A kind of Horror

Another man would have devoured her, torn her clothes off and surged through her flesh, but not Mr. Nadi. On a Thursday night, he takes her out to buy the newspaper. Before they leave, he spends a minute to check if his hair and mustache look good, they don’t, they are crimes against humanity, think the matte black hair and moustache of a plastic doll, he doesn’t notice though, he likes them. Nadi works for a data entry department in one of the Egyptian government’s many administrations. He makes sure names, numbers, and signatures are entered correctly five hours everyday for three thousand pounds a month, enough for ordinary clothes and food with a nice meal every now and then. His hopes and fantasies are relegated to the afterlife.


Mrs. Nadi put a shawl over her shoulders and covered her hair, yet her curves screamed underneath the black satin gown. She is told, now that she is forty-two, that her sex drive is gone, but there is this tickling between her legs, the French would bring wine to this place. He’s asking if they have enough eggs for breakfast and she’s thinking about her next bath, her time alone, “yes, we do,” she answers anyway. This was his idea of a conversation to kill time and be a good husband, do we have enough eggs? Did you see the tiger attack at the zoo yesterday? What are you cooking today? She played the part. They arrive at the newsstand and he decides to crack a joke, “should we get New Meal Everyday? I bet we would need ingredients from a sorceress to prepare one of their dishes, ha ha ha.” She smiles, attempts to laugh, but stops at showing her teeth, he doesn’t mind, he takes whatever response he can get, deep underneath the barrier of communicating with language they both acknowledged and were at peace with the roles they have decided to play, or rather parody, until they no longer have to. On the way back they stop at the supermarket and he buys eggs anyway, she doesn’t break her silence, she’s thinking about her bath, she still waxes her blood rose clean.


Why hadn’t her father mutilated her sexuality? Why bring a living girl, genitally unmutilated, to a dead world? She often thought. She saw women her age dressed in weird, eye-stabbing costumes without taste content with watching Turkish mind-killing dramas where women have complete intact sexualities and men with erect swords venture forward, and she wondered, why does life have to be behind a screen? She wondered and wondered, until the bathroom door closed and she was finally naked, she then wondered no more.

I’m not gay (explicit)

– Where am I? And who are you?

– You are where you pay for your sins.

-What? Untie me now.

– Soon, but first, tell me Mr. Sexy, why do you dress like a woman?


– Why do you intentionally confuse good straight men and make them lust after your body by dressing like a beautiful woman?

-What are you talking about? Who do you think I am?

– You’re the CFO of Venta, you drive a black BMW, you smoke red Marlboro, and you dress like a woman to mess with straight men.

– I never do that, I’ve never cross-dressed.

-So I’m attracted to you as a pure male? Are you saying I’m a vile homosexual? Is that what you’re saying?

– I’m not saying anything, just let me down and untie me so we can discuss whatever your problem is.

-No, you have to pay for staining and confusing the will of good straight men.

-What the fuck is this?

-Anesthesia, don’t you worry a bit, I’m a surgeon, we will make you the woman you have always wanted to be, you will stop whoring around messing with the hearts of good straight men, like me, I love you, but I’m a straight man, this penis has to come off so we can play safely.


Next day.

– Where am I? Why am I tied up?

– You are where you belong, in your palace, my prince.

– This is a palace? Please untie me, what the fuck happened yesterday, I’m still dizzy.

-Yesterday we danced, we kissed, we flew over the moon.

-Yes, that pill was good. Please untie me and let me down.

-I love you.

-You got the wrong idea, I’m not a lesbian.

-Neither am I, you’re a handsome man, you just don’t know it.

– Please let me down, I’m scared.

-Don’t be, as soon as we attach this fresh penis, and the pump, everything will be alright.

– What? Why?

– So we can make love of course, my sweet prince, like a straight man and his woman.

– I’m not a man, let me down, please.

– Don’t you ever say that, you’re as manly as they get, you were just given the wrong genitals, and awesome boobs, love ’em by the way, now, we are going to fix your situation, I want you to count from fifty down to one.

Routine Deviation 

One yellow lamp barely lights half the room, a small T.V. is playing a soap opera. They are sitting

on the couch.

– Do I have to kill you right now?

– What?

– I mean if I did, it would be god’s will, right? Nothing happens outside of his will.

– Did you eat something bad?

– No, it just occurred to me, if everything is predestined, then, if I, say, strangled you now and was executed, I would be acting out god’s will.

– No, god only knows what will happen, and cut it out.

– So, what does he know?

– ……..

– Honey, it’s been fucking absurd, do you know why I married you?

– Why, fuck face?

– I was fat and poor, I couldn’t get a girlfriend, I was 32 and still a virgin, lust was eating through my flesh, and it still does, you were available, when we fuck I always imagine I’m with a girl from my high school, what the hell are we doing?

She looked at him with contempt bordering on malevolence.

– Fucking? You mean your attempts to stimulate me with your pathetic little cock?

– At least I try.

– What the fuck do you want, Sammie?

– Here is what I think, one of us should commit suicide so the other can collect the insurance money and begin a new life, die in a car crash or something.

– Who?

– Should we flip a coin?

Fine by me.

She looked at him with eyes made of fire.

I’m going for a walk.

Drop by the store and get some milk.

And condoms? Should I get some condoms?

Five seconds

– Yes.

Nola (explicit)

Nola got back from work to her father and brother watching a game and her mother cooking.

-How was your day honey.

Her father asked.
-Great, dad.
-Mastered Excel yet?
-No, dad I left that job 4 months ago.

Nola hurried to the bathroom and took off her clothes, her head scarf, her tight long-sleeve t-shirt, her bra, and her pants, quivering. In the bathtub, under warm shower water, she slid her hand between her legs. In her mind, her boyfriend is advancing on her, she’s blushing but too hungry to gesture any resistance. His strong muscular hand rubs her blood rose hard and electricity surges through her body. She moans, quietly. He grabs her breast and she just leans back, his now. He turns her around and fucks her ass, two lubed fingers for that, she uses hair cream. And she orgasms, blissfully, like a normal human being. Outside this bathroom she’s the short chubby unattractive girl, but in it, she’s the mistress of a thousand men, even if it’s for moments. She’s satisfied.

In the evening, her friend Sally called.

-So, I have been looking online for stones that have effects on people, turns out there are many, nothing like scientifically proven of course, but people have always believed some stones have powers.

-I’m not even sure it’s a stone, it feels like slippery metal, but it’s not wet, and it didn’t give me powers, just made me bold, I’ve been doing things I never thought I could.

-Like what?

-Have you ever, masturbated?
-………………. sometimes I fantasize about stuff, and, you know, touch myself down there.

-I insert things in both holes.


-Whatever I desire I experience, my imagination has become so vivid, my fantasies become realities, I have never been happier.

-That black cube gave you that?


-I want it.

-No, I want you.


-How many heads today?

-Seven, we shouldn’t have killed that blonde girl, she was gorgeous.

-You’re in it for the women, aren’t you?

-You know how loyal I am to Irakeem.

-She killed almost one hundred of our brothers.

-Is there not a chance for repentance?

-Have you smoked too much hashish?

-I can’t get the look of her eyes out of my mind.

-She is an enemy of Irakeem.


-No, is, there is no redemption for infidels, not on earth, not in the afterlife, if there were, we wouldn’t be beheading them.

Hanzalah forced an agreeing nod to his Amir and went back to staring at the moon, the blonde girl haunted his consciousness, he saw himself and her getting married and living happily after the war is over.

-Tomorrow we capture Donoura, you can have all the girls and women you want, now try to get some sleep.

The Amir put out the fire and turned in, they were camping near Donoura.

Hanzallah sat in the faint light of the moon reflecting on his journey so far. Ever since he was a child power seemed glorious to him, he believed power coupled with a mighty will conquers all. His people, believers in Irakeem, are kind and pious, their love for Irakeem is pure, but they lack both power and will, they live between the hammer of Samasas and the anvil of weakness. The Slitters appealed to his admiration of supremacy, he joined them with content and willingness to die for Irakeem.

The ghost of the blonde girl had stolen his sleep, he sat on the ground against a huge rock caressing his scratched AK-47. His mind drifted back to school of engineering. He remembered when a student of physics explained to him how a bullet is fired, “all pure physics,” he said, now Hanzallah is using their physics to fight for Irakeem.

He still couldn’t sleep.

Come here. A soft female voice called. He thought it was one of the captured women restless with desire. The voice was coming from near a close by well. He headed there.

The ghost was sitting on the well. Hanzallah, paralyzed with fear, started murmuring some protective verses.

-Hanzallah, your Amir is dead.

She whispered.


-He was assembling a new RPG and it blew right in his face.


-His body is possessed by an evil spirit, that’s why his orders don’t make any kind of sense anymore, hell, they never would have made sense but for the cosmic stupidity of cretins like you.


-Here, look, if you and your fuck-head brothers continue killing people and spreading violence the Central Sector will turn into an area of war zones, there won’t be a kingdom, only a mushroom cloud.

Hanzallah stared mesmerized into the portal conjured by the ghost.

-I forgive you, Hanzallah, but you must kill your Amir by stabbing him in the ass, or I will stab you in your ass. DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND ME, HANZALLAH, IN THE ASS.

-Ok, ok, I will.

-Good, the Amir must be stabbed in the ass for the Central Sector to be saved from his dumb ass.

-Right, in the ass.


Back home, my castle of silence, I put my keys and cigarettes on a small table by the door and turn the lights on. It’s 3:20 AM, I can feel him around. I play random episodes from The Office to distract myself but his presence grows stronger, he’s here. He begins his little game, a sharp knife manifests before my eyes with the word “femoral” written on the handle. I turn the volume up and out of the blue I hear a gunshot, and there it is, a revolver is sitting next to me on the couch, “in the mouth” written on a piece of paper under it.

During my first encounter with him I shat my pants, now it’s just an annoying routine, every week or so, my doppelgänger tries to talk me into committing suicide, he wants my body, he says I’m pathetic and deserve to die, I tell him to go fuck himself. To show my seriousness, I bought him a nice dildo and left it in the bathroom, “this goes in your ass,” the paper under the dildo said.

On my bed I find more than a dozen Tramadol Hydrochloride 225 pills with the message “sweet dreams” written in red. “Dude, the dildo is in the bathroom, use it,” I yell through Xanax and Prozac, I know he can hear me somehow, every now and then I hear whispering and chuckling, it used to terrify the crap out of me.

He comes to me in my dream dressed as a hipster, to prove he’s cooler than me, but in fact, my heart almost stopped from laughing on seeing him. We sat at a cafe downtown Cairo, I don’t know if he controlled my dream or had just leapt into mine. Like a broken record, he stated his sad old plea again, your existence is miserable, I need your body, bla bla bla. I finished my tea, took one look at him and left.

I work at a news agency, sometimes I have shifts that start at 5 AM, it sucks but I need the experience.

At 3:45 my alarm ravished the silence and ended my second dream, I was helping mom move some boxes. He appeared to me in a portrait of Vivaldi hanging on my bedroom wall, I was putting my socks on.

– Listen, I have seen your life, after two failed marriages you will live alone for 30 years then die. I need to collect your body so I can get on with mine, I have a lover and a nice home waiting for me in the underworld.
– Bullshit, you don’t know anything, you’re a moronic demon messing with me, and I will rid you…..I will
– My energy drains fast when I’m communicating verbally with you, today you will get in a fight with your boss, consider this a prescient affirmation of what I have just said

It appeared that the fucker had been right, Mrs. Dana, my 50 something chief editor, was off her saggy tits, she was looking for a fight. The moment our eyes locked she telepathically said “don’t you fucking dare push me.” Message received.

-Morning Mrs.Dana
– There are two news articles on your desk, I want ’em yesterday
-You got it

I made sure the articles were translated and edited flawlessly, this eased her a bit. With the knowledge of a potential quarrel, I took extra care not to provoke her, the day passed almost as smoothly as any other day.

Back home the little fucker was in a furious tantrum inside a little snow globe of Paris.

-How on god’s green Earth did that happen?

-Have you heard of quantum physics, you pathetic imbecile?

I put a small towel on the globe and sat in Vivaldi’s Winter.


On my desk sits the skull of a woman no longer present. Another nameless body desecrated for medicine, for the better lives of others. A lifeless bone witness to countless stories soon to be completely forgotten, eliminated. If anything, I gave her a name, Felicia. We have spent a lot of nights together, me studying and writing, she watching over me. Sometimes, when I’m high on pot listening to Vivaldi’s cello and violin concertos, I would put a little flash light inside Felicia and turn my room lights off, Felicia comes to life and talks to me through Vivaldi’s music. I never understand what she says, it gets scary, but we’re friends.

The worst thing about afterlife is that there is no evidence whatsoever in its favor. I will probably never get to know Felicia, that’s how far apart we are.

I never pictured Felicia an old lady on her death bed, in my daydreams she appears vigorous with the spirit of a little girl in her summer holiday, excited to explore life, curious about places to go; a spirit bound only by her imagination. I think she loved, or would have loved, Vivaldi.

A girl I had over last weekend danced jokingly with Felicia, she shared a joint with her. Stoned, I sat watching them with fascination while some psychedelic trance blared through my speakers. As I made love to the girl, Felicia haunted her body, with the help of pot and dim lights I came extremely close to feeling her flesh on my skin, her breath on my face.

Reconstructing facial features from the skull is no easy work, it took me, three fellow doctors, and a computer 3D modeler two solid days of work. The result is not fully accurate of course, the lady in the printout is not necessarily the dead woman, it’s Felicia. She’s in her mid-thirties, caucasian, of average beauty. We gave her black eyes and black hair.

I began asking people everywhere I go, whenever possible, if they have seen the woman in the picture, I don’t know what I was expecting, some said she looked familiar and some gave me names, but stalking random women in pursuit of a ghost didn’t seem like a good idea.

Out of desperation I called on god, of course he didn’t answer, neither did the devil. It’s funny how when you question the presence of god in your life his existence dissipates into nothingness, he has never been there, never helping nor harming, he always gets credit from the actions of others, an identified being haunting the reality of others. I will look for Felicia in every woman I meet, I will give her my sleepless nights and lucid dreams, she will live in my mind’s silence. Like the gods we create and the prophets we revere, friends in our weird worlds.