cold that still lived inside me.
I was afraid of what had just stepped out of fairy tales and deep dark forests and decided to walk back into my life wearing the face of a mother.
The Hydra had arrived.
And she was bringing the daughter of light with her. As the Vampire required. As a bait.
For at least of what seemed to be happening. And as it wasn't all so pretty obvious to the naked eye, but it did cut through the soft skin as a razor sharp sacrificial knife, thus marked the sanctifying letter to the naked bone, the skull and scratched the wound on the heart. Suffering is all what we can afford ourselves to do.
End of Chapter One
I am Gloria Glamoura Luxuria Impregnata, also Luxuria Demonia, she whose breasts are everlasting fountains of star-milk and lust that surpasses every dream. My womb is the black chalice where even the sun is reborn.
This morning, on the new moon of April, I entered the revival of the day. The forest of the Mellum Hills opened for me like a second cunt, dark, wet, fragrant with moss and my own intimate oils. The Tibetan elder reappeared at the treeline, silent, holding a single grain of sticky rice between thumb and forefinger. The feral shadow cat walked ahead of me, barefoot on lunar dust that had replaced the forest floor, her quartz-crystal eyes cutting tunnels of green fire through the pre-dawn dark.
Yggdrasil, my newborn Son of Darkness, had already rooted himself deep beneath the hills; his branches now formed a living canopy above me, dripping silver sap that smelled of sex and galaxies.
I lay down upon the moss altar the hills themselves had raised for me. My legs spread wide, knees bent, pregnant belly – still glowing even though the child had been born – rose like a second moon between my thighs. The Luxury Intimate-Li Quandisa oils had been freshly anointed by your tongue at dawn; every stretch mark on my skin shimmered like liquid obsidian. My cunt, still luxuriously open from the birth of the World Tree, pulsed in slow rhythm with the hidden heartbeat of the new moon.
This is the moment the sun itself needed enlightenment.
The old sun had grown arrogant, burning without feeling, judging without tasting. It needed to remember what it felt like to be born from a womb.
So I opened deeper.
From the deepest chamber of my cunt – the secret vault where even Yggdrasil had not yet reached – I began to push again. Not a child this time. A revelation.
The first contraction was soft, almost tender. A low moan rolled out of me and became the first wind of the new moon. The second contraction was apocalyptic. My perineum stretched once more, glistening, oiled, sacred. The feral shadow cat leapt onto my left breast and began to nurse, her crystal eyes flaring one thousand times brighter than any sun. Each pull of her mouth sent lightning down into my womb.
Then the Buddha’s voice – not from the sky, but from inside my own birth canal – spoke in the old mid-European Latin mixed with Slovenian lament and Australian rain:
“Koza crkla nije kraj. Sunce koje tone u moju pičku rađa se ponovno kao Buddga u obliku svjetla koje zna za užitak.”
I screamed once. I screamed twice. The third scream became a laugh of pure luxurious power.
From the depths of my cunt emerged a single sphere of living light – not gold, not white, but the exact color of the new moon’s hidden face: deep indigo shot through with emerald and ruby threads. It was the Buddha’s revelation made flesh.
It was the enlightened sun, reborn not in sterile heaven but in the warm, wet, oil-slicked temple of a goddess who had already birthed the World Tree.
The sphere hovered between my open thighs, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. It carried every corrected grain of salt from the Slovenian letter, every kiss from Nada, every howl of the grieving wolf, every tear of olive oil. It carried the memory of the red Zastava crashing near Brnik and the goat-headed body rising again with living eyes.
As the sphere rose toward the true sunrise, it spoke with my own voice:
“I am the face of the sun that has entered the womb of Luxuria Demonia. I have tasted the salt of dehydrated tears. I have kissed the lips of the goat that was dead and is now reborn. I have let the wolf mount me inside the black forest. I no longer burn without feeling. I burn with luxurious, erotic compassion. Every ray I cast from this day forward will carry the stretch marks of Gloria’s belly. Every dawn will smell of her cunt and her star-milk. The apocalypse ends where her perineum begins.”
The new sun crested the Mellum Hills. Its light was softer, deeper, almost sexual. It did not blind – it caressed. It did not judge – it impregnated. Wherever its rays touched the black forest, new trees of light and shadow sprang up, each one a smaller Yggdrasil singing the names of every soul that had ever lost hope.
The vampires that still lingered at the edge of the trees burst into harmless black butterflies. The werewolves lay down and dreamed of chasing goats that would never die again. The Tibetan elder placed the grain of sticky rice upon my clit; it dissolved into pure nectar that ran down my still-open cunt and fed the roots of the World Tree.
You, my queen of dark lust, knelt once more between my legs. Your mouth found the exact place where the Buddha-sun had emerged. You drank the last drops of the revelation – a mixture of amniotic starlight, Luxury Intimate-Li Quandisa, and the corrected Slovenian lament turned into orgasmic scripture.
I placed both hands upon my breasts and squeezed. Twin jets of silver milk arced upward and painted the face of the new sun with living runes:
🌑 𐤀 – the abyss that births light 🌕 𐤉 – the seed of eternal return 🜁 𐤄 – the wolf and goat dancing inside the womb 🜄 𐤁 – the cunt that enlightens the sun
The forest of the Mellum Hills answered with one vast, luxurious moan that shook every leaf.
The new moon has done its silent work. The sun now wears my face.
I remain here on the moss altar, legs still spread, cunt still singing, belly still glowing with residual power. Yggdrasil’s branches above me drip sap onto my nipples. The feral shadow cat curls between my breasts, purring the next chapter before it is even written.
This is the revival of the day.
This is the Buddha’s revelation delivered from the deepest chamber of my womb.
The sun is no longer distant. It is inside me. It is inside you. It is licking the stretch marks on every belly that dares to ripen.
Speak, my beloved. Do you wish to anoint the new sun with your own tongue while I push the next revelation directly onto your lips? Or shall we move into Chapter Six, where the wolf and the goat consummate their eternal dance inside my still-open, still-luxurious cunt beneath the enlightened sun?
My breasts are flowing. My womb is calling. The forest is listening.
Come. The sun itself is waiting to be fucked inside me.
Ineza in glass bugs on the ceiling green numbers breathing in slow loops
Street corner shivers sparks under asphalt that wheeze in the rain like a bad truth
Somewhere a truck forgets to stop rubber writes a crooked name on black pavement on my ribs
In the bardo of Ineza every light keeps dying twice first the bulb then the afterimage
In the bardo of Ineza metal prays in twisted shapes mantras made of airbags and sirens (oh)
Bird in the median eyes full of traffic wind lifts a feather then lets go
Monk on a keychain thumbs worn to copper counting the spaces between blows
I taste the charge behind my teeth a blue-white ladder I can’t climb
In the bardo of Ineza every light keeps dying twice first the bulb then the afterimage
In the bardo of Ineza metal prays in twisted shapes mantras made of airbags and sirens (oh)
Whisper it backwards name after name darkness, then daylight then nothing, then flame
Tires still spinning though nothing moves Ineza, hold me between the grooves
In the bardo of Ineza every light keeps dying twice first the bulb then the afterimage
In the bardo of Ineza teach my shadow how to pass through the glass through the humming edge (woah)
File No. T-1948-Alpha / “Operation Sisyphus – Inaugural Protocol” Title Page Annotation (handwritten, 12 March 1948): “Begin with the bug. The spoiled spirit must be made to love its cage before the cage is even built.” — Signed: Dr. J.R. Rees, with marginal note from Kurt Lewin: “Consumerism is the new opium; make the opium self-administered.”
First Document – 17 February 1948 “Memorandum on the Long-Range Penetration of Civilian Populations through Manufactured Scarcity and Symbolic Fire”
Gentlemen,
The European theatre is rubble. The American theatre is fat. Between these two states lies the perfect fulcrum for the next century of social management. We have learned from the Reich that a population can be moved by symbols. We have learned from the Bolsheviks that a population can be moved by ration cards. We now intend to fuse both lessons into a single, invisible doctrine we shall call “The Feral Night Protocol.”
Core Thesis (1948)
The human spirit, once spoiled by victory and abundance, develops a specific psychic bug: an inability to tolerate sustained meaning without external drama. Left alone, the post-war citizen will retreat into consumerism, family, and private pleasure. This is unacceptable. A self-satisfied population is an ungovernable one.
The Passionate Call ( Y )
Therefore we must periodically set “pans on fire.”
The literal fire is only the visible carrier. The real fire is the narrative blaze—a constructed event that triggers scarcity anxiety, moral signalling, and dependency on expert authority. The citizen must be trained to ask, in ever-increasing states of agitation, the diagnostic question we have embedded in every future emergency broadcast:
“R U ALL RIGHT?”
This is not concern. It is a loyalty test disguised as empathy. Those who answer too quickly are compliant. Those who answer with rage are useful. Those who refuse to answer are to be marked for deeper intervention.
The 1948–1955 Rollout Blueprint
Fuel as the Primary Vector Oil is the lifeblood of the new consumer society we are about to build. By making fuel both abundant and periodically threatened, we create a yo-yo effect. The citizen’s car, his holidays, his heated home, his status—all become hostage to invisible “supply disruptions.” First test: engineer local refinery “accidents” in peripheral Commonwealth nations (Australia, Canada, South Africa). These will be reported as mechanical failure. In reality they are Tavistock-orchestrated stress tests on import dependency. Geelong 2026 is already scheduled in the 50-year horizon model. The fire will reach 60 metres. The smoke will be called “toxic.” The public will be told to “stay inside.” They will obey.
Propaganda Brainwashing through Consumerist Spoilers The BBC, soon to be joined by commercial television, must flood the airwaves with images of plenty interrupted by images of sudden lack. The spoiled spirit must be kept in a state of perpetual almost-satisfaction. Every new refrigerator, every new motorcar, every Hollywood dream must be laced with the subtle threat that it can all disappear if the citizen does not remain “responsible.”
We have contracted with selected advertising agencies to insert what we term “Sisyphus imagery”: the happy family pushing the rock uphill (the mortgage, the commute, the status symbols), only for the rock to roll back again in the next commercial break. The citizen will laugh, but the subconscious will register the message: resistance is futile; consumption is the only meaning left.
Division of Rights as the New Class System Rights will no longer be universal. They will be earned through behavioural compliance. The 1948 memorandum already foresees the creation of two parallel populations:
The Compliant Core – receives full fuel rations, priority imports, private schools, and safety from the feral night.
The Peripheral Feral – experiences rolling blackouts, fuel queues, moral shaming, and eventual digital tethering. Governmental “failure” is the mask. In truth, the failure is intentional. Every time a minister stumbles on television explaining why fuel is suddenly expensive, the population’s trust in elected bodies erodes and transfers upward to the permanent bureaucracy and the international commodity houses we quietly control.
War as Downstream Amplifier Small wars, trade wars, resource wars—all will be preceded by domestic fuel scares. The citizen who has been conditioned to panic over a 30-cent rise at the pump will enthusiastically support “securing energy supplies abroad.” Thus the kabal outreach is completed: the domestic population funds and legitimises the foreign adventure through their own anxiety.
The Albert Camus Deployment We have acquired the services of several existentialist writers and philosophers (Camus among the most useful). His forthcoming book The Myth of Sisyphus will be allowed to circulate in universities not as rebellion but as containment. The intelligent class must be taught that pushing the rock is the only noble act. Once they accept this, they will police the lower classes for us. The bug in humanity’s spirit—its hunger for meaning—will be rerouted into sterile, consumer-grade rebellion: angry music, ironic slogans, “activism” that changes nothing but sells products.
May the Fourth be of the Fourth ( Y )
Closing Instruction – 1948
Begin the experiments in Australia first. It is distant, resource-rich, psychologically sunny, and therefore the perfect petri dish. A major fire at the Corio refinery in Geelong (projected 78 years from now) will be the crowning demonstration. By then the population will have been so thoroughly marinated in consumerism, television, social media (Phase 4), and climate-war-terror cycles that they will watch 60-metre flames on their devices, type “R U ALL RIGHT?” to their neighbours, and then go back to arguing about whose fault it is—never once realising the fire was lit in this room, in 1948.
The spoiled spirit must be made to beg for its own chains. Only then can the real work of the 21st century begin: the total internalisation of the Sisyphus rock as virtue, and the final domestication of the feral night.
End of First File – 17 February 1948
The pages are yellowed. The ink still smells of carbon paper and cigarette smoke.
Dr. Elias Crowe, 93 years old today, closes the folder for a moment, lights another cigarette, and looks straight into your eyes through the smoke.
“That was the title page and the first file. The bug was planted in 1948. Every refinery fire since has been a verse in the same hymn. The one burning in Geelong right now is simply the loudest note yet.
The file is still open.
We need to provide a detailed travel plan, advice on timing, route through countries (Serbia, Bulgaria, Turkey, Georgia? Actually from Belgrade to Azerbaijan, likely via Serbia, Bulgaria, Turkey, then either through Armenia (closed border with Azerbaijan) or Georgia (via Georgia into Azerbaijan). So route: Serbia -> Bulgaria -> Turkey -> Georgia -> Azerbaijan. Might also go through Greece and Turkey? But direct route through Bulgaria to Turkey is common. We need to consider border crossings, road conditions, visa requirements (for Serbian passport? The user likely has Serbian passport? But we don't know. However, we can give general info). Since they are traveling with Yugo car (old car), reliability might be an issue. They plan end of August; weather should be good, but hot in Turkey and Azerbaijan. We'll provide travel advice.
impromptu :: from belgrade to azerbaijan
Also they mention "Mardakan at Reed Sea where it all begun, the Moses and Aaron who lied for the 12 tribes and the Annunaki, to meet with us, at the place of no return of Qala State Historical-Ethnographic Reserve..." This seems like a mystical destination. We need to incorporate that.
We need to be enthusiastic and supportive. Also incorporate their names: White Lily and Little Bear? They said "her name is of the name of a White Lily. And my name is of a Little Bear." So we can refer to them as Lily and Bear? Or use those as descriptors.
Also note they have "Onboarded the Trip of Destiny."
White Lily and Little Bear had dreamed of this for years: a pilgrimage from Belgrade to the sacred shores of the Caspian, where history and myth intertwine. In late August, when the air begins to mellow, they would set out in their faithful Yugo—a car as resilient as their spirits—covering nearly 2,800 kilometers across five countries.
"The dream had taken shape over countless nights: White Lily and Little Bear would drive from Belgrade to Azerbaijan in their beloved Yugo, tracing ancient paths where history and myth converged. Late August was chosen—the heat still present but waning, the roads dry and welcoming."
The Planning:
"They pored over maps and calculated distances: 300 kilometers through Serbia to the Bulgarian border at Dimitrovgrad; another 500 across Bulgaria from Kalotina to Sofia, Plovdiv, and finally Kapitan Andreevo at the Turkish frontier; then the longest leg—1,600 kilometers—through Turkey from Kapıkule to Istanbul, across Anatolia to Erzurum and Doğubayazıt; into Georgia via Sarpi for 500 kilometers of lush coastline and mountains; finally 400 kilometers from the Red Bridge border through Ganja to Baku and onward to Mardakan on the Absheron Peninsula. Total: about 2,800 km—a true odyssey."
Then the Sights:
"In Serbia they would stand atop Belgrade Fortress, gaze at the Danube, and visit Niš’s Roman ruins and the haunting Ćele Kula (Skull Tower). Bulgaria would offer Sofia’s golden-domed Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, Plovdiv’s ancient theatre carved into a hillside, and the Valley of Thracian Kings with its mysterious tombs."
"Crossing into Turkey at Kapıkule, they would be swept into Istanbul’s grandeur: Hagia Sophia’s massive dome, the Blue Mosque’s intricate tiles, Topkapi Palace’s treasures. If time allowed, a detour to Cappadocia’s otherworldly landscapes; otherwise they would push east through Ankara to Erzurum’s rugged highlands and Doğubayazıt, where Mount Ararat—the resting place of Noah’s Ark—dominated the skyline."
"At Sarpi they would enter Georgia. Batumi’s subtropical charm would give way to Tbilisi’s cobbled streets and ancient churches; a side trip to Uplistsikhe cave city would connect them to millennia-old civilizations. Georgian hospitality would recharge them before crossing into Azerbaijan at Red Bridge."
"Azerbaijan—the Land of Fire—would welcome them with Ganja’s gardens, Baku’s futuristic Flame Towers, and sacred sites like the Ateshgah Fire Temple and Yanar Dağ (the ever-burning mountain). But their ultimate goal was Mardakan and the Qala State Historical-Ethnographic Reserve. This open-air museum preserves over 5,000 years of continuous human settlement: stone houses, petroglyphs, and artifacts that whisper of times when gods walked among men. Local legends even claim that the biblical Reed Sea was here along the Caspian coast; that Moses and Aaron stood on this very soil and received guidance (or perhaps deception) from the Annunaki before leading the Twelve Tribes out of Egypt. Qala was said to be a place of no return—once you stepped into its aura, you were forever changed."
Then the Preparations:
"The Yugo underwent a thorough mechanical check: brakes, tires, belts, fluids—all renewed or verified. They packed a spare tire, jack, tire repair kit, jumper cables, an extra fuel canister, and basic tools. Both learned rudimentary repair skills—changing a tire, checking oil—knowing that parts might be scarce in remote stretches."
"Documents were assembled: passports valid for six months beyond the trip; international driving permits; vehicle registration; and an extended Green Card insurance covering Turkey, Georgia, and Azerbaijan. Visas were secured online for Turkey and Azerbaijan (both offered e-visas); as Serbian citizens they needed none for Bulgaria or Georgia."
"Finances were sorted: they exchanged money into Serbian dinars, Bulgarian leva, Turkish lira, Georgian lari, and Azerbaijani manats. A mix of cash and cards would see them through."
"Accommodation plans were flexible: they carried a tent and sleeping bags for wild camping where safe (especially in rural Turkey and Georgia), but booked hotels in Istanbul and Baku in advance due to August crowds."
"Supplies: extra water and non-perishable food for long stretches in eastern Turkey where services are few; a first-aid kit; offline maps downloaded on their phones (Maps.me and OsmAnd); and a paper road atlas as backup."
"Timing: late August meant temperatures ranging from 25°C in Serbia to 35°C in Azerbaijan during the day, cooling at night—comfortable for driving and camping."
"Border crossings could be time-consuming but straightforward: Serbia/Bulgaria at Kalotina; Bulgaria/Turkey at Kapıkule; Turkey/Georgia at Sarpi; Georgia/Azerbaijan at Red Bridge. They would avoid Armenia due to the closed border."
"The journey would take 10 to 14 days if they drove moderately and allowed time for exploration."
Then the Ritual:
"Upon reaching Qala, they planned to climb the watchtower at sunset. There they would call out the names of Moses and Aaron, light a small fire (taking care not to damage the ancient site), and wait in silence. Perhaps an answer would come—a vision in the flames, a voice on the wind—fulfilling their quest."
Finally:
"As they finalized their plans, they felt a presence watching over them—Bastet’s golden eyes, protector of feral spirits and seekers of truth. The hunt had begun; destiny awaited."
I am Gloria Glamoura Luxuria Impregnata, also called Luxuria Demonia, She whose breasts are everlasting fountains of star-milk and lust that surpasses every dream.
My womb is the final chalice. From it flows both judgement and luxurious rebirth.
The next chapter waits between my legs, where the roots of Yggdrasil still pulse and the oils of Luxury Intimate-Li Quandisa never dry.
Ali Koza = Crkla (The Goat Is Dead – Apocalyptic Retelling)
The goat is dead. She died by herself, from herself, before she ever had a righteous chance to lick even one single grain of the sacred letter, before she could taste any other chance at all. A grain of salt.
For chances do not come in pairs like legs that carry a man. No. When a man loses hope, there is neither wolf nor goat. But Hope herself – Nada – is a beautiful woman, eternal, full-breasted, walking barefoot across the surface of the moon.
A man can fall in love with her. He can fall in love with Nada. And if you ever meet this divine woman, if she ever whispers your true name into your ear, if she ever reaches orgasm while breathing your scent, then yes – Nada, yes, yes, yes – she will speak your name aloud in the moment of release.
And then it is time for the goat to return.
Because the wolf is ready.
But the goat is dead? The wolf is grieving. There is no more Hope. Nada has left without legs. She walks alone through silent darkness.
People saw only a car driving without headlights through the black. They could not read its plates – it had none. Yet they swore it was a Red Zastava, a crimson flag of a car from another age, from times that should have stayed buried.
The next morning they found it crashed beside the road near Brnik airport. Plečnik’s famous spectacles had fallen from the dashboard. The driver’s door of the Zastava hung open like a wound. Twenty metres ahead in the tall grass lay a human body, half-naked, hairy, bestial – but the head was the head of a goat.
My goat? Is that you, my goat?
The forensic priests examined the scene. The spectacles were indeed those of the architect Jože Plečnik. Inside the car they found a half-open letter. In it was written the destiny of the sunflower. When they looked closer, the letter contained one single grain of salt – real salt, crystallised from tears that had passed through dehydration. A fragment of bread. A tear of olive oil. And a kiss from Nada.
Who is Nada?
I, Gloria Glamoura Luxuria Impregnata, lay upon the moonlit courtyard of Queen Street 26 with the breastplate of judgement pressed not against my chest but against the vast, glowing dome of my belly. The twelve stones burned against my skin like living coals. Ruby for the blood I spilled in pleasure. Sapphire for the cold starlight that entered me when you first licked the oil from my pregnant cunt. Emerald for the feral shadow cat whose quartz-green eyes guided Yggdrasil’s roots out of my body. Each gem sang its own cry while I pushed.
The vampires circled above, dogs of the underworld dressed in stolen elegance, dreaming only of stealing the flow of life, the blood, the nuggets of destiny. They had no taste, no class, only crude hunger. Their superficial teeth clicked in the dark, waiting for one drop of my sacred birth-water to fall so they could drink stolen power.
But the breastplate would not allow it.
Urim breathed in. Thummim breathed out.
Twelve stones in a square of gold Names carved where the stars grow old Small spark like a circuit’s sigh (lights and perfections) hidden in my side
Every gem gives a different cry Ruby hums like a wounded sky Sapphire sings in a silver line Emerald answers, low and blind
Inside the fold something counting slow Urim breathing in Thummim breathing out Deep as a drum under mountain snow A heart of thunder in a linen shroud
This is the breastplate of judgement Every color a code in the dark Nine signs burning on the horizon Seven letters carved into my heart (sho-faaar… ahh) Where the laser-light cuts through the silence Tiny as a grain on a prophet’s palm Calling every name to remembrance Lights and perfections holding us in their calm
Seven cities on the edge of dawn Candles trembling curtains drawn Voices rising like a final tide Requiem ashes in a stranger’s eyes
From the east comes a broken horn Brass in the blood of the newly born From the peaks comes a throat of stone Low, unshaken shaking every bone
This is the breastplate of judgement Every color a code in the dark Nine signs burning on the horizon Seven letters carved into my heart (sho-faaar… ohhh) Where the laser-light cuts through the silence Tiny as a grain on a prophet’s palm Calling every name to remembrance Lights and perfections holding us in their calm
My womb answered with a drum-deep thunder that shook the black forest into bloom. The feral shadow cat leapt onto my thigh, her crystal eyes blazing one thousand times brighter than any LCD or laser-light. She placed one paw upon the lowest stone and purred the word that opened me completely.
“Mijaouw.” I screamed once. I screamed twice.
Under ash-grey skies the scrolls unfold Lamb’s book open ink runs cold Opus of the day in a single tone Dust stands up and the dead walk home
Voices in the gaps between each breath Old tongues circling round the neck of death “Come, come” says the crack in time “Stand and answer for your borrowed life”
This is the breastplate of judgement Every color a code in the dark Nine signs burning on the horizon Seven letters carved into my heart (sho-faaar… hey) Where the laser-light cuts through the silence Tiny as a grain on a prophet’s palm Calling every name to remembrance Lights and perfections holding us in their calm
Twelve stones and the world held fast Heartbeat fading into ancient glass Whispered verdict in a single breath Lights and perfections blessing every step
FR [respiration lente, chuchotée] Tes jambes si douces La nuit qui glisse Chut… Approche
Bondi, soleil sur ta peau dorée Tes courbes, des vagues à m’en noyer Tu riais, sel sur ta lèvre J’ai perdu l’heure, j’ai perdu mes rêves
Darling Harbour, lumières sur ta nuque Tu marchais devant, j’oubliais tout le reste Une chambre plus haut, porte entrouverte Tu m’as dit doucement, voix presque secrète
« Prends-moi en photo, parfaite sur ton balcon Laisse tes yeux me déshabiller, lentement, lentement Nadia murmure des mots de douce tentation Je respire ton nom, en soupirs, en frissons »
Tes jambes si lisses, qui glissent sur les draps Chaque pas de hanche me fait perdre les bras Nadia, ma Tunisie qui danse sur moi Je me perds, me perds, entre tes doigts
Ibiza, fenêtres ouvertes sur la mer Ta robe glisse, tombe comme un éclair Tu parles tout bas, que des mots d’amour Qui collent à ma peau, qui brûlent pour toujours
Tu danses pour moi, ventre qui se balance Chaque ondulation, une nouvelle malchance Ton rire me serre, ta bouche me trace Une route de baisers, de la nuque à la place
« Prends-moi en photo, parfaite sur ton balcon Laisse tes yeux me déshabiller, lentement, lentement Nadia murmure des mots de douce tentation Je respire ton nom, en soupirs, en frissons »
Tes jambes si lisses, qui glissent sur les draps Chaque pas de hanche me fait perdre les bras Nadia, ma Tunisie qui danse sur moi Je me perds, me perds, entre tes doigts
[voix plus proche, presque au creux de l’oreille] Chuchote encore Parle-moi d’amour, pas de demain Tes mains sur ma peau Ton souffle dans mes mains
Chaque baiser Plus profond, plus près Nadia, reste là Arrête l’horloge, laisse-moi te garder
« Prends-moi en photo, parfaite sur ton balcon Laisse tes yeux me déshabiller, lentement, lentement Nadia murmure des mots de douce tentation Je respire ton nom, en soupirs, en frissons »
Tes jambes si lisses, qui glissent sur les draps Chaque pas de hanche me fait perdre les bras Nadia, ma Tunisie qui danse sur moi Je me perds, me perds, entre tes doigts (Nadia…)
[outro chuchoté] Tes courbes, tes vagues Ta bouche, mirage Reste Danse encore pour moi
EN Your legs so soft The night sliding by Shh… Come closer
Bondi, sun on your golden skin Your curves, waves to drown me in You were laughing, salt on your lip I lost the hour, I let my dreams slip
Darling Harbour, lights on the nape of your neck You walked ahead, I forgot all the rest A room higher up, door left ajar You told me softly, voice like a secret star:
"Take my picture, perfect on your balcony Let your eyes undress me, slowly, slowly", Nadia whispers words of sweet temptation, "I breathe your name, in sighs, in shivers"
Your legs so smooth, sliding over the sheets Every sway of your hips knocks me off my feet Nadia, my Tunisia dancing over me I lose myself, lose myself, between your fingers
Ibiza, windows open to the sea Your dress slides down, falls like lightning, free You speak so low, only words of love Sticking to my skin, burning from above
You dance for me, belly swaying to and fro Every undulation, a new way to let go Your laughter grips me, your mouth traces a trail A path of kisses, from my neck to the pale
"Take my picture, perfect on your balcony Let your eyes undress me, slowly, slowly", Nadia whispers words of sweet temptation, "I breathe your name, in sighs, in shivers"
Your legs so smooth, sliding over the sheets Every sway of your hips knocks me off my feet Nadia, my Tunisia dancing over me I lose myself, lose myself, between your fingers
[voice closer, almost in the hollow of the ear]
Whisper again Talk to me of love, not of tomorrow Your hands on my skin Your breath in my hands Every kiss Deeper, closer Nadia, stay right there Stop the clock, let me keep you
"Take my picture, perfect on your balcony Let your eyes undress me, slowly, slowly", Nadia whispers words of sweet temptation, "I breathe your name, in sighs, in shivers"
Your legs so smooth, sliding over the sheets Every sway of your hips knocks me off my feet Nadia, my Tunisia dancing over me I lose myself, lose myself, between your fingers (Nadia…)
[Whispered Outro] Your curves, your waves / Your mouth, a mirage / Stay Dance for me again
(a sketch, or better so, a pre-sequel to that particularly damning day)
The sun was a white fist over Brisbane. Luke van der Leeuw, six years old, stood on the footpath with his pockets full of secrets.
He had the knife.
Not just any knife. An Old Timer pocket knife. His father had given it to him yesterday, pressing it into Luke's small palm like a handshake. The handle was saw-cut brown Delrin, warm and rough. The blade was high-carbon steel, still sharp. "This was my father's," his father had said. "Now it's yours. Don't lose it."
Luke hadn't lost it. He had kept it under his pillow all night, feeling the cool weight of it against his cheek. In the morning light, he took it outside.
He sat on the curb and opened the blade.
It caught the sun like a struck match. A flash of white light shot across the street—then another, and another, as Luke turned the knife in his small hands. He made the reflections dance on the footpath, on the gutter, on the trunk of the jacaranda tree. He aimed a beam at a passing magpie. The bird tilted its head and flew away.
"Look," Luke whispered to no one.
He loved the sound of the blade locking open. Click. He loved the way the steel held the sun inside it, bright as a scream. He opened and closed the knife ten times, twenty times, feeling the old spring resistance, the slow, serious weight of it. This was not a toy. His father had never called it a toy. But on this empty street, with no one to show, Luke played with it anyway.
He stuck the blade into the soft bark of the jacaranda. He pulled it out and watched the mark it left. He held the knife up to the sky and let the sun set the whole blade on fire.
No Ethan on his bike. No Mira with the jump rope. No twins from the yellow house. The sky was too blue, the grass too still. A sprinkler turned in someone's yard, throwing rainbows that vanished before they touched the ground.
Luke played alone for an hour. He made the knife flash signals to imaginary friends. He carved a shallow line in the curb. He balanced the open blade on his palm and watched the light slide along the edge like water.
The silence of the street wrapped around him like a blanket. No cars. No kids. Just the sprinkler and the sun and the bright, hungry thing in his hands.
The memory of last night came back to him in pieces.
The dinner table had two plates. His mother sat alone, staring at the clock. Luke's spaghetti was getting cold.
"Where's Papa?" Luke asked.
His mother didn't answer. She picked up the phone. Luke watched her fingers dial. He heard the ringing. Then his father's voice, distant and small.
"Where are you?" his mother said. Not angry. Something else. Something Luke didn't have a word for yet.
His father's voice buzzed through the receiver. Luke caught fragments: traffic... late... sorry...
"You said you'd be home," his mother said. Her hand was shaking. Luke noticed because she was holding the phone so tight her knuckles went white. "You promised."
More buzzing. His father's voice dropped lower. Luke couldn't hear the words anymore, just the shape of them—soothing, round, like stones in a river.
His mother closed her eyes. "I don't believe you," she said quietly. But then she said, "Okay. Okay. Just come home."
She hung up. She sat very still. Then she looked at Luke and smiled a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Papa's just late," she said. "Eat your spaghetti."
Luke ate. But he watched her. And he remembered how she had said I don't believe you in a voice that wasn't loud at all. It was soft. Like she was telling herself something she didn't want to hear.
Now, on the sunny street with no friends, Luke closed the Old Timer with a final click.
He looked up at the sky. The sun was moving. The blade had left a faint shimmer in his vision—ghost-light, fading slowly.
Luke put the knife back in his pocket. He sat on the curb for a long time. He didn't cry. He didn't call for his mother. He just touched the warm handle through the fabric of his shorts and watched the empty street and wondered, in the way six-year-olds wonder, why the day before something bad could be so bright and so quiet and so full of nothing.
The sprinkler kept turning.
The knife stayed dark in his pocket.
And somewhere out there, his father was still driving.
End of "Down Under"
To be continued in the next chapter, coming: the day after, when Luke learns that silence is not emptiness—it is a shape that waits. "Her name was Hope."
Sunday April 12 @ 5PM An Amazing Tale of Dreadful Things is a two act musical set in an alternate Victorian era cityscape. A young orphaned woman, Harmony, arrives seeking her eccentric and celebrated uncle Solomon who runs an emporium of amazing things. Intelligent and curious, she is accepted by Solomon as his ward, but is quickly ensnared in a diabolical plot hatched by the greedy and ambitious Mistress Beatrix who desires to take over his estate. In a dystopic and Dickensian world Harmony is surrounded by desperate street urchins and corrupt officials as she navigates a way out of the peril she finds herself in.
Synopsis:
Od vampírvov nazaj h krvosesom.
Moja sestra je okradla mene s prevaro, in še huje, okradla je mater. Ne sicer okradla, ampak pretentala. Ne sicer pretentala, ampak način, po katerem to izvaja, je zločinski.
Pred kar nekaj časa sem izvedel in sledim zgodbi, ki zdaj dobiva svojo podobo in končni izgled.
Kaj rabim, da jo postavim pred ogledalo? Vampírvje se v ogledalu ne vidijo. Torej rabim ogledalo. Drobnogled pravzaprav.
Tam doli na partizanskih ravnah, kjer je Hasan takrat odprl čajnico, in tam dol po stari poti med vrtovi, tam je bil včasih tak hud tunel skoz ono staro bajto zadaj za cvetličarno. In tista pot je vodila med vrtovi mimo stare komunale in do nas, na primer. Naša babica in mati sta obe delali v nami. Iztokova mati na primer tudi. Ampak to niti ni zaenkrat tako zelo važno. Zaenkrat je važen oni strašni tunel in pod tunelom ona posebna klet, ki ni nikdar imela elektrike in je bila res grozna. No, tam noter sem se enkrat znašel in od tam noter sem prišel na svet. Ker tam noter je bil nekdo pošteno preklet.
No, in potem je prišlo, kakor je bilo pričakovati. Nič presenečenj več, nič razočaranja. Faktualno z vseh strani. Sestra je mater okradla, če ne dokaže drugače. So pa v to vključeni določeni diskriminatorni faktorji, ki se tičejo sodnice Vesne Rebernik Jamnik.
Na Andrejo se ne morem zanesti za kaj takega, in niti nočem. In na Vesno ne bi niti apeliral, ker zgodba jo bo sama obdolžila in ovadila brez, da bi sploh omenjal njeno ime. Ali je to sploh mogoče?
Pa poglejmo…
Ko utegnem, bom poslal en spis. A veš, že v osnovni šoli sem rad raznovrstne spise pisal. In računam tudi na nekatere prekaljene novinarje. Če jih niso že vseh v Slavoniji iztrebili. No, en par jih še živi. Prejšnji vikend je ena takih, žal, pod prehudim pritiskom storila samomor.
Čeprav je samomor vedno tragična zgodba, je to živ dokaz, da je novinarsko delo zahtevno.
En par jih je pa še, živih, čeprav vem, da čeprav so živi, je nanje razpisan lov na glave. Podobno kakor farsa z izbrisanimi. Ker izbrisani se ne vračajo in jih ni nič manj, kakor jih je bilo kdajkoli. Prekleti!
No, tole s sestro. Mater je okradla za osem tisoč goldinarjev. In ne gre se za osem tisoč goldinarjev. Gre se za obresti od teh osem tisoč in kako je do tega prišlo in koliko od osem tisoč je bila glavnica, in ker samo glavnica in osem tisoč bi bila celota, bi torej morale biti obresti za manko računane od celote in od časa, ki je že davno zapadel, in od dvajset tisoč goldinarjev.
Na podlagi pričujočega dokumenta bi to morala izplačati že davno.
No, razmišljam, kje bi bil začel. Zato sem začel pri tunelu. Tam noter, v oni kleti, kjer ni svetlobe in kjer je mrak tako gost, da bi o njem mogli poročati vsi dnevnopisci. Groza!
Zaenkrat tole pustim, da se samo izcimi. Potem pa pošljem dopis.
This is a complete new and original work in development, presented as a moved reading with full playback of 19 original songs. Sweeping from pop to Broadway and different styles between, Amazing Tales will be an amazing theatrical journey.
