When the count of Monthe Cristo read this he went to hang himself (horhe)


*This story was writen by a very provocative, amazing writer whome I know by the name of Horhe. He wrote it inspired by the Mythology Workshop that I run, but he wrote it on Serbian. I liked the story so much that I offered to translate it and proudly show it with the rest of the entries.

He has the story up on his blog, if you like the story or want to show your support, please do so there, each comment will warm his heart. You can find his post here : http://horheakimov.wordpress.com/2013/09/21/kada-je-ovo-procitao-grof-od-monte-krista-je-ustao-i-otisao-da-se-obesi/



Wendy was weeping so hard that her diaphragm was pressing her heart. She was kneeling in front of the labyrinth entrance in the snow and she could not move. She was trying to muster enough strength to call out for her son. Completely powerless she collapsed into the snow and her warm tears were deepening paths into the frost. Footprints were leading to her head. They were the footprints of a squab, but strong young man, wearing only a wrinkled up toga bound with a stiff girdle. An appearance that instills awe, something her Danny will never have. She extended her hand towards the nearly divine being ,whose face remained in the shadows of blurry hotel lights, as tho extending it towards a holy saving shining, before she went unconscious. The young man stepped out towards her and it is then that it became clear that raw power and indestructibility of the body were unawares absent on the face. Completely confused and obviously unprepared, especially when it is about weather conditions, Theseus looked around before touching the thread on the sleeve of the motionless woman. There was nobody in sight anywhere. Only the snow, just like at Olympus. He tugged a bit harder and the sleeve started ripping behind him, as he was entering the labyrinth.
He was faintly remembering he had a thread in his one hand when he entered, thinking through the fog that cascaded upon the labyrinth hedges. The other hand, held the verdict, for now only serving to remove the hair from his eyes. In one of those moments, he lost his sight for a second and nearly ran against a boy who was wildly running to escape, following his own barely visible and erased traces. They turned around and gave each other a look, some unpleasantery shining from the boys face, but in the next moment he was already gone. He continued down the road he knew, but could not remember how, which led him, same as the river, uphill, his traces and the enveloping dark red thread stretching behind him. Two turns to the left, one to the right and he encountered a helpless man on the road, who crouched firmly not to freeze. Like a wounded beast, the growled miserably while Theseus was passing, using the last atoms of his strength to grip the axe laid next to him. It could be said the road for him was over, he sat down and could not move an inch more, waiting there for frost to take him and the evil blood coursing through his veins and bringing him here.

Alternating left and right turns brought Theseus to the middle resting-place where there was no more snow and winter, but on the contrary; heat, moisture and an intact jungle reigned. In the main hut on the tump, with a shaved head, Marlon Brando was sitting and reciting The Hollow man by T. S. Eliot. Theseus clearly remembered meeting the beast, but he could not even imagine a horror like this.

God of flesh and blood that kills blood and flesh out of mercy.

He remembered blood and a slit throat. A fight and some kind of a bull…Captured by his thoughts he was an easy pray for the colonel who approached him from behind and gave him a final blow with a big machete. The blood poured down into the river, which was the only one who knew the way out of the jungle labyrinth, for the water always find its way. He dropped the thread from his hand, which snapped somewhere along the way, its color now merging with the blood. While catching the last breath that choked him, he remembered….

He remembered the axe that wretch was holding so tightly.


Here is why I liked this piece. I am familiar with horhes writing for several years already and I feel as tho all you fine folks are terribly missing out due to language barriers. With this piece, in his usual style, he picked and probed into every pore of humanity and beyond, it really made me feel like I am completely defragmented after reading. His stories and poems, including this one, are not to be skimmed through – they are to be read and it is that which always attracts me to read his work. The way he merged mythology with 21st century here is both bursting and subtle at the same time, I don’t know if I am dreaming, living through this Sunday or I am long dead and lost. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did and do not be afraid to questions, claim or dispute! ๐Ÿ™‚

~ by Oloriel on September 22, 2013.

6 Responses to “When the count of Monthe Cristo read this he went to hang himself (horhe)”

  1. Thanks for the effort Oloriel and for the blushing words…

  2. Wonderful I can completely understand why you fell in love with the piece =)

  3. I loved this! I can understand why you wanted us to be able to read it! Thank you for the translation, Oloriel ๐Ÿ™‚

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