Masterpieces of literary creativity - page 4
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...Очень тяжко терять своих родных зверей. И в последнее время занимает меня вопрос: а за что ж они нас-то любят? Мы-то их любви достойны?
grell wrote >>
No."We" is an elastic term. My wife regarded Mania the cat as a full member of the family, and she regarded herself as a member of the pack. She didn't petted him, didn't look him in the eyes, she had a hard temper. But in case of any trouble she came for help, guarded the house, persistently called if strangers appeared. She endured treatment and injections, did not bite or scratch, only cried softly. If people gathered to drink or talk, she would sit quietly on the sidelines and listen, never interfering. When her wife was taken to hospital, Manya stopped eating, grew feral and had hair and recovered only after her mistress came back.
Accordingly, they treated her humanely: they didn't chase her away from her favourite places, played with her, fed her tasty food, forgave her vandalism, talked to her, and as she grew older she made a warm nest where she warmed her old bones.
Now we don't want to have any more, it's just not possible.
"Мы" - понятие растяжимое. Жена считала кошку Маню полноправным членом семьи, та тоже считала себя членом стаи. Не ластилась, в глаза не заглядывала, характер был тяжелый. Но при любых неприятностях приходила за помощью, сторожила дом, настойчиво звала, если появлялись чужие. Терпела лечение, уколы, не кусалась и не царапалась, только плакала тихонечко. Если собирались люди выпить, поговорить, тихонько садилась в сторонке и слушала, никогда не вмешиваясь. Когда жена попала в больницу, Маня перестала есть, одичала, полезла шерсть, восстановилась только после возвращения хозяйки.
Соответственно и с ней обращались по человечески, не сгоняли с любимых мест, играли, вкусно кормили, прощали хулиганство, разговаривали, а с возрастом сделали теплое гнездышко, где она грела свои старые кости.
Теперь не хотим заводить больше никого, просто невозможно.
Don't want to or can't get over it?
Vitya maybe your family needs a cat
My first dog lived 18 years with me, his brothers and sisters went in the usual time, up to 10 years.
You can only get another one if you get one.
Imagine that a kitten is about to be born for your family
Although, of course, other people's advice isn't worth much in this business.
We never had cats ourselves. There were two black Mani, both of them with a difficult fate. The first was inherited from a dead mistress, the second was brought to us by her daughter from a rubbish dump, not having the guts to put the scrawny little thing back on the street.
They live too little, and there are enough losses in life as it is.
Слишком мало они живут, а в жизни и так потерь достаточно.
It's not that little. We've had a 4.5kg cat since 1994. He's in great shape.
You have to feed it right. They'll live a long time.
My neighbour's cat lived 22 years. He never died on his own. A neighbour put him to sleep. I'm sick of it...
Zhunko писал(а) >>
It's not that little. We've had a 4.5kg cat since 1994. He's in great shape. You have to feed him right. They'll live a long time. My neighbour's cat lived 22 years. He never died on his own. A neighbour put him to sleep. I'm sick of it...
People live different lives, too. Fourteen and a half years for a cat is an advanced age with the corresponding diseases, diabetes, kidney failure and others, which at some point became incompatible with life.
Cut my skin under my shoulder blade
My two wings are nestled there
For the air of the ball was once dearer to me
Than the ground beneath my feet
Open my eyes and I'll burst into them like the sky
And I'll collect the slime into a diamond
And every moment when I wasn't with you
I'll take back my capital
♪ Don't be afraid to be alone behind your back ♪
♪ I'm quietly counting the centuries ♪
♪ And with white snow I'll cover you like a wing ♪
♪ From the fifth of April, from the melted troubles ♪
Don't hide your sorrow Let it spill
♪ A purple drop on a chunk of ice ♪
Let her go, she'll come back anyway
She doesn't need wings she's light enough
You cut under your scapula
There's two ugly hooks instead of wings
Now I can't fly but still
Once I could, and that's all, bye!
And a drunken voice in the silence,
That's the junkie, slightly tipsy.
♪ Drunk on the ground ♪
"The poor man is half sober,
Shaking, chilled with cold,
And it all ends very simply
Hospital, pneumonia, morgue!!!
# A tear of pity shakes everyone
- Tell me, people, who's standing here?
Is there a beloved Vitaly among you?
# We looked down, who's going to tell her?
# She's got a big belly
# She silently wiped away a tear at the door
And she climbed into the Land Cruiser.
Everyone suddenly came to their senses and shouted after her.
- I'm Vitalik! Running through the archway...
Only leaves rustled in the wind in response,
That's how the oligarch's daughter drove away.
COMPROMISE VERSION
(feuilleton attempt)
The editor of a prestigious magazine
to the young talent was paternally indoctrinated:
- "Well, from the beginning to the end.
I have read your story, my friend...
Your manner...
your manner... It needs some work.
The story would have a fate..,
if you'd tone down the turns.
Plus, the naturalness of the erotic scenes
deprives those who read it of sweet dreams...
The law says: "Be clear not quite!
Leave the reader some mystery!"
Well, I wouldn't go as far
to dismemberment or burial...
Such, believe me, are hard to resurrect,
when readers ask for a sequel.
Well, work it up. We could use a fresh name and a young talent.
A fresh name and a young talent...
...A week later, the aspiring writer
presented a compromise version.
The editor sat down that same evening
to see what the aspirant had changed...
What a trick! What a trick!
He'd never read such a thing in his life!
The young friend overdid it:
"...THE HERO WAS A REAL ASSHOLE,
"BUT IN THE BEST SENSE OF THE WORD."
And the next thing you know, it's like an attack...
"the madness was getting worse... With a dashing flourish...
"the eroticism was on its way:
"...SHE GAVE HERSELF A LITTLE,
"and he fucked her a little..."
The editor was finished with the finale.
He was really shaken up..,
when he read that:
"HE KILLED EVERYONE A LITTLE BIT.
QUITE TO THE DEATH, BUT NOT TOO MUCH..."
Nikolai Khlebnikov
From the "True and Merry Story" contest.
In a damp prison, west of Paris,
Still dangerous, but disarmed,
Sitting in a Moscow hacker, Misha,
For robbing a big bank.
Forced to cut his hair, wearing a striped shirt,
With a round target on his back,
Counts bedbugs in a stone womb,
Writing programs on the wall with chalk.
Then suddenly strokes a dirty rug from the floor,
Then cries softly if he sees a mouse,
Threatens to kill the goats from Interpol,
In about twenty years, right, Mish?
Satellite bank in Angola,
Went off through the networks of African countries,
Burned all the floppy disks where he kept his passwords
And brazenly threw the satellite into the ocean,
Already laid low, not in the bunkhouse,
Almost in the taiga, but...
They caught him in the Canary Islands,
When he was embezzling money at the casino.
They tortured him brutally, like the Gestapo,
And they smashed a Celeron in front of his eyes,
And he took it all out, ate four gags
And offered the bourgeois a million,
They slapped him in the face like cattle,
And he, a saint, told them:
"But passaran! Bring the guillotine!"
But they brought him a lie detector,
And only then did the spies believe him,
And only then did the spies believe
That he had stolen seventeen million
To pay his ISP debts.
And here he is, beaten and swollen in the head,
Lying in the corner, curled up,
When the guards come with food,
He neither eats, nor drinks, nor begs for anything.
He is silent to all the enquiries of the prison,
He's neither dead nor alive,
But they bring him a floppy disk with DOS,
And he jerks his head at the smell of it,
♪ and he'll moan ♪ "Give me a beer, give me a beer, you bastards!"
And crawls to the open door,
And the gendarmes beat him with their rifle butts:
"Michel is still alive, look!"
They'll go away, mindlessly repeating
"Our Russian slogan, which is heard in the silence.
They'll go away, mindlessly repeating
About the beauty of the enigmatic soul...
But when their footsteps fade in the corridor,
He jumps up from the ground, alive and well,
He runs to the door, forgetting all the pain and illness,
# Forgetting all the doctors' advice
He waits till his anger has cooled,
He'll touch the cold door with his ear,
and push back the heavy stone in the wall:
"There is a secret passage behind it, long since dug!
How does Interpol in Paris know?
That it's not the first time Mischka's been without e-mail.
It was in the spring when a carrier pigeon
In binary code, a message home,
He's already made a screwdriver out of a fork,
Already he's broken his friend's prison website,
♪ Already he's found in his mother's parcel ♪
A loaf of Intel Pentium Inside.
And the inmates are no longer disturbed
The strange, steady knocking in the deep night:
"Though he had not slept for three months, yet
And yet in captivity assembled a new laptop.
And with a sinking heart I went out again
To the Internet, so dear to my heart,
Where an hour later, with a simple click of the mouse.
I managed to get my sentence reduced by ten years,
"sent a letter: "Meet my mother. I'm coming."
Gave security a day off till winter,
# He took the underground to his roommate's cell #
And sold the warden's house
♪ managed to build an underground cell ♪
Sent a hundred grams to his friends in Kolyma
# He became the French Quake champion
Forgetting that he's in prison
He flies like a fresh, free wind
Everything he couldn't dream of is available,
He's been all over the planet
And he doesn't want to go anywhere
He doesn't miss his mother or his homeland.
But something has changed in him:
He looks too strangely in the evenings
Into a screen with a coloured lattice window...
Leonid Konovalov