FORWARD ULASEK!

 

The year was 1974. Citizen Mieczysław Baran was appointed Commune Head, and citizen Halina Gąsiorek was appointed office secretary. At the same meeting, in a secret ballot, the founding fathers of the Naprzód Ulasek Communal Sports Club elected Jan Franciszek Piętka president. This all took place in the auditorium of the Ulasek communal library, where the 30th anniversary of the Polish People's Republic had been celebrated a week earlier. Three bearded men watched these historic events for Ulasek from a red cloth. A shaven-shaven comrade, Citizen First Secretary Edward Gierek, peered out from beneath the beards, the audio being played from a reel-to-reel tape recorder. The most important comrade said: "The contemporary shape of our home, called Poland, was born from the persistent, collaborative work of the nation. We can be proud of its role and position in the world."

Hearing these words for the sixteenth time, citizen Halina Gąsiorek, who had just become secretary, was invariably moved. Especially at the word "home," which Comrade Edward uttered with emphasis. Citizen Gąsiorek wasn't thinking about the house called Poland; he was thinking about his own. About the civic blocks, bricks, and cement, which, now that he was the municipal secretary, he would surely arrange. When citizen Gąsiorek finished crying, the newly elected president, Jan Franciszek Piętka, approached the podium. He walked with unsteady and uncertain steps, having been celebrating the 30th anniversary of the Polish People's Republic for a week. That day, his wife even told him that if the 30th anniversary didn't end, she would take the children and go to her mother. Piętka was shaken by this threat; it's no wonder he celebrated more than usual. He was, however, a solid and disciplined man. With a flourish, he pulled a sheaf of papers from his jacket pocket, on which he had already prepared a suitable speech. Now, however, he realized that he had either picked up the wrong papers or had made a mistake during his visit to the privy. In any case, before him was a scroll of a highly sought-after article, possession of which was one of the many privileges of power. He glanced at the scroll and pretended to read. "

Dear compatriots, brothers, comrades, the newly established Naprzód Ulasek football club has a bright future ahead of it." He

gulped down a glass of soda and looked imploringly at Citizen Gąsiorek. However, she, preoccupied with mixing cement, water, and sand, didn't notice him. Piętka swallowed hard and began to talk about the recent World Cup qualifiers, because that was the only thing that came to mind. "

The Poles started disastrously, with a 2-0 away defeat to Wales." But already on June 6, 1973, our captain Lubański led the team in Chorzów to a disgraceful victory over the proud sons of Albion. What conclusion can be drawn from this, comrades?

He was answered by deafening silence. Behind him, someone exhausted by the long summer was snoring. President Piętka, undaunted by the lack of a response, continued.

"The team needs a captain. I've heard people say we need a coach. Nothing could be further from the truth. Hiring someone like that would be foolish and a waste of money. A footballer isn't an idiot; if you tell him how to play, he'll play that way. You need to hire a coach for a day or two, three at most, to have him say what he has to say."

After these words, Piętka went to fetch the water from the presidential table. How could he have known that the comrades of the community weren't accustomed to drinking water on hot days? President Piętka poured himself a full glass and drank it down. His mind buzzed. He saw the Silesian Stadium filled to the brim. Instead of the red and white team, facing England, stood the green and yellow Naprzód Ulasek. Green shorts, symbolizing the meadows surrounding Ulasek, flapped proudly on the players' legs. Yellow shirts, due to the particularly intense sun shining over the commune, were a sight to behold for the terrified Englishmen. The referee's whistle blew, and they were off. Tadek Kuduk feinted past McFarland, and a sharp shot into the top corner was caught by Shilton. Despite his best intentions, President Piętka didn't see the next move, which looked destined for a goal. Podleś headed the ball six times and passed it to Zaręba… just then, someone turned out the lights. Chief Baran woke up and shouted, "

Get him out of this heat."

Thus ended the historic meeting at which GKS Naprzód Ulasek was founded.

The club's subsequent history unfolded as follows. When the 30th anniversary ended, President Piętka continued his patriotic fervor, and, surrounded by friends and sometimes comrades – football activists from other communes – he began celebrating the 31st anniversary. His wife took the children with her, and Piętka was happy because he could devote himself entirely to football. One Sunday, as a community service, construction of the 30th Anniversary stadium began. The meadows near the cemetery seemed to be everyone's cup of tea; they belonged to the parish, which was irrelevant in a materialistic age. The priest, a relic of the old system, had no right to protest; otherwise, the combined forces of the working class, peasants, and a few intellectuals might have become upset. After clearing away molehills and cow dung, pine goals were erected. A ball was found, and the first training session took place that same Sunday. Then someone remembered President Piętka's speech about hiring a coach. Piętka didn't remember anything, but pretended to know what was going on. He promised to personally go to Warsaw and arrange for whoever needed it. The next day, he boarded a local train from Małkinia to Warsaw Wieleńska, and in less than two hours, he arrived. He drank from the soda fountain. He ate a sandwich and went for a walk along Targowa Street toward the Różycki Bazaar. There, at the gate, a suspicious man accosted him.

"What do you wish, sir?"

President Piętka, due to his position, didn't want to engage in conversation with the guy. He tried to bypass him. Then the guy began listing the goods and services he owned.

"I need a watch, maybe the gentleman would like to exchange some dollars, maybe a suit for you, a shoe resoled, or maybe a girl?"

President Piętka swallowed. The guy saw the twinkle in Piętka's eyes and knew he had him.

"A girl?"

"For an hour, maybe longer, whatever the boss wants. Black, redheaded, fat, thin, whatever the client wants. She can be hunchbacked, busty, childlike, bald, with a mustache."

President Piętka was escorted by the guy to the appropriate address. After two hours, he emerged satisfied and several years younger. He boarded the train and returned with a sense of duty well done. In Ulask, where they were waiting for him as if he were a savior, he announced with a pained expression that finding a coach wasn't as easy as he thought and would require several more visits to Warsaw. President Piętka had traveled to Warsaw over twenty times, returning with the same pained expression and, with the same gesture of outstretched hands, telling his compatriots that this time too he hadn't succeeded.

Then one day, President Piętka stopped in Warsaw for a beer. He looked up and saw a fat man in a tracksuit with "Legia" written on it sitting right next to him. The president knew how to talk to people, so he approached the fat man with a half-liter and said he'd been looking for someone like him since the fall. At first, Chłopina defended himself, saying that his brother-in-law was working at the stadium and had gotten him the tracksuit, but he was just an ordinary tram driver, and his name was Sędek. Halfway through the second bottle, the tram driver Sędek twirled his mustache, tensed up, and said that for someone like President Piętka, he'd do anything.

They walked together toward the station, and on the way, the chairman sent a telegram to the municipality: "I'm coming back. Stop. Not alone. Stop."

That was Friday. Coach Sędek's welcome began on the platform in Ulask. At three in the morning, when the first train was leaving for Warsaw, Sędek tried to struggle, but he was denied. He was carried to the stadium. By seven in the morning, about twenty men had gathered on the pitch. Most of them hadn't yet sobered up. Sędek, the tram driver, watched them carefully, as if assessing their fitness for the game. Finally, he summoned the chairman for a consultation.

"What do they want from me?" he asked, quite seriously. "

Tell them something, how to play, or let them fly."

Sędek, the tram driver, sighed and said, "

Run, ready, set, fly around the pitch until I say stop."

When, after an hour, the entire group lay panting on the grass, Sędek smacked his lips and said.

-Gentlemen, this is not good, I have to go to work now, but when I get back I'll take care of you.

President Piętka's pleas and threats were to no avail. The judge became determined, saying he had a second shift and that it would be a shame to lose such a job, because where else would he find another one? Finally, he kissed the president with a shotgun and left.

President Piętka looked at the barely breathing players and said,

"Did you hear what

 the coach said? It's not good.

Dream or reality?

We were diving in an underground lake, in a cave. Everything was fine until we descended a few meters, where divemaster Michal started

taking photos of me for a diving center advert. I took my regulator out of my mouth for a moment, then put it back on, and everything was photographed.

Even though I was well-balanced and neutrally buoyant, I began to descend very quickly, as did Michal and the other divers. I don't know about the rest, but

Michal and I were unaware of our descent, constantly engaged in taking photos. There were no reference points in the depths to indicate we were

sinking. I only became aware of our descent when I saw the illuminated seabed out of the corner of my eye.

I looked there to see some submerged ruins. A building, an upside-down boat next to it, and pillars driven into the seabed all around.

My first impression was that it was some ancient, long-flooded ruin. A place where no one had been for ages.

Only after a moment did I realize how deep I must be, frantically searching for an inflator to add air to my jacket and blowing myself dry to avoid damaging my ears. I couldn't – the descent rate was too great. I hit the bottom, landing on my legs, which almost completely buckled from the impact, but I maintained my balance.

I was in shock. I couldn't blow myself dry; I was at the bottom of some deep, underground

lake. That was enough, until I saw people – or perhaps eerily human-like creatures. They were walking along the bottom as if nothing had happened. Without drysuits, or even wetsuits. Without air tanks or regulators. They were essentially dressed much like people dressed in the early 20th century. We caught their mild attention, though they weren't particularly concerned. They continued to go about their business.

As I looked around and observed the faces of the other divers, I noticed that each of us was in a similar state. There were about five of us, counting me and the divemaster.

Looking around, I saw a completely different landscape than it had been during our descent. We were in a sort of square in a small town.

All around were houses with flat roofs, the architecture of which was, however, astonishing. The building I saw as I descended turned out to be an ordinary shop.

The shocking thing about it all was the indifference of the people around us. They were walking, breathing. For a moment, I wondered if this was a dream, if this wasn't

too incredible. However, I decided I wouldn't be convinced until I saw something absolutely absurd. It was all acceptable—

let's say so. If it was a dream, then nothing could happen to me. If it was reality, I still had to take the risk and check it out.

I slightly tilted my mask, which surprisingly hadn't filled with water, or perhaps, being so under the influence of adrenaline, I hadn't noticed. I sniffed slightly, expecting the unpleasant sensation of water in my nostrils. What I felt somehow justified what was happening.

I took a deep breath. Seemingly, not a drop of water. I could breathe underwater, without a regulator. I put my mask back on, breathing

air from my tank again.

I drew the diving knife strapped to my calf to tap on the tanks and attract the attention of the other divers. It was a bit absurd, considering that we were clearly not in the water at that moment, but on air.

However, it had an effect, and the eyes of the other four turned to me.

I took the regulator out of my mouth and tossed it aside, the hose and canister falling down, out of my sight. Still fighting my instincts, I opened my mouth. I inhaled "air," and my chest rose. I exhaled—only now did I notice that no bubbles appeared.

I inhaled "air from the water" again and exhaled again.

Everyone was shocked. Tentatively, Michal reached for his regulator and pulled it out as well. He tried to inhale through his mouth.

A faint smile spread across his face as he, too, realized he could breathe here. The others, seeing us, also dropped their regulators and began breathing underwater air.

The situation meant we could also speak, as if we were on the surface. It was all very strange. We headed for the store, passing a group of women walking perpendicular to our course. They gave us a quick glance and moved on, unfazed.

The interior of the building resembled a modern grocery store. Bottled drinks lined the shelves, and sweets were on the counter. There was even a cooler (was it working? I doubt it) with ice cream. Then I realized my face wasn't cold at all. The drysuit kept my body warm at all depths, but that didn't apply to my face. In fact, I didn't feel any discomfort, even though I still didn't remove my mask.

The saleswoman wasn't talkative. One woman in our group, oddly enough, happened to have a wallet on her. I don't know how she

brought it here; maybe she had it in an undersuit underneath her suit

? Never mind. She bought everyone what they wanted, though I held back, distrusting the situation. Another surprise was that

the saleswoman accepted our Polish coins without hesitation. Two zlotys, złotys, groszy. As if it were normal, or as if

she was paid daily with money from all over the world.

The rest of the group had already emerged. I looked around and couldn't see them anywhere. I couldn't see the slightest sign of them passing in any direction. I started to panic. I looked around again – they were gone. Just people passing by indifferently. I placed my regulator

back in my mouth, deciding to surface. There were still two people left on the boat we'd been diving from. I inflated my BC to its maximum capacity with the inflator, and surprisingly, I began to slowly rise upward. As

the depth decreased, the ascent rate increased. So I slowly began to withdraw the expanding air from my BC. Making the appropriate

safety stops to avoid decompression sickness, I soon surfaced.

The boat was still in place. Piotrek was bustling about

– our second divemaster and another guy I didn't really know. I put my mask on my forehead – which, among divers, meant panic – and started slapping the water with my hand. This quickly caught Piotrek's attention, and he immediately jumped into the water, wearing only his wetsuit, mask, snorkel, and fins. A moment later, he was at my side, looking nervous.

I briefly explained what had happened, though he paid no attention to my incredible story. He probably assumed it was all a result of

nitrogen narcosis – an effect that occurs at a depth of about 20 meters and intensifies with increasing depth. The state was, in a

way, similar to alcohol intoxication. We stop

thinking rationally, and our thought processes often slow down significantly – we have trouble solving the simplest math problems – and we get a feeling like, "There's nothing to worry about, it's so much fun..." "

Don't worry about the rest. For a moment, I even considered going down after you, but I figured you'd be fine. After all, you're experienced divers," Piotrek said when I told him the other four were still at the bottom.

"Please, let's go down. Let's look for them. By the air bubbles, the flashlight beams, whatever," I tried to persuade him, even though I knew they probably weren't using flashlights or leaving bubbles floating to the surface.

Piotrek agreed. Something about his behavior surprised me. I don't know what, but he was acting strange. He grabbed my hand and motioned for me to deflate

my BC. I did as he told me; he was a divemaster, after all. But why wasn't he wearing any gear? We descended together,

Piotrek slowly exhaling the exhausted air, and I suddenly realized I couldn't draw a breath from the regulator. I glanced at the pressure gauge—the tank was empty.

I jerked and showed Piotrek that I was out of air. He ignored it and motioned for me to exhale calmly. We were approaching the bottom at tremendous speed. We hit the bottom, both gasping for breath "from the water." I unzipped my jacket and left it on the ground. I also took off

my fins, following Piotrek's example. He must have known about this place, had been here before, I thought, though I didn't say anything.

Suddenly, two men approached us. One older, with a beard, the other

younger, with a crew cut. "

Hello!" the older one said cheerfully. The other only nodded.

"What is this place?" I asked immediately.

"You know best. You just have to believe what you guess," the older underwater man chuckled. Piotrek remained silent, exchanging only glances and nods with the couple we encountered.

"How is it that we can breathe here?"

"Oh, that's mostly my son's fault.

" "Well, that's right. I once discovered how to create an 'artificial atmosphere' underwater. We made it happen. Technically, we're not breathing air now, but a mixture of air and compressed oxygen.

He's talking about nitrox," I thought.

The couple turned away from us and began to walk away, disappearing from sight after a moment. I was shocked, though Piotrek seemed unsurprised by

our conversation.

I followed him silently along a path paved with boulders. It climbed upwards, and we followed it until we saw a town larger than the one

where we first landed. It was located at the foot of some strange "mountains." The jagged rocks were extraordinarily high, and to the locals,

they must have been considered mountain peaks.

As we entered the city, incredible architecture greeted us. Unlike any I'd ever seen on Earth. It was like a fusion of all styles—contrary to appearances, the effect was miraculous. The streets were somewhat artificial—no vehicles moved along the cobblestone roads. Cars, angular, resembling broken terrestrial ones, stood parked on the shoulders like monuments. We crossed the road, unaware of the two men behind us.

Suddenly, they grabbed us and twisted our arms behind our backs, cuffing our hands together. The underwater men were dressed in costumes reminiscent of American police uniforms from the 1930s. They didn't speak, only smiled broadly.

I couldn't help but laugh as I realized they'd probably stopped us for crossing the street in an unmarked area. This city, this whole thing, seemed terribly artificial to me then. As if these people were pretending to be an Earthly society, but all they were producing was a poor

mock-up.

"Leave them alone, guards! I'm taking over the detainees!" she suddenly exclaimed.

a third in a similar uniform. I thought he might free us. Instead, I felt the impact of a police baton on my back, belonging to

the third stranger. The first two "policemen" saluted and left, and we walked ahead of

the third, following his instructions. I noticed Piotrek fumbling with his handcuffs, slowly removing his left hand from the cuffs. Our eyes met, and we ran forward as Piotrek released his hand. The policeman was still chasing us.

Suddenly, Piotrek grabbed my arm and dragged me into a side alley, where there was a single, rusty door. The divemaster quickly turned the handle, and we were inside. Beyond that was another door, made of nailed boards. Light seeped through the cracks in the door. Piotrek quickly knocked. A small, slightly overweight man with glasses opened the door. He beamed at the sight of Piotr and let us in.

We quickly explained our situation—he said there was nothing to worry about and that he would hide us. The room was cluttered. Various papers, boxes, and plastic bins were strewn about the room. Our savior approached the door when a knock sounded.

Terrified, I thought he was going to betray us—I could see police uniforms through the cracks in the door. Instead, he gave me a thumbs-up sign—only after a moment did I realize he was telling me everything was alright. He opened the door slightly and slipped through into the hallway, closing it behind him. He seemed to be talking to them.

I sat down at his desk, at the other end of the room, noticing the sign that read, "Nail Biting Service - Affordable." A smile spread across my face when I saw the bitten nail scrapes in the bowl next to him.

This was the height of absurdity. 

The Necromancer's Cry

 

I don't know why I'm writing these words. Perhaps I feel a need for someone to read them in the future and learn the story of my life. I can't pinpoint where this need comes from. Is there a remnant of humanity left in me? I know my end is near; I have little time left in the physical dimension. When I look back on my life, my mind is flooded with reflection and regret. An unspeakable regret. Where does this feeling come from? It stems from all the choices and their consequences that have occurred in my life. These choices have brought me here, to a place that evokes terror in many people. This place has become my home, but only now do I realize that it has, in reality, become a prison for me. I was rejected by people. The practices I engaged in aroused fear in them. I was a necromancer living in a vast necropolis. Why did I become a dark magician, devout in necromancy? Do you want to know why I almost lost my humanity and allowed my body to become like my dead servants rising from their graves?

It all began in my youth. I wasn't a simple youth, and I systematically got involved in more and more robberies. These weren't major crimes, but rather petty thefts and fights. I often got punched in the face by my father. However, it was to no avail; it only intensified my disobedience. With my misdeeds, I drove my mother to illness, which in turn led to her death. This event sobered me from my youthful foolishness, and led my father to alcoholism. I decided to change. Really change. I must admit, it's not easy to break free from old habits so deeply ingrained in me. I undertook a difficult, psychological battle with myself and managed to become a different person. Soon, my father was found in a roadside ditch. He had drank himself to death. That's how I became an orphan. I sank into despair, but fate wouldn't let me end up like my father. I became a legionnaire. I wanted to drown all my sorrow in the shed blood of the enemy. It was a time of great battles, of changes on the continent. I had no time to contemplate my miserable fate. I devoted myself to killing in the name of higher ideals, which I didn't fully understand. I made no friends; I was a loner. I don't know what others thought of me; frankly, I didn't care. It wasn't easy. People died by the thousands. Life lost all the respect it deserved. I fought in many battles against creatures whose races I can't even identify. I felt invincible; it seemed to me I was practically immortal. The experience and self-confidence I gained allowed me to become a centurion, and then a thousandth. I proudly led my troops and won. My enemies feared me. Legends were born about me. I became a powerful, undefeated commander, raised to the rank of Titan. At that time, Aidegart appeared. When I first saw her, something stirred within me. A part of me that had been suppressed during years of battle awoke. I fell in love with Aidegart. I didn't want to. I was afraid to feel affection for anyone. I spent the happiest days of my life with my beloved. She became the most important thing to me. That's how I loved Aidegart.

Orcs killed her. I wasn't there for her. I wasn't there for Aidegart when she needed me most. The madness that gripped me after her death drove me to revenge. I can't say how many years I killed orcs. However, this didn't fill the void left by her loss. The suffering became unbearable. I lost the will to exist. It was at that time that I encountered spiritism, and soon necromancy. I took all the required vows and began studying secret and forbidden knowledge. I had excellent teachers, thanks to whom I became a necromancer. I undertook all this for Aidegart. I decided to resurrect her. It wasn't an art to infuse life into her body; the true challenge was to restore her soul. Despite years of trying, I never succeeded, but I refused to give up. Years passed, and I delved deeper into ancient knowledge, oblivious to the destruction of my humanity. I never achieved my goal.

Now I'm so old that I no longer have the strength to fight for my purpose. Soon I will die, and I only hope that after death I will find Aidegart and that she will forgive me for my desire to restore her to the world, which for me has turned into a selfish desire.

Hell

 

I sit in a room filled with sex. I look at faces

filled with only one thing: lust. Nothing else exists but the thought of ten minutes of total sexual abandon. It becomes the master and reigns supreme over our being. It satisfies our animalistic nature. It doesn't matter with whom; love is out of the question—that's not the game. The point is to relieve the sexual tension that overwhelms rational thought. Things are different now. We don't have to play good husbands, caring fathers, flawless men in white gloves.

Now that the doors of this room have been opened to us, we are no longer respectable people. We become beasts with wild sexual fantasies. In the waiting room for the unfulfilled, we wait for their fulfillment. On the right sit those awaiting propositions, and on the left, those awaiting propositions. All dressed in transparent outfits, they display their murder weapons, their torture devices. The women look good, although the little one in the black outfit with the whip in her hand terrified me greatly. I don't like violence. Men with large penises walk around in their negligees from time to time, displaying their weapons. Those with smaller ones sit quietly, as if trying to hide the imperfections of their nature.

"They feel undervalued. They don't know that a whore doesn't care what kind of penis. It's all about the money," I thought.

When the redhead and the huge, fat man left the room, I felt sorry for her.

"So many kilos to carry. A disgusting, fat goat," I said to myself.

"Don't get upset. She's just walking him on a leash.

" "What?" I asked .

"Don't you know how to walk a dog on a leash?

" "I know.

" "Yeah." She puts on the leash and walks him around the room.

"Does that turn him on? Does he reach orgasm?

" "Apparently so."

"Terrible."

I looked to my left. Business began to bustle. Women were selecting items. They touched, groped, and took them upstairs. They had ten minutes to satisfy their lust. Those who wanted could pay extra for more.

It disgusted me. The height of my disgust was the image of a woman leading a male by his penis. He followed her, smiling and proud because she had chosen him.

"A slave market," I said.

"That's what it looks like," my interlocutor replied.

"It's hell," I said.

"And what are you doing here?

" "I wanted to see the rot.

" "Why?

" "So I wouldn't regret it and debase myself."

I opened the door. I walked down a long corridor. A quiet voice beckoned me back, tempting me with handsome men with large penises. A side door opened, where debauchery reached the very depths of hell. I couldn't bear to watch. I vomited. It was disgusting. I didn't want to see the abyss any longer. I finally found a way out. I opened the gate and stepped out into the fresh air. From then on, I never wanted to see hell again. And then I felt free.

She from the dream

 

It seems obvious that human dreams are just a segregation of human experiences, imaginations or thoughts in the subconscious, but how in such a case can we explain prophetic dreams or dreams that become a prison for people, and sometimes also a salvation. The dreams that haunted me every night couldn't be the product of my subconscious. They came from some alien source, from a realm I neither knew nor understood. The dreams that came to me left not only a mark on my psyche; they also devastated my body. Reality ceased to have any meaning for me, ceased to be important. Nighttime dreams came to the forefront of my existence. In my dreams, I was always in the same place, precisely at its center. It was a vast chamber; no matter how hard I strained my mind, I couldn't define its surface, let alone the material from which it arose; I saw them dimly, as if through a fog. She always appeared in my dreams. I didn't know who she was or where she came from, but she was calling me; I had no power over her. Not in this dimension. I couldn't fathom her nature. The only certainty I had was that she was beautiful. I could never recall her image after waking; all I was left with was the incredible memory of her arousing beauty. For long periods, she remained silent, allowing me to gaze at her and admire her. Finally, however, she decided to speak; her voice was incredibly warm and seductive; when she spoke to me, I couldn't tear my eyes away. I couldn't speak to her; her statements were so complete, my mind too limited to complete them, if that were even possible. We were always just a few steps away, but I could never approach her; I had the overwhelming feeling that if I approached her and touched her scantily clad body, she would melt beneath my fingers. So in each dream, I remained frozen in place, as if made of stone—and listened, captivated by her wisdom. In waking life, I could never recall what she was saying. I was unsure of my feelings for her. Perhaps it was a kind of "puppy love," blind and deaf to all fears and warnings of common sense. I was ready to do anything for her, just one word would be enough. My life so far, family, school, friends, ceased to matter to me. Only she became important. I looked forward to every meeting with her. She became my main goal in life, she took over my mind. My physical form became a wreck, all daily activities and contact with the real world became, for me, just an unpleasant necessity. I eagerly awaited the night. Soon I realized I wanted to be with her. Only with her. The next opportunity I decided to confess it to her. I didn't know if it was even possible, but it was my desire. I decided to tell her. The opportunity came the next night. I found myself again in a familiar room. As usual, she didn't keep me waiting; she appeared, even more beautiful than before. I looked her straight in the eyes. For the first time. I realized,That this way she knows my thoughts. I felt her intrusions into my mind, and I allowed her to do so. I couldn't resist her; I gave her my consent. Thanks to this, I didn't have to say anything; she learned what I wanted to tell her. After a moment, she turned her back to me and with inexpressible grace raised her hands. I looked at her in surprise, and before her something began to take shape, a moment later taking the shape of a luminous gate. Finally, she turned back to me and beckoned me. I followed her, through the gate, into a world I didn't know, but I wasn't afraid, for it was the homeland of my Lady from my dream.

Bibliography

Randles, Jenny. In Search of the Oz Factor . BUFFER Bulletin 26 (July 1987): 17–18.

Nautilus Foundation. "Strange Lights Over Skierniewice." Nautilus (online article, August 1, 2005).

Miazga, Arkadiusz. "When Time Goes Wild - or the Magic Factor of Oz." Nieznany Świat 3/2022 (March 2022).

Krajnik, Łukasz. "Liminal Spaces - Snapshots of Inscrutable Moments." Popmoderna , February 15, 2021.

Milert, Magdalena. "Discovering Liminal Spaces." Architecture & Business , April 17, 2024.

“The Oz Factor.” Encyclopedia of Occultism and Parapsychology . Gale, last accessed October 25, 2025 (Encyclopedia.com).

“Liminal space.” Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia . As of November 1, 2025.

Backstage of Strangeness

The Oz Factor and liminal spaces—two concepts from different fields—turn out to describe similar experiences on the edge of reality. Both phenomena highlight how fragile our everyday realities are and how easily our minds can enter a state of suspension between "the world we know" and "something more." Experiencing the Oz Factor reveals that in a split second, the ordinary world can transform into a strange, silent scene, like something from a movie—all it takes is an encounter with the unknown.

The fascination with liminal spaces shows that magic lies in the everyday, in those seemingly banal places we rarely examine. When taken out of context, they take on an extraordinary character, partly beautiful, partly terrifying.

Perhaps it is precisely at various "thresholds"—whether architectural or psychic—that the inexplicable lurks. Boundaries and transitions provoke change and open doors to a different perspective. The Oz Factor symbolizes the moment of crossing the boundary of perception, and liminal space is this boundary in the physical dimension. Both serve as a reminder that our ordered world has cracks through which the realm of mystery shines.

It's no wonder these experiences evoke such strong emotions in us—we stand on the threshold of two worlds, with one foot in the ordinary and the other in the unknown. And what lies on the other side? That remains an open question, one that terrifies and delights in equal measure.