The Shepherd's Palace E-Book

Fateme Ostadabdolhamid

• Herausgeber: Self Published
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The Shepherd's Palace is a science fiction novel that takes place in a dystopian world. The story centers around the concept of superior gene screening. The narrator, known as the "Professor," tells the story in a non-linear and subjective way, without following a continuous timeline. The Professor is an executive in charge of an organization that governs a global system during his time. Throughout the book, various issues are explored, including media control, fake pandemics, unclear origins of earthquakes, public opinion control, and the assassination of famous individuals. The book challenges the fundamental concepts of love, death, commitment, and life repeatedly in a post-apocalyptic world where everyone is struggling to survive. The Professor, a respected biologist, experiences a mental breakdown while implementing the survival project of the superior gene. The story begins with order but ends with chaos and anarchy. Set in a world controlled by an unknown system that sends ambassadors to implement its projects, "The Shepherd's Palace" is a dark and shocking narrative. The novel has been banned in Iran and has not been published in Persian in its hometown. However, it has been published in Persian by a Norwegian publication called Aftab Publication, which is uncensored. 

Leseprobe

The Shepherd’s Palace

Author

Fateme Ostadabdolhamid

The Shepherd’s Palace Copyright © 2023 by

Fateme Ostadabdolhamid

The Shepherd’s Palace Copyright © 2023 by

Fateme Ostadabdolhamid

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

Author Name:

Fateme Ostadadabdolhamid

ASIN :  B0BXFRN9QM

Cover Designer:

Reza Mahdiyar

First printing edition 2023.

Trigger Note:

I've always hated having to explain myself about my work, but I think these explanations are necessary because you may not be the target audience for my book.

This book is neither spicy, sweet, nor romantic. Instead, the story is dark and harsh, with some scenes containing violence that may be disturbing. There is no 'happy ending' awaiting you.

Just as you don't recall your memories in the right order, the events in this book won't unfold in a straight line. It's not a linear narrative, and you have to guess the order of events.The sequence of events can sometimes be confusing. However, this confusion is intentional.

None of the characters in this book have a name (except one), and you'll have to remember them by their moral and behavioral traits or even their professions. Pay attention to the titles.

Children die in this book. If that bothers you, you shouldn't read it.

There is no specific place, and the world of the story is completely fictional.

Your faith could be ridiculed in this book! So if you are a sensitive person, please don't read it!

This book was written in Iran and was not allowed to be published there due to censorship. I have translated it from Farsi into English. Sometimes the translation may not be entirely native.

If, after reading this book, you feel that preventing its publication in Iran has been a futile effort and you haven't come across any particular reason that could serve as a strong justification for the censorship or prohibition of this book from your perspective, congratulations. You were born and live in a free country. :)

Sometimes the literature of the book becomes offensive. So if you have no interest in reading such texts, this book is not for you.

You are reading a stream-of-consciousness-style story, and the narrator's beliefs have nothing to do with the author's beliefs.

Acknowledgment

"He came to an abrupt halt in the curve between the ages of 29 and 30. Pausing mid-run, Took a deep breath, pondering, 'Well?... What lies ahead?'

He was convinced that at the age of 40 — which in his eyes was a full stop — it was his destiny to rest forever; yet the relentless race would continue with the same unwavering rhythm and pattern."

She closed the book, gently placing it on the table, and inquired,

"Did a lifetime of running make surrendering on that particular day easier?"

"Absolutely."

"Do you think he kept running?"

"He had no choice."

"So he had no choice and at the same time knew that this was the best course of action? What a stupid paradox!"

"We exist within such paradoxes. Certainty eradicates further inquiry. We all exist to seek an answer, an answer never truly attained. Nevertheless, the ceaseless pursuit keeps us alive."

To my love, Reza...

Who reignited the bravery and audacity of 'presence' in my world.

Prelude

And Isaac said to his father Abraham, "My father!"

And he said, "Here I am, my son."

He said, "Behold, the fire, and the wood, but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?"

Abraham said, "God will provide for himself the lamb for a burnt offering, my son."

So they went both of them together.

When they came to the place of which God had told him, Abraham built the altar there and laid the wood in order and bound Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar, on top of the wood.

Then Abraham reached out his hand and took the knife to slaughter his son.[1]

The story ends here...

And the Lord will not “PROVIDE”.

1

A ghastly kind of pain nests in each of my ribs.

It's been almost a week...

Maybe even longer...

The pain is like water collecting in a vessel.

It tries with all its might to seep out of the vessel and spread the affliction over everyone...

Pain is a contagious endeavor.

Pain is a plague...

When your entire existence is afflicted, with a bloated belly and lingering buboes[2], you seek a host to pass on your agony...

The pain must be drained before it spills over...

2

I draw the blinds shut, and the outside world disappears. As the haunting melody of these sliding iron stripes fills the air, an inexplicable anguish claws at my chest, tormenting me with a relentless, drill-like agony that sears through my very being. A sharp, drilling pain sinks into my knees.

The room is pitch dark. Yet the crimson from outside can seep through the gaps in the shutters. The city is feverish. It was like this until 24 hours ago.

Right when I turned the steering wheel towards the road that leads to our daughter's school, my wife stretched her hand towards the horizon and shouted excitedly,

“Look!... That's like the aurora borealis!”

My gaze lingered on the red and green spots in the sky. I grabbed her hand and squeezed it tightly...

"Wow... we saw a real one," I said.

I swallowed hard and stared at the hideous sky in front of me...

Couldn't tell if it was dread or anxiety, but it felt like I was witnessing its inception...

The sky ablaze...

I turned the car's steering wheel leftward, heading back to the main street.

At that moment, I just wanted a little more speed... just that!

The car's abrupt swerve to the left jolted her violently, propelling her body towards the window. Caught off guard, a piercing scream tore from her lips,

"We have to pick up our kid from school... Why are you changing the route?"

3

I'm sitting on the couch; the room takes on an orange tint as the sun strives to set. Crumpling a paper cup in my grasp, tea spills onto my hands. I notice this from the dampness of my finger's black hair. Hush the television's sound and succumb to the profound silence enveloping the room...

Twenty-four hours ago, 26,271 people were killed. No doubt there was a mistake in the count of bodies buried by the loader. I'm sure that 26,271 and a half people were killed. That half person was my wife's daughter, whom I had dropped off at the school at the last minute. We found out that she had died after we contacted the school and learned from the news that no one had survived in that area.

My wife wants to leave me because she thinks I've always hated that bastard who is the result of her one-night stand with a sexy street clown. But, no, I've never uttered that I knew anything about it. Her conviction is that I never desired to have a child and thinks that I'm happy about this situation now. I mean her fucking death. Or murder.

Since then she has almost become a semi-lunatic and is now shouting like a whore in the street...

It's been a week since I pretended to quit my job. My job is murder. But in an administrative and formal way. Naturally, everyone gives up at some point, but I haven't.

My wife once caught me flirting with my former trainee, who is now an inspector at the central office, and gave me an ultimatum. Either I quit my job or sign a divorce paper that would result in me giving away all my possessions to her. I presented numerous arguments to convince her that she was a fucking inspector and I couldn't sacrifice my social status for my wife's idealistic view of monogamy. Unfortunately, women sometimes override reason to gain the fruits of your years of effort and cling to strings of excuses.

That's why I preferred to waste more time with my family for a while and pretend I had quit my job. You know what?

The people in my life keep trying to convince me that I'm a fucking asshole.

These desperate efforts go so far as to risk their lives gathering documents and evidence to prove this claim in a fictitious court of law.

I don't know why none of them make an effort to distance themselves from me. Instead, they get closer and closer until they're incinerated in a fire caused by me being a fucking asshole.

My shitty life is full of fucking hateful people, and that hate might force me to enjoy my job. A job that fans the flames of hate in me even more. These days, as I approach the desired goal, my smile widens. It’s like the smile of a boy who has attacked an army of ants with a magnifier and after minutes of hard work aligning the magnifier’s angle, he is joyously watching them burn up. But my smile is wider. I've not attacked their army.

My target is the colony itself…

I know what is going on. When someone understands something, their inner turmoil only calms down completely when they pour their information into someone else′s brain. I am the carrier of a great pain that is currently tearing my ribs apart and splattering on the faces of everyone in this feverish city. Everyone must be afflicted with this plague. And before the flying spaghetti monster [3]devours them, they must 'understand'!

I knew that half an hour after seeing the feverish sky, 26,271 and a half people were slated to depart for Gehenna[4]! Governments preserve thesuperior genes for reproduction and kill weakness. People become more superstitious every year and cling to God's balls for survival... Everyone thinks that nature has started swallowing the shitty products of the Creator... The ungrateful, the sinners and those who do not sacrifice.

The truth is that the superior generation is rolling the dice over the lives of nasty pieces of shit.

In this gamble, only the gene proficient in world affairs survives to persist...

In this gamble, my wife's little bastard is a stinking waste and must be buried... It's a cautious imperative for the sake of producing a stronger generation...

Five of my colleagues have also resigned themselves to their 'fate' according to this formula.

Of course, only after they had completely extracted and discharged their useful mental contents.

and we were sure there was nothing more to say. One of these five was my best friend among all the ass-kissers in the organization. A mix of Arab and Persian descent from Muslim parents.

a fucking workaholic guy who, after joining the organization, had managed to walk a ten-year path faster than anyone else without any academic qualifications. Saying goodbye to a friend was harder than burying the seed of a sexy street clown in her grave. Since that farewell, the only question on my mind has been... Is it fair to die for survival?

After several hours of pondering, I have come to the conclusion that it is actually quite fair to kill 26,271 and a half people for the survival of a stronger generation. Nature needs to be sifted...

Humans consume all resources, and none of the politically charged theorists have managed to find a way to control and tame these creatures by determining the form of government. The era of Marxist bullshit poetry has come to an end with the onset of resource scarcity. Now we can neither share everything nor increase production capacity.

In these ten years we have done everything we could to prevent these cunt-faced fuckers, these third-rate humans, from viral reproduction. At least we aimed to prevent the birth rate of third-rate humans in underdeveloped countries. But the clergy undermined the majority of our efforts. Now we have refrained from engaging in a media war against the effort they made to promote childbearing. Throughout history, these perpetual junkie ignoramuses have consistently muddled and tarnished the realm of science. Fuck the morons who line the pockets of these emotional dream dealers and allow them to expand their platforms for spreading hate through pseudoscience day after day.

Like a pervasive virus, we can only fight it by closing our ears so they don't hypnotize the naive sheeple with their bullshit under the guise of eternal afterlife.

Today we have a choice between being sifted by nature and an inevitable war for resources.

Dying to live...

Live to die…

An imperceptible war for survival between those who understand and those who are entangled in the web of superstition until the moment of death.

I'm watching television. An excavator digs its claw into the heart of the earth and pulls out the blue-tinted corpses of people with the rupture it has caused in their bellies. The video of the turmoil and the stench of the sheeple, who are always present at such incidents but never find peace until they themselves come into contact with the deaths of others.

There are so many corpses. I don't know why they don't bury them in mass graves?...

We don't have that much space in our cemeteries. All of them could be buried in the same area and after their corpses decayed, reconstruction could commence. I can imagine how many of these humans in their last moments turned to kissing God's ass for salvation, but even after kissing and licking his balls, they came to no conclusion. A foretold death that was a gift of Gehenna to sinners. Or the gift of sinners to the stomach of Gehenna.

It's a kind of Divine Sieving[5]. After the incident, religious leaders presented a theoretical narrative about the prevalence of father-daughter incest and the forbidden aborted embryos. Politicians promised compensation and the rebuilding of the city with ridiculous sadness, while in the midst of it all, only the scientists had eyes full of sorrow and agony. Tormented by what they knew but weren't allowed to disclose. With mouths wide open and stomachs connected to the core of the earth, governments devour every speck of creation.

An they use us as their executive organs. I've no problem being an executive organ of such a system. As long as this system can provide me with comfort, I'll serve it. Nothing in this world is more important to me than a peaceful life. Although no faith justifies fighting, I don't have much of a paradoxical belief. I also believe that sifting the fine from the coarse grains is the best way to overall salvation.

But sometimes an illogical paradox from the world of absurd emotions of third-rate humans pains my heart.

I am in pain. A pain that clutches each of my ribs and has squeezed my heart into a fist so that all my blood spurts out of my chest.

Sometimes I silence this feeling of emptiness by looking to tomorrow, and then I am the most logical person in this game.

And again I return to the absurd world of third-rate human emotions, with the weeping of that semi-lunatic whore mourning the death of her little bastard in the middle of the street.

I am plagued. But I know that only if I find a host and drag them into this plague will all this wild pain inside me sink into the abyss of ecstasy I've been craving.

A host that does not exist.

A host who is gone.

A host whose absence has buried my soul under the rubble.

4

The weather is warm and pleasant. The sun is slowly setting as we walk along the street. A street festival is going on in front of us. I give her a glance; she smiles as she diverts our path towards the festival. The weather warms up with Cuban music. Couples dance salsa with sweat-soaked bodies. The aroma of mojitos permeates the atmosphere — the pungent smell of cigarettes wafts in. A few homeless people stand further away from the crowd and find the scene mouth-watering as they watch the dancers. A lardass woman with frizzy hair and tanned skin sways in the crowd, carrying a tray of cocktails through the audience. Drops of sweat trickle down from her flabby tits. My gaze wanders to her fleshy, shit-brown lips. A cheap cigarette dangles from the corner of her mouth and the unsteady ash threatens to fall onto the cocktails she's carrying. My gaze falls on the crowd. I wait for their delusional leader[6], that dumbass pig in the same muddy khaki clothes, to step out of the crowd, flick his Cuban cigar ash in our faces and command the export of his fucking revolution to our country.

The girl takes my hand and leads me into the crowd. I hate the hustle and bustle of people...

Let go of her hand. She frowns at me. I'm a grown-ass man for this kind of amusement. Immediately her frown melts away. She catches the rhythm of the music, takes a step backwards and whirls into the crowd to find her dance partner in a split second. I smile. She nods to the beat of the music and sways gently from side to side. Her sleek black hair dances through the air like a whip. She dances like a true native.

The tanned old bat with sagging tits and an open collar comes towards me.

She brings me a large tray of flirtatious cocktails. The crappy and strong smell of sweat from her tits irritates my nose. My gaze falls on the marks on her breast skin. Her boobs have emptied and filled, at least for ten kids. I grab a mojito from the tray. The subtle scent of rum promises an original recipe.

My eyes follow the girl. She smiles and dances salsa with her new Cuban friends. In the midst of the crowd, all wearing local attire, she's the only one embracing the music in a black suit. It's a nice contradiction. I smile and take a sip of mojito. The invigorating aroma of mint penetrates deep into my bones. One of the dancers twirls his hat in the air and holds it out to me. I take my wallet out of my jacket pocket and put a few bills in his hat. The young, nimble dancer swiftly rushes back into the crowd. Charity has always appealed to me. I like the feeling of pride afterwards. gesture with my left hand for the girl to come back. She comes towards me breathing heavily and faces me with a big smile. Then grabs the mojito from my hand and takes a sip. I grab her hand. The warmth of her palms melts me. Brush a strand of black hair away from her reddish lips. See myself in her eyes. A strange unease grips my soul. Don't want to see my reflection in another person's eyes. Although she's only 19, she's determined to savor life more than I do. The mixture of ambition and wisdom is fascinating — a potent mix. But it's the essence of life running through your veins that allows you to develop this powerful weapon, a high-speed machine for progress.

"Do you enjoy being a greedy attention whore?" I tease.

She chuckles and says nothing. I put my left hand behind her shoulder and pull her closer to me. Press my lips gently to her forehead and she responds with a tender kiss on my lips.

"Shall we go?" I suggest.

She places the drink on a small table.

"Let's go, oldie..."

5

I take a sip of coffee.