NEEDLEWRITER

What a guy. When he was little he knew only to curse. Especially to grown ups, because he
wanted to grow up quick. Very quick. Did not like to be bossed around.
He endured till he was legal. Fucking messing around with other peoples minds till he was.
What was he after? The slavic kid, they called him. Always repeating the letters „SŠTUVZ”.
What did he mean by that? We’ll open about it later.
Now, how about a little thought about our guy? His description at least. Tall, always wearing
black. Longer hair than men mostly wear. Green eyes, sometimes wearing beard sometimes
not. Mostly keen to look like a boem. And ofcourse a sharp nose for everything going on
nowadays. But what’s so interesting about him to conclude he is worthy our attention? It’s his
genius for the written word. The grotesque one. A horror master they called him. He would, in his
words, say something like :

„Ubit će se djeca
Zatim će se ubiti oni
Nakon njih
Ubit ćemo se svi mi
Jer krivi i jesmo i nismo.”

And every slavic speaking man and woman would fret. Because it was beautifully said and
written but it was a monstrosity of a song. Bleeding away the minds and souls of the listeners.
They would instantly fall down in a pithole of their own thoughts, which they didn’t like, would
remind them of the horrors of coming nights. Likewise was the ghost of his and theirs time. The
Zeitgheist. Sadly and should we say poorly or richly? Because the souls at night would not call
out his name when it began. Not even their closest people. Not even god or any prophet. They
would be tortured deeply, a heavy burden would crush them at night, so tremendeous they
would hardly move in their sleep. Their eyes would roll left to right, right to left, up to down,
down to up. At least five hours people in his valley, at night, would be stoned to deep sleep.
Sweating slowly but steadily the pain out. Some would sob and cry till the morning reaches
their windows. No birds in the valley but crows, to wake them up with terrible screeches, that
they could enter the morning mist and catch the dawning of the day and get going about their
dayly deeds.
He unfortunately never slept. That they did not know about him. He would stay silent the whole
night, in his house, in his study room, by a candle and mostly a book. That he was writing or
ordered to get delivered from afar. Mostly the window sills, were it summer or winter or spring
or autumn, were put down. He just did not like the dayly light bothering him. A doomer of some
sorts, they would say about him. Was he a believer or anything a like? What was the valleys
delusion about our man, Felix Mihajlo Krvopijac Maglopijac? Be assured he was not a vampire
as old legends would suggest!
Just a poor old bibliophile stuck in a time and space, where he always knew, he would not
belong. So he built it. Bulit it steadily. The heritage he would leave behind to his own valley and
it’s people.
He wrote and wrote and wrote. But never did he allow it to leave the valley and reach other
authors and thinkers like him. But the passers by, who met him passing through the valley
would always spread a word about him, which would reach sometimes the outer edges of the
world. He was called by outsiders the mystic of Shadow valley.
The most riddled guy ever, they would say when he sometimes took a stroll through the town
and villages near by, just trying to catch that thought, that idea he was after. He would
sometimes get lost in the nearby woods, minding just himself, geting lost in himself, ignoring
the outside world completely, till he grips it. „Aha” was mostly his solemn concluding
instrument. And off he went back home, to write.
Why a mystic? They would not know the answer. But often they would answer in ways which
would unravel it all to you, like, „Don’t know, just his passing by near us makes our perception
changed. He’s always up to something, be it good or bad. And it always ends good”.
There you have it reader. Be what you will, keep opening your mind more, and still further and
further.
The End.,