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The Fate of man and the meaning of life
with the soul falling off a rock. Amen.
("Autolithograph", Andrei Voznesensky)
Socks made of natural wool — a necessary thing. The boy felt the wet day standing on a steep Bank, and in these socks, he was warm. The family recently moved from the South sea-coast towards the North on the cold shores of the Razdolnaya river, and the boy soon got used to the new place. Warm clothes caring parents bought him at a Department store, the only one in town, but woolen socks knitted for his grandmother, who lived in the village where he stayed only a few times.
Autumn river, reflecting looming over her sullen sky seemed gloomy boy, and now, after the sea, he wondered how people can bathe in this rusty-brown water... the following year, when the short summer looked in this region, the boy was swimming in the river with their peers, already forgetting about unusual river water, which now felt fresh and smelled of fish.
Read more... Story "Song for the dead pilots"
© Vladimir Hotelov,2012-2018 All rights reserved | MODERN PROSE of VLADIMIR HOTELOWE | Permalink | Comments: none | Tags:
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