Maxim Yakovlev. Small stories and poems in prose

Frescoes are when they paint directly on fresh plaster; on a fresh basis that absorbs the image... according to fresh memory, for memory is the source of all art: the painter puts a spot or line on the canvas always from memory; the composer is in a hurry to record in musical notation the melody that he retains in memory; Likewise, a writer, being a part of speech, is unthinkable without memory.

Frescoes are when the whole is painted in parts: now here, now there...

You must try to write quickly, while everything is alive.

BELYANKA

There are dogs in the world. And not just dogs, but dogs...

To this day it’s a mystery to me: why did we like each other? She is from a pack of beggar dogs, white, with thick sheep's wool, in a word, Belyanka. At first I did not mark any of them, and if possible, I gave them equal parts of crackers. One day, out of all this brethren, she alone stood up on hind legs and reached out not for the treat (which I didn’t have that time), but for me. I stroked her... And from then on she became my Belyanka. As soon as she sees me, she rushes towards me, and it is impossible to describe how she first runs forward and lowers her muzzle low, begins to wag her body, looking in the manner of a village coquette, but then, unable to bear it, she nevertheless gets up on her paws and is already caressing with all her heart. However, I am no less happy.

Over time, I became convinced that she was driven precisely by affection for me, and not by a feeling of hunger. We walk about twenty or thirty meters together, then she politely lags behind, and how grateful I am to her for this: I don’t have the opportunity to take her into my house. Sometimes I go much later than usual, all the same - he will meet me and see me off. Such a dog. The day before yesterday she suddenly didn’t poke at me, but ran away cautiously. I see blood dried on her head. All day I worried and thought that that person, in her eyes, was the same as me. And he hit. Today, thank God, our relationship has been restored! There must be at least one soul in the world who waits for you every day. (And why don’t we have love without anxiety? Will we see each other tomorrow?)

GOD BLESS

In the morning, everyone in the carriage was talking about how they miraculously managed to avoid an accident during the night. He went out to smoke in the vestibule and was horrified, imagining what could have happened to him and his family last night, in the cold, far from the city... and pushed these thoughts away from himself. Taking a deep breath, he sighed and smiled, looking at the sparkling snow, and said to himself: “Thank God.”

And then he remembered that yesterday afternoon he had also stood here and seen through the window a station, people waiting for the train, and among them a figure hunched over from the cold. A tramp or a drunk, he thought then. And he turned to their train, and (he saw it clearly) crossed the carriages several times, dousing him with snow dust... He still looked at this weirdo and grinned to himself and shook his head, it happens... Now all these events were somehow naturally connected between themselves. ‘Thank God,’ he said again. And once again unexpectedly loudly: ‘Thank God!’

« UPPERVISED MAN"

My friend Nikolai Mikhailovich said: ‘Yesterday I was on the train with the ‘new Nozdryov’. Just as restless, noisy and covered in beer bottles. Well, I think I'm lucky. He drinks one after another, and of course talks about how we ourselves are to blame for not being able to live ‘like people’, in our own style, in general. And of course he found his grateful listener in me. I get up to go out, and he feels sorry for losing such a listener, he began to regret it, and I said: ‘If you don’t mind, let me pick up your empty bottles?’ After all, three of them is half a loaf of bread! They don't lie on the road. He gave it without making a sound, just winced: ‘So that’s what you needed...’ “Upset, you know, a man,” laughs Nikolai Mikhailovich, who lost his wife and son this year, is himself a patient, a philologist, a specialist in Slavic literature.

SNOW

It was snowing in the morning. Incredibly white and smooth. How long, it turns out, she had been waiting for this, how she presented her exhausted body to him... We all forgot that she was alive, but now we can’t help but hear her drawn-out exhalation: “Go away, people! Put away your stupid cars, planes and trains... Stay somewhere, at least for a couple of hours, at least for half an hour... I have no strength!”

Quiet and clean, like a hospital room. I went out to buy bread and immediately realized that we were superfluous here. It turns out there are moments when a person is not a master, not a king, not a god. It's better for him to stay at home. Amen.

CONFESSION

We have a strict father. On Sundays he confesses before the liturgy and everyone waits for the last one to finally get his turn. This time the last one was the old lady. Almost completely deaf.

- Are you going to confession? - the priest asks loudly.

“Yes, I’ve come,” he answers to the whole temple, “otherwise you’ll die...

- Are there any sins?

Yes, a lot, son, and she swore and all sorts of things happened. I am very sinful. I then sent the baby away, they lived in Kruglovo...

Father quickly looks at us. But everyone stands with their heads down.

- What’s your name? - he shouts.

Yes, I don’t know the name, he wasn’t born, a baby. I him…

- Yours, how are you?

- My? I also stole frozen potatoes with my sister. From the collective farm...

- The name of? Not my sister, how are you?

- Antonina, I... what, they won’t forgive me?

Father doesn’t know what to answer.

– I’m very sinful... during the war too...

He hastily covers her with the stole and she quiets down, but not completely, she can be heard listing something else. It’s convenient for her to stand bent, that’s how she walks.

- Lord, have mercy on her! - someone burst out.

"SURPRISE"

Opposite me on the train are two pretty girls, especially the red-haired one. They discuss their friends. I see a fat, blond guy creeping up behind them with a huge bouquet and a box in his hand. He's having a lot of fun, he winks at me and puts his finger to his lips. I turn away and look out the window. He’s clearly preparing a “surprise”, I even know who the red-haired one is, he’s already over her... She says to her friend:

- But Pashka is not a man at all, he’s a disgusting licker, he treats me like a little girl and every time he comes up with some kind of gift, can you imagine?..

It's about him. He stands purple, with eyes full of tears. I don't know where to go. A second later, the guy flies out of the car, just for his “luck”, the stop. The train starts moving, the red-haired girl exclaims:

- Oh, Pashka!

- Where? Is this him?

– Do you think it’s not him?

“He,” I say.

- How do you know?

I know one cat. He knows me too. We have a special relationship. For some reason, he believes that the area under my window up to the neighbor’s fence belongs to him. I don't agree with this. Firstly, I live here, true, so does he, but I put a table on the property, dug in a bench, arranged it, none of the neighbors object and in general... This cat climbs onto the table with dirty feet, and will also fall apart demonstratively in plain sight, not enough Moreover, he yells in the evenings right under the window, without any need or justification, and besides, he has gotten into the habit of climbing into the underground through a hole under the porch, which I am still planning to repair. Several times I managed to hit him with an apple core, but that’s all I can boast about for now. All winter, he certainly leaves a “couple of lines” of footprints on the site, not being lazy about imprinting them after each snowfall, as a kind of “written” confirmation of the right to this place.

And then I return home, I see the bastard sitting on my porch, facing the door, most importantly, as if he had come to visit. I found a dead rod, I sneaked up behind him, swung it... And he turned like that, looked like “come on”... I stood there with my hand raised and sat down next to him. To be honest, I wasn’t in the best mood either. We sat for a while. What a warm evening... Yes, spring is coming...

GOSPEL OF MARK

Every time I read it I see the scorching sky. So they go with Him to the sea, through the ‘decapolis’. On the hot earth, on the white stones, no one knows why. He knows. Black round shadows on my feet, grass brushing my sandals, a straight path all day long. They are met from afar, you can see how they come out to the road, how they hurry across from the villages. The crowd grows and stops Him from pushing through. It’s noisy, like in a market, crying, it seems like you can’t breathe, a nightmare, suddenly they scream, they part… What’s there? They brought someone, they said, not to miss the miracle. ‘They brought to Him a deaf man who was tongue-tied and asked Him to lay His hand on him. Jesus, taking him aside from the people, put His fingers into his ears and, spitting, touched his tongue. And looking up to heaven, he sighed and said to him: “Ephphatha,” that is, “open.” (Who can say how much is in this “sigh”? God Himself “sighed” humanly!).

‘And immediately his ears were opened, and the bonds of his tongue were loosed, and he began to speak clearly.’ (Again, shouting, jostling. Miracle! Miracle!! - Look, just as he says, it’s a miracle! Well, say it again...)

‘And they marveled exceedingly and said, “He does everything well—he makes the deaf hear and the dumb speak.”

Still, I can’t come to my senses: how did He ‘sigh’?

I really love this Gospel of Mark.

THE DAY ENDED AS USUAL

The day ended as usual: a friend gave him a ride to the metro and they parted cheerfully, then he took the metro to the station, then rode the train, sitting in the corner by the window, then went out to “Kraskovo” and walked for a long time through the shifting, greasy snow to his an empty home and, as always, he didn’t think about her, he didn’t think about anything like that and didn’t remember and didn’t regret it at all, he was tired, he had to cook dinner or at least tea, but that somehow passed unnoticed and quickly, satiety lingered to bed, but he still had to pray, and he forced himself to stand in front of the lamp. He sighed and said: “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Our Father...” And then he heard within himself a stunningly quiet Voice: “What, son?..” He could no longer utter a word of prayer. He stood and cried and could not stop.

In the morning he woke up and remembered this. And he didn’t believe it: how could God be so close, so fatherly close... to him?! He got up, washed, dried himself quickly, and prayer was about to begin. He came up and stood in front of the lamp...

"Frescoes". M., And the building of the Church of the Three Saints on Kulishki together with the Thomas Center, 2002

In my time there was a planned economy, a totalitarian ideology, and fiction, including modern prose - almost everything was filtered by the system. When the USSR collapsed, not only the economy collapsed, but also fiction, if we exclude a short period when the mass reader was exposed to everything that had accumulated and was previously considered forbidden, although, basically, it was highly artistic.

With the disappearance of the monopoly on ideology and printed materials, with the advent of the Internet, the monopoly on the right to publish evaporated - many new ones appeared, to no one unknown authors, who, together with popular and already recognized masters of words, are, at least formally, modern writers. I was among them, and after this my literary website appeared, where you can read online, as well as short prose: stories, novellas, short stories from my books “The Tale of Burnt Years” and “The Broad-shouldered Angel.”

Short prose. Modern stories

The fate of these books, like the fate of books by most unknown authors, be it romance novels, short stories or novellas, whether on Proza.Ru, on Yandex.Disk, on Litres or somewhere else, by and large, are not much different... Your files may never disappear anywhere, but reading them, most likely they won't. They say there are many reasons for this and, probably, there are even scientific works on this topic that explain them.

But the main reason, in my opinion, is that the so-called mass culture carefully “rolls into asphalt” everything that does not fit into it. Even those who try to somehow fit into it are doomed to vegetate in it en masse. Mass culture, although massive, but this is far from a rubber matrix, but a ruthless system with a very certain number of places and a rigid hierarchy in it. Therefore, so that your soul is not completely dreary from this sad process, when people are simply overwhelmed not only with book books, but even worse - with book little books, you have to write yourself modern romance novels, short stories, novellas and short stories, which, as it turned out, Millions of eccentrics on our planet are now studying... And visitors to this site and similar resources who love fiction can read these books.

TO that’s why he called these years dashing... For a speculator who became an oligarch, or his wife, former model, they may have become so. But in the vast expanses of Russia, for most people, these years without gloss, glamor, exaggerated, empty gibberish and lies turned out to be scorching, because during these years not only the dreams and hopes of many people, but also human lives burned. This is what short stories about simple, ordinary people who, in fact, were deceived and betrayed by those in power are about.

48.00 rub. Read fragment Buy book

An era has arrived, seemingly without ideology, but with market relations... Modern literature, large and small prose, books by modern writers - everything, as before, is filtered, only differently... And many people simply don’t need fiction, books of modern prose.

But commercial reading appeared, and then the global and domestic Internet started breathing loudly. All this together created a kind of “ black hole”, which sucked in everything that was previously called “planned” fiction. And this colossus (I mean its Russian representative) found itself on feet of clay - it could not resist, and if it did not disappear without a trace in this hole, it appeared in a new capacity.

Now we have instead the notorious reading matter, litpops, easy reading, etc. But no matter what you call this phenomenon, the creations of this book market by definition do not pretend to be highly artistic. For them, the most important thing is commercial success.

Small prose. Modern stories and novellas

High artistic quality is now claimed by fairly closed communities of so-called “premium literature”, which, in fact, are concentrated in two capital cities. The largest publishing houses of printed and digital books are now located there, thick literary magazines still somehow survive there, which, out of old memory, still consider themselves VDLH (exhibitions of the achievements of literary economy), although this is no longer the case. All of Russia is now “fed” by Moscow and, partly, St. Petersburg... And a third thing is raging around - the vast ocean of samizdat, the online creativity of millions on the World Wide Web, countless electronic libraries, literary portals and scams.

The average Russian man in the street, who knows how to read and comprehend what he read, has no particular interest in these modern “storehouses” of the literary process. But this, whatever one may say, is also modern prose. However, the average person is content, at best, with the first, and for the few literary gourmets and fashionistas there is already the second.

It is still somehow possible to cover the first and second, albeit roughly. Just look at the ratings of book sales hits, long and short lists of candidates for the most prestigious “literary elephants” in Russia. And if a potential reader, having plunged into the third, into that same vast ocean, can still, figuratively speaking, emerge from there, then new, unknown and unpromoted authors risk simply dissolving and disappearing there.

Now we need modern information technologies, unique pump-filters that will process all these “storehouses” and produce real modern prose and poetry.

In the Russian Federation, something is moving forward on this issue, but too slowly. Therefore, the general reader still has and is fully supplied by that same “commercial well”... And for his money he drinks from this “source” not balm, but, by and large, dregs. How this will affect his spiritual health is not difficult to guess.

Novels about life ordinary people, where in every short, true story from the fussy, amorphous everyday life, at least one person almost always appears, in whose place any of us could be. The author did this only in order to dispel the reader’s deceptive sense of the infinity of existence and the inviolability of the world and so that, finding himself in the place of this character, everyone could, if not understand the essence of human life, then at least guess about the most important thing.

48.00 rub. Read fragment Buy book

The so-called intellectual public is already drinking another dregs from the “barrels” with “premium elephants”, which are helpfully offered to them by their gurus - “water carriers” from the modern literary process, mainly from capital cities.

About the “commercial well” everything is quite obvious, however, with the “water carriers” it is clear to me personally, since among their “barrels” over the past two decades I have not noticed anything sparkling with the “golden ratio” between James Joyce and Erica James.

Actually, books are first lived in a direct and figuratively, and only then they write. Without this, in my opinion, nothing real will happen. Unfortunately, many people forget about this. For the reader, perhaps this is not so important, but when people who write something for them forget this, then the result is the same dregs that I already spoke about.

True, we do not yet know how scientific and technological progress will affect humanity, for example, its attitude towards fiction. But already now, comics, visual novels, graphic novels and similar audiovisual products of mass culture are crowding out traditional fiction not only from gadgets, but from the very lives of many people.

Modern literature, prose, books... But who needs all this?!.. Here even the “water carriers” from “premium literature” are unable to give a clear answer, and the owners of “commercial wells” may turn out to be not only powerless, but even superfluous... Perhaps , I was in a hurry, and they will survive if... if a significant part of people turn with their help into biorobots, continuously chewing “audiovisual popcorn”.

Read a modern novel about Russia

I invite you to become a member and subscriber of the community

Humorous sketch on political theme. The story is written based on real events; all coincidences with real people and circumstances should be considered not accidental. This is my first experience in the field of humorous stories and sketches. I strictly ask you not to judge. Is there a video.

Putin has outplayed us all

I recently listened to Vladimir Putin’s messages again, took notes, deleted everything that was not fulfilled, postponed, forgotten... it turned out a little:

2007 – We need everyone to get involved in the work without hesitation.

2012 – Without any further build-up, let’s start working together.

It all started with an old computer, no, if my work laptop had not broken, I would never have reached into the closet and dug up an aging Pentium, probably from the nineteenth century. In any case, a finger-thick layer of earth-like dust convincingly proved that this computer had not been used for twenty years.
Wincing and cursing my work as a blogger, I somehow wiped off the dirty system unit and lo and behold!
The old computer connected the first time, no adapters were even needed.

This story, like many others, was written for Yandex Zen, but they did not appreciate my style or my life observations, so I am publishing unclaimed stories here. Perhaps someone will find them interesting.

Dangerous yard owner

This story could have happened in any yard, but why could it? Surely, hundreds of similar stories happen all the time, of course, with different endings, but one constant conclusion - you can’t live like that.

Then I was still working at the mine, you know, a rapid descent of the cage, a leisurely walk along the illuminated tunnel, a couple of turns and now you are in complete darkness and silence. I worked as a driller, where, due to safety regulations, only two people should work, but often I had to be left alone, like that ill-fated time.

I got to my drilling machine, set up the lighting, started the machine, and it became more fun. Still, when something is working and a twelve-volt light bulb is shining, it’s not so creepy, and there is complete darkness and silence around.

A comic story about the fictional deputy Cheika, I thought about writing a whole series about this parliamentarian, but somehow it didn’t work out yet. However, if there are readers, there will be time to continue...

Genre: story, politics, humor

Meet the brave deputy Cheik

I am the brave deputy Cheik, I lead the full life of an ordinary Russian: I go out into the world, buy real estate abroad, and I also have a hobby - inhuman experiments in the field of legislation, but about that, shh...

I wrote this science fiction story specifically for the “Future Tense” competition, but it was not appreciated, in any case, I did not even make it to the semi-finals. However, I personally like the story and the issues raised in it are quite interesting. I hope there are those who will appreciate it a little better than the competition jury.

To be honest, the issues addressed by the story are so extensive that it would be enough for a decent novel, but according to the rules of the competition, the story must be short, so perhaps it turned out to be too dynamic.

A short comic story about family values. I think that in today’s time it is more relevant than ever, not only for husbands, but also for wives. Oh times, oh morals!

Changed

Oleg, in anticipation of pleasure, sat down at the computer. While the screensaver of his favorite “tanks” was loading, he was already mentally immersed in the game, planning where he would go and who he would give the heat to.
Suddenly, like a blow to the head, my wife’s voice came from the kitchen.

Joy

It must be strange to see from the outside a man with a shopping bag standing with his graying head buried in a rosehip bush. But what to do if it is not possible to live without it?
People with dogs walking by stop.
“Oh, you’re my good one,” they hear.
A cheerful multitude of small white roses on the sweeping, lush clumps of bushes...
It's hard to say who I would be without him.
Someday they will ask - there: “How? Didn't you know that white rosehip is a gift of pure joy? And you have never touched or breathed it?!”
It will bloom for us for a whole month on the way to the station.

After

Everything is loved later. When you realize that this won't happen again. The simplest, most unfamous, most banal moments of life, which remained somewhere in the shadow of events, will not be repeated... Oh, this “boring”, “passable”, “killed” “in between times” life, hello, I am guilty before you! Isn’t that why you look like a supersonic plane: you fly by, and the sound comes later...

I know one cat. He knows me too. We have a special relationship. For some reason, he believes that the area under my window up to the neighbor’s fence belongs to him. I don't agree with this. Firstly, I live here, true, so does he, but I put a table on the property, dug in a bench, arranged it, none of the neighbors object and in general... This cat climbs onto the table with dirty feet, and also falls apart demonstratively in plain sight, not enough Moreover, he yells in the evenings right under the window, without any need or justification, and besides, he has gotten into the habit of climbing into the underground through a hole under the porch, which I am still planning to repair. Several times I managed to hit him with an apple core, but that’s all I can boast about for now. All winter, he certainly leaves a “couple of lines” of footprints on the site, not being lazy about imprinting them after each snowfall, as a kind of “written” confirmation of the right to this place.
And then I return home, I see the bastard sitting on my porch, facing the door, most importantly, as if he had come to visit. I found a dead rod, I sneaked up from behind and swung it...
And he turned around and looked like “come on”... I stood there with my hand raised and sat down next to him. To be honest, I wasn’t in the best mood either.
We sat for a while. What a warm evening...
Yes, spring is coming...

March

In our latitudes, every appearance of the sun is like a revelation that all is not lost. But as soon as it stays a little longer, we become like children, and then we completely lose all caution and are ready to believe only in everything good... It’s good that winter saves our naivety from desecration. We come to our senses, sheathing our fury.
But I see the mark sparkling again, well, hold on! Coming soon...
Coming soon...

Every morning…

Every morning you open your eyes and begin to remember in what order you are supposed to live. You try to somehow continue in all this, but it turns out badly. But you age remarkably slowly, discouragingly from time to time...

Nocturne

We, of course, get upset, just as instruments get upset when they are not played. And we walk around upset. And we are consoled by the fact that they were made not by just anyone, but by “Amati”, “Guarneri”, and some by “Stradivarius”... In general, we can live with this, it’s still easier, because in reality everything is not at all just as it seems to us.
Everything is much more serious when they don’t play against us.

In the vestibule

In the mornings, trains are filled with the most patient people on earth: with heroic impudence, agility and swearing... Some old man hesitated and did not have time to go in to get his people. The doors slammed, he shouted something. At first no one paid attention, everyone swayed together and the train started moving. Then he shouted for the last time. There was nothing special in what he shouted, anyone in his situation could have shouted like that, but when they heard it, everyone somehow strangely froze and did not have time to come to their senses:
- We’ll meet there, there!..

We don't know

Phew, we finally made it to a dry place!
What's going on, we've overcome such a winter! That's it, now everything will go by itself. Grace... There is some kind of blue paradise in the sky.
- Hey there! It's spring again here! Listen!
They are silent. They look and are silent. I think so, they smile and sigh. Or maybe they are crying... They know better what awaits us there. But we don’t know anything, we don’t care, we’re not in a hurry to go home, we walk around unbuttoned... more often in groups.
There will be summer evenings, there will be the air of the passing day, a leisurely, everyday wind... Everything will be, it must be!
I want to love...

Approached

It's snowing for the third day... Everyone is waiting to see what will happen. Already higher than the fence. Everything is falling and falling, tightly...
The trees are gone, the houses... he's knocking everything down.
We were left alone: ​​in the snow. The snow is unprecedented, at least swim.
It is not clear where there is more of it, above or here on the ground...
He's everywhere now. That is, everything is now made from it: the sky, the air, and the bottom.
Perhaps there is no sky, it’s all here, everything is snow and light, light and snow, light and light...
This is what happens: we were expecting anything, some kind of emergency, some rubble, but it turns out -
“It has come closer to you...”

When I laugh

Those who left are wiser than those who remained. Even babies. Even villains and crazy people. Four-day-old Lazarus, after his resurrection, never smiled once for the rest of his life, but the Lord loved him that way.
When I laugh, I more and more often remember those with whom I laughed together, whose bones are now rotting in their graves.
I wish I could bring them back to us now for a feast...
Ask around...
The pieces, I think, would get stuck in my throat.

Bench

I’ve been living in the fall for so long and I can’t get enough of it. I stand and breathe in the garden...
I decided to make a bench for the house: peel potatoes, sit by the stove, but you never know... I love making benches. The board is really good, I picked it up on the street on my way from the temple. We have a temple in the village of the Apostles Peter and Paul.
My last words when I left the temple were:
- Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, bless.
And I uttered the next words about a hundred meters later, though to myself: “Look at the chalkboard lying around!” Slightly grayed by time and rain, but fine, sharp-edged, even rounded on one edge. He put it on his shoulder and went home.
I met a respectable man with a cart, he dumped broken bricks at the trash heap and said:
- Is your board made of oak?
“Pine,” I say.
Apparently he wanted to talk about something, but I didn’t want to. I do not know why.
To be honest, I didn’t have any thoughts about any bench when I picked it up. It wasn't until the last moment.
Today I took her under my arm, grabbed a saw and an ax, and went out into the garden. Also, in general, I had no intention of doing anything like that, but had to finish the first chapter of the novel according to plan. But I went out because it was the third day since the rains of the cyclone that tormented us from the Atlantic passed, and in the evenings now, day by day it is getting colder. I decided (even though it was a pity) to use the board for firewood. He put it on a stump and started sawing...
I have a large elm stump in my garden. I brought him here from the park. He begged a cart from a neighbor who was used to living alone, and all his joy was in his lanky nephew, who came once a year for the holidays. I knew he wouldn't refuse.
And there were a lot of stumps in the park with the burned-out summer theater. Once upon a time, people planted this park and walked through it before performances... They must have been happy people, because they “had honor” and knew the value of human dignity.
For some reason I chose this particular stump, on which I am now sawing this pine board...
It’s a pity for her that she, so good, will go to the kindling. But there is nothing to do, you have to drown it with something, if you haven’t bothered to prepare something more appropriate. The board is clearly made of good pine, you can feel...
I think they brought it from the north, from the great sleeping winter. She fell without a sigh, having repaid her debt to the animals and birds... Now it fell to serve people. They were preparing her for something; Then either no suitable hands were found, or they were already accustomed to living on everything ready-made...
But the elm tree on which I saw it was local. Apparently, he is many years old, has lived on earth, he has heard Chaliapin and Nezhdanova, Surikov walked under him...
I sawed off a piece of board and looked. “No,” I think, “what is this, such a board for firewood!” The hand doesn't rise. Apparently it was not intended for me. Here's another similar piece to cut off, the rest to use for the seat and leg - it will turn out to be an excellent bench!
It somehow became easy right away.
My wife will come home from work, and my bench is ready.
“This is for you,” I’ll say.
Who else? She will praise me and kiss me. It's a completely different matter! And then firewood, firewood...
And you can light a stove with old manuscripts, although they say that “manuscripts don’t burn.” They're burning, they're still burning...
So it will become warm here. The cat will play with the kittens, the stars will appear above the garden, and people will someday understand why we were given this life...
We still need to finish the chapter and have time to pray at night, thank the apostles - Peter and Paul.

From Genesis

There is a passage in the Bible that never fails to move me. Where Abraham planted a grove in Bathsheba, living “like a stranger” with his wife and son - born in his old age according to the promise of the Lord.
This is the place. One day God says to him: “Abraham!”
“He said: here I am”...
“Here I am,” no matter what your hands do, no matter what your thoughts are, “here I am.”
It was as if God bent over him, so close, closer than the rustle of an olive tree, closer than a goat’s canopy overhead...
And then, when he goes to the mountain with the boy - his son, when he does everything as the Lord commanded and takes up the knife - to stab his only and last son...
“But the Angel of the Lord called to him from heaven and said: Abraham! Abraham!" (twice, so as not to doubt, so that he has time to come to his senses!)
“He said, here I am.”
This is Abraham’s second “here I am”!.. A fist with a knife tight, like a knot of life, woven from bones, from tendons, from burnt skin, from burnt humility, howling... Through a lump in a withered throat:
"Here I am!"

Summer

In summer, you must lie on your back and close your eyes to hear the oncoming noise and rustling. And then a long lowing in the heights of the airplane... And when you open your eyes, they will suffocate from gold: from the sparkle of the sky and leaves, from her gilded shoulders and hair, from the tip of her nose and hot knees... She says something at this time, something like:
-...can you imagine? I tell her: are you crazy, what are you trying to achieve with this, do you want him to completely...
I kiss her temple, such a sweet hollow, and then it is no longer possible to pass her peephole with my lips. It’s very funny because he’s stupid, he twitches and freezes...
- You don't listen to me at all! I’m telling you, I’m telling you, but at least you...,” she says, falling silent.
The wind covers us with the silence of clouds and azure, and then she says really wise things, for example:
- Listen, let’s just lie there with you, huh? Let it stay like this... forever.
- What about in winter? - I ask a childish question.
“Stupid, you don’t understand anything,” she sighs, “you’d better be silent.”
And I am silent. At first, just out of love. And then from shock: after all, this is... ETERNITY...

Place second from the right

They sat next to each other, not talking, not once looking at each other, although in general it was clear: husband and wife. She pressed herself against his shoulder and said:
- Do you know what I'm thinking about? We will definitely have two boys and a daughter...
He looked out the window of the train, without changing his distant and at the same time concerned expression on his face, but it was clear that he heard, smiling slightly inside himself.
-Have you already decided what we will call them? - She followed with her eyes the running line above the doors to the vestibule... and, after a pause, said. - If only you knew how we would wait for you!..
He didn’t answer, but everything in him seemed ready to shout: “I know, I know!”
-... And our children will never have a reason to say that they were not loved...

I don’t remember what else they said and at what stop they got up and got off.
Then another couple took their place. Young, in sports jackets, with headphones from players. He chewed incessantly, twitching to the beat of his music. She wrapped her arm around him and said:
- Do you know what I’m thinking about?..
He was all in a frantic knocking rhythm, but it was felt that he heard her. There is genuine surprise and confusion on her face...
“We will definitely have two boys and a daughter,” she said, unexpectedly for herself.
He threw back his head and laughed:
- I know! Oh, how you will wait for me!..
“Rest station,” came the tired voice of the driver.
The young people jumped up and, jostling merrily, ran out onto the platform...
The fact is that this place - second to the right from the entrance to the carriage - is marked from above. I know this: everyone who sits on it cannot talk about anything else.

Then there was an elderly couple. They were silent for a long time. He was reading a newspaper. She sat with her large, doughy hands folded on top of her shopping bag.
- Do you know what I’m thinking about?..
I tried not to look at them.
- We will definitely have two boys and a daughter... Have you already decided what we will call them?..
He lowered the newspaper, looking ahead excitedly.
“If only you knew...” her voice fell, and she finished the rest with just her lips.
He heard her, but could not turn to her, responding to every word with tremors of his heart...
They left, looking back at the place from which they got up, not understanding what had happened to them: how could something like this break out?..

Ten days later, returning home on a half-empty train, I saw a girl pulling a lanky guy along the carriage. I recognized them as that young couple. They were wearing the same sports jackets.
“Exactly, this is the same carriage, and the same color,” said the girl.
Having quickly looked around, she confidently walked towards the empty seat in front of me.
- What do you want? “At least explain it clearly,” the guy muttered. - We run around the cars like two idiots...
“Right here,” she sat him down by the window and took a breath. - Don’t you remember anything?
It was a mistake. I wanted to shout to them: guys, this is the wrong carriage! This is not the same place at all! But I said nothing.
The guy, not understanding anything, began to look out the window. The girl, clutching his sleeve, waited. She waited tensely, almost painfully listening to herself...
I stood up and headed towards the exit. But before he could step into the vestibule, he caught it with all the nerves of his back:
- Do you know what I'm thinking about? We will definitely have...

Christmas

And the Lord sent them snow after the warm, lost December. I took pity.
They were happy, but didn’t notice.
Sent another day: quiet, bright, pre-holiday. Sent them children's joy and reconciliation...
They accepted everything with delight and didn’t notice.
He sent someone relief from torment, someone forgiveness...
- I am so grateful that there are no such words! You gave me so much of everything!.. Remember, three years ago, then, on the landing? I smoked my last cigarette. The last one! Understand? You came from somewhere then, came up... If it weren’t for this... You saved me from death that time, do you understand?
“I understand,” he replied.
- You gave me a child... And in general, I’m so proud of you! People believe you! If it weren’t for your performance during the May crisis, disaster would have broken out, you know...
- I know.
- You will reveal so much more to people, you... you...
He took her away from the crib and they kissed. Long and tender.

And He sent and sent...
Sent the moon in the silver sky... frosty sparks... expectation of happiness... Sent gifts...
But then the last car passed; Christmas trees and TVs were flashing, champagne was playing; everyone believed in a miracle...

And He sent them again. Son.

Forever

He was numb with pain. For the tenth day now, there have been gray walls, a yellow lamp overhead, the incessant rumble of the wind and the sound of bending wet leaves outside the half-painted window. A foreign city, foreign hospital walls, a foreign endless, unabating howling wind... For her, sitting all day at his head, this wind connected, no, merged with the incessant, unabating hellish pain of her husband. Nobody came to them anymore. They were left...
When the wind picked up the next day, she realized the pain had become unbearable. He howled. He howled with the wind...
- Lord, I can't help it! I can not! I can't!! - her soul screamed.
Two cardboard icons on the windowsill: the face from the shroud and the guardian angel. For some reason, a candle stuck in plasticine flutters all the time... The crying half-animal howl chilled the brain and heart...
And suddenly it broke off. Poem.
She opened her eyes.
“Give me your hand,” he told her. - Tell me, do you love me? Do you love?!
I didn’t immediately understand what he was asking.
“Yes,” she said. - I love.
- If you love, kill me. I’m speaking with the last of my strength, you see, this pain, it’s eating me up... I can’t stand it anymore, I can’t, I ask, I beg you, dear, kill! Kill me, okay?! Somehow, but kill! Kill it, kill it!!
“I can’t... I can’t do anything,” she whispered.
The scream exploded in the throat again, swirled with the wind, and shook the creature, maddened by pain.
- I hate it! Go away! Go away from me! - it hit right through her.
She swayed towards the bed, lay down, clinging to him - her mouth opened, as if in childbirth - and merged with his howl...
Meanwhile, nights and days alternated. Everything lived its own life.
At the other end of the corridor, the doctor lit a cigarette and asked his sister:
- Is everyone howling?

Everyone is singing.
- Do they sing? - he turned and listened... - Look, they really are singing. Well, let's go!..
Two voices rang out. They sang something drawn-out, but not sad, something very familiar. Everyone tiptoed to their doors, eavesdropping...
When everything calmed down - it is unknown on what day - then they opened the door and entered their room.
They lay together, as if vowing to keep some shared secret. Hearing footsteps, she got out of bed, straightened her hair and left.
For some reason, everyone remembered her smile: one to one, that froze on his face. Forever.

Love Train

The train was hopelessly late. Plans collapsed, business and meetings disappeared, destinies were broken... The crowd on the platform reached a boil. They fell into despair at the mere thought that in the upcoming crush, not everyone would be destined to be among the passengers, which means they would have to wait for the next one, and it was still unknown with what outcome...
Finally, the train arrived, greeted with sighs of anxious relief and curses. The assault began, in which no one looked at the children, women, or old people: growls, groans and squeals. But everyone sat down.
They did not yet know which train they were on.
- Where are you going, you bastard!
- Child, let the child in!..
- What are you doing?!..
- Yes, I love you, you bastard..!
Added to everything was the howl of an old woman, the howl of screaming babies and harsh rocking: people were thrown at each other, from wall to wall; someone got hysterical...
But this was not enough.
The train drove onto the bridge and stopped. And stood in the hot metal heat.
Everything was filled with stuffiness. Hot bodies were dripping with sweat... Someone was crying and swearing...
“I don’t care anymore, I’ve already lost everything,” said a sporty-looking guy, “I can’t take it anymore, now I’ll start killing everyone!”
But instead he picked up the fainting woman.
Someone was having a fit in the vestibule.
- Hold it, hold it tight, guys!
- There was another child who became ill.
- Give them here, to the window, at least there’s a little draft here...
And the train just stood and stood.
A doctor was found. We have made room for mothers with children.
A two-liter plastic bottle of mineral water was passed around - everyone had a sip...
Looking at a pregnant woman:
- Well, if he decides to give birth... it will be a song!
- By the way, whose guitar is hanging there?
- My.
- I would play like that. More and more fun...

The train stopped and started moving, but it was a completely different train.

Sounds of the rain

Haunted by the sound of rain... You just have to find yourself in silence, get away from thoughts, and - please. Even in winter, this muffled noise of it seems and takes you to where living during the rain is like dying a little, mourning yourself... Meanwhile, its origin is prayerful, our ancient relatives asked the sky: “Give me! Give it to us!..” Therefore, rain is a passive pleasure.

And now for the umpteenth time he “gives” it to us, and we hide. Ashamed. I stand under the porch canopy, yielding to my eyes and ears: I look and listen to him, as if I had been wandering in the rain forest for a long time... without saying goodbye.

Love believes everything

He is recognized on the streets and on the beach: a lean face with a pleasant smile, a springy torso of a trained man with a blue eagle tattoo on his right shoulder. He is a very famous person in his circle. He became interesting to me not for his achievements, but for the story about his friend and about himself, which I happened to hear from him in moments of frank conversation.
- We have been friends since the army, we finished our training together in Kazan. It turned out that the fellow countrymen agreed on this. Well, by nature, probably, we fought off our grandfathers in the regiment together, that was the case. After the army, Denis graduated from college and got married. And I... And I got carried away, I ended up in a cooperative, “cars” were being driven from overseas, foreign cars. I got in touch with my “brothers”... There was a girl, I also wanted to get married. In general, the dismantling turned out to be steep, I barely carried my legs away, I had to move to another city.
I rarely met Denis, he is in the civil service, and who am I? I was so-so, playing around where there was more luck. Only, it seems, he opened a case - and again it’s a bummer. This time with shots, six months in the hospital... No work, no money. No family.
I remembered a friend, came, told a big lie that the athlete was doing kickboxing. Even before the army, I had a rank in boxing. He listens, he believes. I lie blatantly - he believes! Every word! I say, qualifications are coming soon, we need to prepare for serious fights, but all the equipment is already worn out, there is no money for new ones - it’s expensive. And the coach needs it, and the massage therapist, and for sparring. For now, I have to pay for everything myself, then, if I pass the qualifications, if they get noticed, I’ll join the team, with a contract, I’ll become a professional, it’s already easier there... He listens, worries. “I can help,” he says, “just don’t quit.” You have a talent!" Like this. He gives money, a lot of money... And I have never heard him refuse.
I spent this money, so ask me where it went, and I won’t remember. I'm used to it. A little something - to Denis, gossip about injuries, some trips... He believes! And it helps. He also tells his son about me, his eyes are wide open, well, such a fighter-hero is in front of him! Once I got completely impudent and asked him a large amount: That’s it, they say, it’s necessary! He went, took it out of his account, they were saving for a car, and held it out - take it. I took it and left. “You,” he says, “will definitely break through, I’m sure.” We all believe in you!” And I already seem to have some kind of immunity, it seems, and it’s gnawing, but the main thing is not to think. Don't think and that's it. “Maybe I’ll return it someday,” it flashes. “We’re friends, but if something happened to him, I’m the first... I might also help if I could...” And you’ll calm down...
I remember coming from a nightclub, he calls on his mobile phone, first this and that, how are you... It’s normal, I say. I'm training. “I’m having a bad time with my wife, he says, the birth is difficult... Pray,” he says. The voice is shaking. I say, everything will be fine, she’ll give birth to a second boyfriend, you’ll see!.. Well, he feels better, it seems, he’s relieved. And at the end of the conversation he suddenly says to me: “Andryukh, we catch your name in all the news, and in the newspapers too”...
That's when I said to myself: stop, kid. How much longer are you going to lie to him? It hit me, I almost slammed my pipe on the asphalt.
On the same day, three people accosted me on the train, and I sense that if I can’t fight them off, I’ll be killed. Well, one guy arrived in time, scattered them - he turned out to be a kickboxing trainer. Where did I sit!.. Well, I think you’ll be the last creature, Andryukha, if you don’t grab this straw.
Everything, thank God, happened one by one. I started training with that guy, who worked harder than me in training. It was as if they had woken me up. Within a year I became a leader and didn’t feel sorry for myself. And the training camps, and the sparrings, and the qualifications - everything was now - everything that my friend believed in! And Denis heard my name, and I got into the newspapers more than once...
After the fight, he once called me with his wife, with his boys, and everything in my throat stood like a pillar, I can’t... And with everything that I have, what I have achieved in life, that I didn’t die, didn’t die in a drunken brawl, that I’m alive, that I have a family, I owe it all to him!