Крылья цвета пепла за спиной, и клинок огня в руке...
"still, what's your opinion?" - The red pencil's running on a paper of a notebook, with a rose on a cover.
"don't know... not sure" - the snow-white glove, covered with spots of blood, lays down near the steel tools - "Hard to tell, now, the conflict of the ages, controlled hallucinations, or may be just a stress... I do not know.. The fact still remains, the number of cases is growing in geometric progression..."
Another glove, still not removed from a hand, reaches for a cigarette. The bluish smoke creeps, like a snake, in the rays of neon lamp. No sounds, except for the sound of the pencil scratching on paper and the sound of fan's languid movements in the corridor.
The next question - "And measures?"
"measures?!.. Measures...," - the glove flies to a garbage can - "we still don't know the diagnosis, and you're talking about "measures"..."
"But we have to do something?!" - An inquiring look and a nod on the operational table.
Long, diffusive, as if not seeing at all, reciprocal look in the same direction. - "no doubts... something must be done.. but what?..."

I leave a twilight of an entrance and walk on a carpet of fallen down leaves. An autumn sun falls asleep between dirty clouds, and a reckless wind plays among naked trees. At this time of the year, I especially often visit a friendly fat man from a snack bar two blocks away from here. Leaving it with -- heating hands and teasing with its smell -- glass of warm wine, and a bag of crackling cheese rolls, I go to park. I sit down on the one of the numerous benches at a pond and feed birds. The birds disappeared three years ago, the fat man has gone almost a year ago, but a foundation ditch of a pond still "glows" in the dark. So I simply walk down the avenue and kick hills of leaves...

"It's not hard. Just close eyes and think about me."
The boy has clasped the thin hands over his knees while sitting on a balcony and looking through a lattice at hastening people. "No. I don't want to. Mum, I pity the mum a lot."
"I pity her too, but it's not for long. A little time will pass and she will be with you. And you won't be alone. I will wait for you."
Warm, light, smelling like cookies and tea, mother looks on the balcony.
"Are you cold?" - she asks with care.
The boy shakes his head side to side and pretends that he's reading.
She closes the door and he puts King's book away. "Are you sure, well.. that you're waiting for me?"
"Of course. We will be together and we will be the first. Nobody - except for us. Everything's for us! Come!! "
He stands up from a multi-coloured carpet. His face is deformed with a mask of pain. Moves up a creaking chair and makes a step...

I.K. 14.11.2004

ПС: Странно что все видят в этом рассказе лишь отрывки.

2006-08-04 в 12:19 

Ильк, це перевод бы))

2006-08-04 в 12:21 

Крылья цвета пепла за спиной, и клинок огня в руке...
2006-08-04 в 12:37 

я тоже связаного в них не увидел...
це снова я)

2006-08-04 в 12:42 

Крылья цвета пепла за спиной, и клинок огня в руке...
Понимаешь, эти все три отрывка-один сон. В нём присутсвует прошлое, настоящее и будущее. Начинается с непонятного отрывка про кореспондента и доктора. Это настоящее. Читатель попадает в отрывок, незная прошлого. Поэтому и отвлечение на мелкие детали вроде крови на перчатках , или вентилятора в коридоре.
Второй отрывок-монолог. Это будущее, теперь читателю известно последствие настоящего. Известно почему кореспондент и доктор были так озабоченны. Но всё еще отсутсвует прошлое.
И, наконец, третий отрывок, мальчик. Самый первый случай. "Мы будем первыми". Читатель видит причину следствия. Видит с чего всё началось.
Картина полная, круг замкнулся )


очерки ангела...