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Category Archives: short stories

το Γρύλισμα takes on many different forms respective to the person it attaches itself to.

The following story is a work of fiction and bears no relation to existing people or events.

Κλέφτρα robs the woman and the man on the train platform (short story)
drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou
(c) 2016 all rights reserved

The blogger breaks open the suitcase with a single blow. “That dumb ass at the train station…”  she thinks to herself rummaging through the stranger’s belongings. Nothing useful here, and unfortunately nothing edible. Just pictures and notebooks and threadbare stained clothes. Dirty stinking hoarder, thinks the blogger. Who packs up a suitcase with a bunch of dirty laundry? “A HOARDER!” she says angrily and kicks away the suitcase. Her stomach roars. She could use about anything just to fill up her empty stomach. Even a bottle of sploiled milk would do.

She picks up a black notebook that fell from the suitcase, throws it in her backpack, hobo-hops another train to the next station. On her way there, she opens up a random page in the notebook and starts reading:

“She injected the superblue fluid into her vagina. Cutting open a vein running up her arm, she inserted the other end of the tube into her pumping bloodstream. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head. Kissing her pale lips, she said: Virtue, you have a bad secret operational you are keeping from me. I demand that you reveal everything, or these dusty secret agents will take your mother, one after another. You know there is a fourth way after we’ve tried plan A, B and C. Your most favourite thing, the nerd, is next. Are you ready?”

“What sick shit is this again? Can’t anyone write a normal story anymore?”. The blogger discards the notebook, tossing it into the first garbage can she sees on her way out of the train. “Women spend half their lives avoiding having sex with creeps, and the other half writing about having creepy sex.”. This observation leaves the blogger indifferent. If only she could make up a normal story of her own to keep herself entertained. Or at least  distracted from the hunger pangs.

At the opposite platform, platform 19  wagon compartment 87, she spots a man staring absently into the distance. His black luggage behind him left unattended. She rushes down the stairs, through the hall, up the stairs and appears on the platform behind the man. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Perfect dumbass.”, and the blogger smiles to herself, grabbing his luggage just when he turns his head. She stares back at him and doesn’t make a move, her fingers  holding the luggage handle tightly. “Κλέφτρα!”, the man exclaims, “HOW DARE YOU ROB MY CHARACTERS? THIS IS MY STORY! THESE ARE MY CHARACTERS! THIS IS MY TRAIN STATION, MY PLATFORM, MY LUGGAGE!”. Her empty stomach roars loudly. All she can think of is a bag of salty chips and a pizza slice.

…to be continued

This short story is a work of fiction and bears no relation to existing people or events.

Drowned Americans Watching TV at the Bottom of the Aegean
(short story)

by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou
(c) 2016 all rights reserved
referenced works are (c) to their respective creators

The Not-So-Genteel Catlady wearing her mermaid costume dives all the way to the bottom of the Aegean, as deep as she can go. The Catlady Catfishlady feels a strong urge to take a bite from her fishtail.  Instead she flaps her tail harder and harder and away from her to avoid the tempting smell of fish. Reaching the bottom of the sea she finds the bloated sunken  corpses of drowned American refugees and an old TV set, likely a unit that accidentally fell of a Chinese container shipment. She turns on the TV which is fully functional even at the bottom of the Aegean, and watches the following music video –>


All of this is possible because the waters farther than 200 nautical miles from shore are generally outside of national jurisdiction and largely beyond government control. More than 40 percent of the planet’s surface is covered by water that belongs to everyone and no one, and is relatively lawless and unregulated.

Over the next two years, though, the United Nations intends to change this reality. After nearly a decade of discussion, it ratified a resolution in June to begin drafting the first treaty to protect biodiversity on the high seas.

The agreement will create a formal process for setting aside protected marine areas in international waters. Unlike on land, there is no legal framework on the high seas for creating areas that are off-limits to commercial activity. The treaty will also create procedures for environmental impact assessments and establish a method for the public to be informed about large-scale projects in these waters, including fishing, seabed mining, shipping, research and other activities.


“Is that a fish in a plastic bag in the water?” wonders the Catfishlady. “I should inform the animal rights organizations about this.”


“Is that man holding a fish in his mouth?”, wonders the Catfishlady. “Now I am really getting hungry. Delicious fish.”. She puts her tail in her mouth and holds it there, using all her willpower to keep herself from biting through. “I should inform the animal rights organizations about this.”, she says robotically.

“That bandaged figure…” she says, pointing at the character identified as The Mummy in the credits, “Someone must’ve been watched Goodnight Mommy at the last edition of the Thessaloniki Film Festival. Either that or they must’ve bought the Almodovar loss-leader DVD with that newspaper.”


“Yeah, yeah, I know every film nerd on the planet is obsessed with Tetsuo, whatever.”, says the Catfishlady rolling her eyes to the back of her eyesockets, showing only the white of a fish eye getting popped in the process of being cooked.

I ended up checking out a hospice for the elderly, who were breathing out their last days on earth. I walked through its corridors, passing room after room, observing how these aged people suffered and sobbed, listening to endless moans of pain. Living in their horrifying realities, they didn’t seem at peace with imminent death. Being there in the moment, I questioned the purpose of living. Since then, the smell of old age has stayed with me. It haunts me every time I return from visiting my father in Jerusalem. I spent three days at the hospice, drowning in the residents’ suffering, listening to the few who were still able to speak in low, quivering voices, telling me about their pasts. I looked at their hands and fingers. Many suffered from diseases that had deformed their bones, paralyzing them into wheelchairs and onto deathbeds. Many were impaired from severe arthritis. Their fingers were dislocated, bent, as if broken. One elderly woman wore a wedding ring, buried in her swollen finger, cutting into her skin. The only way to remove it would have been through surgery. An elderly man had all his fingers on both hands dislocated into a permanent fist position. Many hands had scars, violet blood clots, as if tattooed on their skin.

Read more:

The following story is a word of fiction and bears no relation to existing people or events.

Survivartist threesome (2+1) (short story)
by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou
(c) 2016 all rights reserved

The Blogger breaks the frontdoor with a single kick and enters the gallery. None have an alarm system anymore since austerity. They’ve learned from Charles Saatchi that the best way to make money from shitty art no one has the money to buy any more is to let it get stolen and cash in on the insurance.

The Blogger walks around the gallery exploring the art and reading the descriptions:

sharks to left of me and sharks up above me
the apex of survival hung by the tail deflated
skinned and made into a coat
the usual feminist irony
gunfire in the heart
where 2 of you used to meet before me
I tore the skin right off my face
(and blamed the shark)
to make my face more kissable
made the animal within me castable & exhibitable
the baby owl the cats in my backyard caught and ate when I was 5 looks on
look away, it never happened, move on and move on

With the newly stolen art under her arm the Blogger heads back home. The Not-So-Genteel Catlady’s cats run up to her to greet their favourite cat-sitter. Chilling on the couch with the cats and the art she admires the reflection of her new mohawk in the mirror across the room, strategically placed there so she can look inside herself whenever she feels the urgent need to perform gynecosurgical procedures. She smokes a spliff of nederwiet and sings along to the happy song on her player:

I push the button Capital G is for deep under the surface bunker busters now there’s a lot of you inside me on my hands and knees serving my purpose perfectly

When Josh raped Shelley (short horror movie screenplay)
by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou
(c) 2016 all rights reserved



All characters and events depicted in this film are entirely fictitious. Any similarity to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.


The upbeat tune Surfin’ USA plays.

“Inside-outside USA”
“Inside-outside USA”
“Inside-outside USA”

“Inside-outside USA”
“Inside-outside USA”
“Inside-outside USA”

POV SMALL WHITE BLONDE, standing next to her a HUGE GERMANIC-LOOKING AMERICAN-SOVIET CREEP, both in black body-hugging thermal suits, posing with their surf-boards for the camera, laughing and making peace-signs.



Animal rights posters on the walls in the background. Then ECU of SMALL BLONDE’s contorted face in the midst of a rape.

raspy NARRATOR (V.O.)

An insider’s look at
American rape culture
and online date-rape

CUT TO: zoom out from ECU rape-face to show SMALL BLONDE getting raped by the HUGE AMERICAN CREEP now dressed up like a hasbeen gothic S&M dom (EXACTLY like that elite pedo-punk in the I’m Not A Fucking Princess film) going bald with fake gothic hair extentions clipped into his receeding hairline, his black leather pants down to his knees screaming obscenities and making threats.


FAT HISPANIC WOMAN jacking off with a vibrator in the one hand and a joint in the other, laughing sadistically at the rape scene before her.

raspy NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)

Soon on a Youtube screen near YOU. BOO!


The following part of this blog entry is pure fiction. No relation to existing people or events is implied.

NSFW; contains adult themes.

Say anything (short story, fiction)
by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou
(c) 2015 all rights reserved

The ugly girl with the purple gray hair types: “I love you, please talk to me”, then deletes that sentence. Instead she types some bullshit about wanting to do play-piercings on an erect penis. She asks him to send her a picture of his member and he instantly obliges. The ugly girl with the purple gray hair fires up her favourite editing program, The Gimp with the Crooked Linux, and adds a number of fake needles to the home porn she’s just received, dripping fake blood all over the icky mess. Upon reception he praises the result. He doesn’t even have his ears pierced.

“I will say anything, anything, anything, to keep you talking to me.”, she types, and then deletes that sentence. Instead she makes up a bunch of bullshit about owning whips and ropes and clamps and  doing home sessions with her girlfriend. Every lonely boy on the internet with a bondage fetish is intrigued at girls doing girls. Facebook is a free-for-all if you know where to look for these girls. He thought he’d hit gold after all these years.

“I want the undivided attention of your blue eyes.” she types, then hates herself for writing down something so tacky and semi-half-assed poetic. Fuck, if she goes on like this, she might as well send him a link to that stupid Limp Bizkit cover and get it over with. She deletes it. More bullshit about erotic asphyxation and choking men with her bare hands. She couldn’t mercy kill some roadkill if she had to.

The not-so-genteel cat-lady pops up in another chat window. “She claims on her wall that she is married to a woman, is this more bullshit posturing on her part or is she really a lesbian married to a woman?”.

“Yep”, he types and closes the window. Investigative, probing puss. Not now.

The chat window pops back up again. “Oh, wonderful, a lesbian who confesses her extreme S&M fantasies to some guy on the internet instead of having a nice hot&horny session with her, um, pretend-wife? I’m sorry, your friend is such an asshole and you, Sir, are a complete dumbass.”

He really doesn’t want to manage two chats in between his crotch. He clicks away the cat-lady, who comes back up with a vengeance and her seven cats hissing at him. “Believe you me, Sir, her girlfriend was probably reading along with all the bullshit she was feeding you over the chat, and laughing all the way. You don’t need these people in your life. There are people who will love you and accept you. These people are not interested in your emotional or physical well-being.”. A link to a Youtube video follows. It’s that Lauryn Hill song again. “Don’t be a hardrock when you’re really a gem, baby girl”. “I can totally see why people call her “γλυκούλα.” says the cat-lady, followed by a puke sticker. “Look! Greek rhyme!” she jokes. He ignores her.

“You and I are so alike.”, he types. The ugly girl with the purple gray hair responds with: “Υπέροχος είσαι! heart-emoticon “. He just told her his abduction fantasy, his great secret that he had never told anyone before. He doesn’t even have a car.

The cat-lady, no more paws, all claws on the keyboard, posts a link to the song Liar, which startles him somewhat because of the implicit serendipity. “I told her: GOOD BYE AND FUCK YOU TOO, LIAR, POSEUR, PRETENDER and above all MAJOR HYPOCRITE. I know an abuser when I see one, that woman is an abuser. She publishes all her work on a website filled with the work of rape apologists, yet she calls you a rapist? Look at you, you’d rather hurt yourself before hurting anyone else.”. He wishes the catty ranting would stop. The ugly girl with the purple gray hair continues brainstorming up one crazy fantasy after another. She types that she would like to break a cat’s neck just to watch the bone protrude, which instantly makes him feel better. He closes his eyes and images his new heroine breaking the neck of the cat-lady, them together watching the bone protrude, holding hands inside a hot pot so close to boiling point, spilling over.

“She’s got a noose around your neck.”, warns the cat-lady. He looks down down at his skinny legs, down at the ropes. “NO, THE NOOSE ISN’T THERE, IT’S THERE, THERE, AROUND YOUR NECK!”. Puss in caps. Loud puss. Loud puss must shut up.

This reminds me of ‘When Josh raped Shelley’.“, complains the cat-lady. “I am watching that same trainwreck all over again with different people.”.
“I will be your accident if you will be my ambulance/And I will be your screech and crash if you will be my crutch and cast.”, he types.
“Got you where I want you motherfucker. You are every motherfucker who wouldn’t look at me.”, thinks the ugly purple gray haired girl. “I am so in love with you.”, she types and deletes it.

The following blog entry is pure fiction and bears no relationship to existing people or events.

In Bed With Mr. V (short story)
by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou
(c) 2015 all rights reserved

The Blogger was lying in bed with mr V., a former Greek Minister of Finances and his hot blonde wife who was already fast asleep on his manly chest. The Blogger liked getting herself stuck between sweaty couples. The smell there was something else. Mr. V kisses his wife on her forehead.

“I haven’t fucked like this since I became Minister of Finances.” says mr. V. “Θεε μου, I really needed that.”.

“You know,” says the Blogger, “There are 11 000 000 people ready to fuck you, your wife and your friend Alex in gratitude of your service to the country.”. Mr V. smiles contently. “What will you do next? Besides fucking them all, that is?”
“I will go back to teaching.”
“Harvard?” asks the Blogger.
“No, I don’t want to run into George again.”
“But George is in the social studies department. Economics is another department at the other side of the campus.”, points out the Blogger.
“I’ve been there before, Harvard is a small world, a village of political power within an academic village.”. Mr. V reaches out to carress the Blogger’s hairy beaver, but the beaver snaps at his hand and crawls back into the river where it swims away in disgust. With the beaver out of the way, mr. V reaches between the legs of the Blogger. Her lips are sealed tight. Straight into her eyes he sees with no smile. She looks back with a “don’t even try, professor” stare. He smiles ironically and caresses the Blogger’s X-legs.

“Who else had the privilege of sharing the bed with you?” she insists.
“Don’t tell anyone…” says mr. V and whispers into her ear: “Fidel.”
“Shhh!” hushes mr. V. “No, no, no another minister of finances.”.
“Wow, you and Zoe and Alex are really out to fuck whomever you can lay your hands on, aren’t you?”. The Blogger raises an eyebrow, then moves herself between the legs of mr. V, who helpfully makes space for her.
“Do you know what it’s like to be fucked in the mouth every day by the likes of Angela, Jeroen, Martin, Mario, Wolfgang? Euromeeting upon euromeeting of them lining up to fuck you. I won’t even go into the the psycho-dynamics of all-night sessions to manufacture agreement.”
“As of tonight, I will know what it’s like to be fucked in the mouth by the former Greek minister of finances.”, thinks the Blogger to herself as she unrolls the condom.
“I’ve never been fucked in the mouth by Germans.”, admits the Blogger in a rare moment of personal honesty. “I only know what it’s like to be raped every day in the mouth by Americans and the Dutch.”. 
Staring down at the unrolled condom she thinks to herself, “I’m surprised I can still do this.”.
Mr. V caresses her hair. With every deep sigh getting deeper and deeper, mr. V releases το Γρυλισμα from within himself. The political animal.
Looking down at the Blogger it laughs. “If only the professional S&M pornographer were still here to see you like this…”.
“I never thought I’d see you here.”. says the Blogger from between the legs of mr. V. “If he were still here to see me like this he’d film it and demand that I sign away my rights on a release form. Because surely no one has ever seen a Greek woman getting fucked in the mouth by her political representatives. Where were you all these years? Hiding under a rock?”

The Blogger senses the flesh of the rockhardon of mr. V in her mouth. The condom’s ripped. Shocked, she pulls her mouth up and away from the disaster scene as fast as she can, minimizing skin contact. Nevertheless, she is left with that semi-rotten egg taste on her tongue that can only mean one thing. She looks up, expecting to see το Γρυλισμα laughing at her, but it is gone.
“Where are you?” she demands angrily.
“Here, here!” says το Γρυλισμα from within her mouth.
The Blogger looks down and sees a brand new unripped condom pointing at her in anticipation.
“FUCKER!” she shouts and spits a mouthful of το Γρυλισμα on the floor next to the bed.
“Don’t ever freak me out like that!” she barks as το Γρυλισμα laughs. “You only play safe?”
“We’re all doomed to oblivion, there is no such thing as safety so I only play it safe.”, says the Blogger, and resumes her civic responsibility as a Greek woman somewhere between the legs of the former Greek minister of finances and his wife.

Το Γρυλισμα nestles itself behind the Blogger’s butt and pulls her legs slightly appart. The Blogger’s pussy hisses at him like a cat. Alarmed, the Blogger looks up and over her shoulder. “You are not gonna do that!”, she warns.
“I just want to have a good look at this Greek mess unfolding before me.”, says το Γρυλισμα running one of its slimy tentacles between the folds.
“Oh no, it’s trying to do that manga ferries thing again.”, thinks the Blogger to herself, and το Γρυλισμα reading her thoughts agrees.
“When a Greek girl says no she means NO!”, hisses the pussy again. Tο Γρυλισμα backs off and the Blogger goes back to minding mr. V.
Licking it’s one lucky tentacle, το Γρυλισμα “mmm!”-s appreciatively. “You taste pretty sweet for such a sour little Greek cunt.”
“It’s not me, it’s the vegan food…”, admits the Blogger apologetically. “I try to lay off the vegan food, I try to eat as many σουβλακια as I humanly can, but… oh, it’s so bad, you can taste it off of me.”. To exculpate herself, she offers: “Meat is so expensive right now, and has become so scarce with the price control embargoes…”.
Το Γρυλισμα was about to suggest that they take the Midnight Meat Train together sometime for a decent meal, but it is once again distracted by the folds, thinking of kusudama and ferries.

The Blogger looks up, and there she is. It’s her. The white worker’s uniform, the golden Xian Orthodox cross on a chain, the Nihon-koku flag with the black sun. Silent Zachary, Szach for short, editor and chief photographer of the dreaded Black Blood publication, was standing there at the head of the bed, aiming her camera straight at the Blogger. The Blogger with a condom in her mouth, looking up at Zachary, realizing there’s no way out of this one. “You’d make a good centerfold for the next issue.”, smirks Szach and presses the button on her camera, firing a sure shot.

The Blogger wakes up screaming.


Silent Zachary and Το Γρυλισμα appear courtesy of ΜΟΥΣΙΚΟ ΚΙΝΗΜΑ: (ΜΑΥΡΕΣ) ΤΡΙΧΕΣ.

Silent Zacharia is a character from the book Black Blood by Alexander Voulgaris.


It is with great regret that we must inform you that the author of this blog, Efthimia Dilpizoglou, committed suicide yesterday. Those who wish to attend the funeral or send flowers are to contact

The following part of this blog entry is pure fiction and no relation to existing people or events is implied.

The Terror Pissed All Over Me (short story)
by drs. Efthimia Dilpizoglou
(c)2014 all rights reserved

I looked at the Terror Pissed off at the fact that I wouldn’t give into his soothing words, that I was untouched by all his acquired cunning and trickery. This session had actually been what you might call eventful, more of an event than all the previous sessions or any session the Terror Pissed and drunk on other people’s ego had experienced in his entire career. The Terror Pissed all over me like a mudslide submerging a Californian hillside home. With a swift kick to the nuts I brought the Terror Pissed into a cupped bow, then in a fetus position on the floor, saving myself before I drowned completely in his bullshit. “Some Terror Pissed you are,” I said and laughed. “You don’t scare me. I know everything you say is a lie, none of it is true. I’ve been seeing you for years and years, I know you, I know you all too well.”. The Terror Pissed its pants in fear.

you lie

you lie

“Will you at least pay me for this session? I need to pay the rent of this practice.”, begged the Terror Pissed on and off again like a child playing with the lightswitch, aiming for the toilet bowl but still hitting the floor.
“You want my money? Is that what you want? MONEY-ΧΕΣΤΟΟΟ!” I shouted like a rabble rouser and kicked the Terror Pissed in the nuts again. I went to the terror pissed all over me and guess how I choked him guess who I killed him guess how I gutted him. I said: I am trying to have fun no matter what I do, you bloody mess of a fool.