Masterpieces of literary creativity - page 9
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Sarcasm has long ago become a collectible, perennial poison. It's even pathetic to waste.
"Don't make a cult out of food," said Ostap, after which he ate the cucumber himself.
--
"And I burned that which I worshipped and worshipped that which I burned" // (c) - someone of the ancients. I suspect that about his perennial sarcasm as-is.
;)
"Don't make a cult out of food," said Ostap, after which he ate the cucumber himself.
--
"And I burned that which I worshipped and worshipped that which I burned" // (c) - someone from the ancients. i suspect that about his long-standing sarcasm...
;)
Volodya, what do you have against the fact that samples of your literary work have been posted here? - It's good, it means people like it.
Although "All males in the universe feel an aversion to poetry..." (from R.S.), I used to write poems about nature and animals when I was a kid. Now too, sometimes I can be observed doing the same thing, but it's more and more similar to the work of Lieutenant Rzhevsky. :)
And there was so much life ahead... What to do with it?
What shall we do with it?
There's only a short road left
♪ and happy is the man who splits it in half ♪
But not many people are happy....
And there's nothing we can do about it...
Why do we think about it so late?
Isn't it only possible to understand it up there?
Up there? Like these two? Really? And why?
.
.
And here's a link to a video, just as beautiful. (the video itself is not inserted for some reason)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=txJfPGGV1gQ
>
Oh, yeah!
Yes, my upright friends. That's something with something. There was a movie like that. Tom Waits - genius - played in it.
There you go. Aliens among us. But not as dumb as it's portrayed in Freemason movies! Yeah! What do you think! It's part of a worldwide conspiracy. So we wouldn't notice.
That's the kind of crap I get to hear a bunch of times a day - the idiots keep coming. And it's reassuring. Humanity will not be lost!
♪ When you were alone at the end of the day ♪
You walked so proud
And you didn't look at me
And I thought you were happy
I thought you were the happiest
When I looked into your playful eyes
When I heard you laughing and laughing
Eyes that are tender, eyes that are stern
But they're troubled, they're troubled
You must have been loved by many
You've never been loved.
The eyes of a lover are looking at you
They don't know from afar
There's an unquenched longing in you,
A woman's holy longing
There's one irresistible thought
That you can't sleep or live:
That it's not enough to be loved,
That it's not enough to be loved.
Holy, proud, beautiful...
I hear your merry laughter.
And I thought you were happy,
I thought you were the happiest.
Peter Gradov
It seems simple to write - but it got me.
Aha, love, look, soldiers in red berets are coming!
- So what?
- It's OK, they should have joined the army for nothing, they'd have done better!
- Idiot!
- Why are you so impudent?
- Nothing! Do you know how much they gave to earn that beret?
- Oh... Somebody's dad is a colonel and that's it!
- You're such an asshole!
- What?!
- These guys were in the hot spots, they gave a lot for a red beret, and some just did good service... Honor and glory to them!
- What about me?!
- You didn't serve. Not a man. You took a break. You were afraid.
-Ha! Well, then, Arrivederci, baby!
- Turn 360' and march away from me and don't let me see you.
- Why so mean?! Why are you sticking up for them? You like soldiers, yeah, but they're fucked up, you know what I mean? Only assholes in the army!
She's in tears:
- My dad wore a red beret! Wounded! Almost died! And my brother...
- What about your brother? He's in the army, asshole? Ahaha, honor and glory to him!
She's crying, her hands clenched into fists, not caring what she felt, not caring that he was taller or stronger, she goes over and with as much force as she could, she slams it
her fist in his face, saying:
- And my brother was defending you, he was in combat, he was killed when he was 18, he got a posthumous beret, and I won't let anybody touch his soul and I won't let anybody say anything about these guys. My brother and daddy took an oath! And so did I, it turns out, because he and I have been like a thread with a needle since we were kids.
She wiped away her tears, turned and walked away. He angrily ran up behind her, turned her around by the shoulder and... The guys in the speckled berets heard and saw everything. They went over and punched the bastard in the face again. Hard. And to the girl who was roaring and clutching her brother's picture in her hands and reading his last text message, one guy took off his beret, put it on her and said: "You're loyal. And you will go to the end of any fight, you deserved this beret and the valor. And remember, if anyone hurts you, there's us!"
Источник: http: //vk.com/wall144498242_1177
And being a poet isn't nothing.
A rhyme comes at random,
"You can't hold on to it.
And in a dozen years' time
Some friend of the steppes, a Kalmyk
Will read the rest of my poems,
He'll appreciate my sharp tongue.
What are the years? - We will not live forever,
Another fifty and hello.
Poets are mortal, yes, of course...
And their unshaven light fades...
But I'd still like to believe
That this work is not in vain.
Talent - you can't measure it.
"They'll probably read it someday.
And they'll cluck their tongues
And they'll put a monument to me...
And how, lying under the rocks.
And how can I not chuckle in silence...
Redhead
I heard this story as a child, and to know or remember what that time was like, you only have to imagine that at birth they wanted to name me Nikita. But because my father's name was Sergei, all my close village relatives, taxed by Khrushchev on apple trees, fruit bushes and all kinds of cattle, from small to horned animals, resisted it in every possible way. And my grandmothers named me Vitaly. They swore it was a priest's name. Then they got used to it.
Summer 1944, Belarus. MZA battery was passing through the burnt-out village, stepping on the heels of advancing army. The battery was serious and well-deserved. The 37mm anti-aircraft guns* held then the most dangerous altitude range - 2.0-3.0km - and reliably covered crossings, stations and airfields from Fokker-190s to Junkers-88s. The Messers, and especially the Laptejniks, were almost non-existent that year.
A short halt at the ruins of the village. Thank God the well is intact. There is hardly time to fill up flasks and rewind footwear. The only live soul was squinting at the sun on remains of burnt log house.
And that soul was a red kitten. People had either died long ago, or gone to Polesie, out of harm's way.
An elderly foreman, finishing his cigarette, was looking at the kitten for a long time and then took it and put it on the stump. He fed it with the rest of dinner, called the cat Red and announced it the seventh soldier of the squad. He hinted at his future fame as an exterminator of mice and other creatures in the field, and especially in the dugouts.
The young men were only interested in a spiteless bickering, and the hairless lieutenant didn't mind either, so Ryzhyk settled down at the battery. By the winter he grew into a big red cat with a modest, easy-going and honest Belarusian character and managed to please all soldiers.
During raids of enemy's aircraft Ryzhyk disappeared to the unknown place and appeared only when the cannons were cocked. At that time the cat was noted for the especially valuable peculiarity, for the lack of understanding of which the regiment signalman, who tried to kick the animal, which was tangling under his feet, received a beating in the face.
Our petty officer noticed the peculiarity - half a minute before the air-raid (and before he went away) Ryzhyk growled loudly in the direction, from which the enemy planes were going to come. It all came out that his house, had been mistakenly or deliberately bombed by German aircraft. And the sound, carrying death, he remembered forever.
Such a hearing was appreciated by the whole battery. The efficiency of repulsing the enemy's withering attacks increased by an order of magnitude, exactly as did Ryzhik's reputation. During the war nobody ever thought of sending an inspector to the unit for cleanliness of lapels and green grass, and for this reason Ryzhik had lived till April 45, his finest hour.
At the end of April the battery was resting. Whether it was in East Prussia or Germany, I do not remember, and it does not matter. The war had finished and was coming to an end. There was a real hunt for the last Krauts in the air, so the MZA Air Defence battery was just enjoying the spring sunshine and Ryzhik was frankly squeezing the masses in the fresh air, excluding legitimate meal times.
But lo and behold, ain seconds, and Carrot wakes up, gives his fur a puff of smoke, demands attention and growls unkindly strictly to the east. An unbelievable situation - after all, Moscow and the rest of the rear are in the East, but the people are servile and trust their instinct for self-preservation. It takes 25-30 seconds to put 37 mm gun out of marching position. And in this static case it takes 5-6 seconds.
Silence, barrels pointed to the east just in case. We wait.
Our hawk appears with a plume of smoke. Behind it hovering, at minimal distance - FW-190. The battery cut in with a double burst and the Fokker without any extra effort hit the ground 500-700 m away from our position.
The Hawk on the turn shook from wing to wing and went for a landing, blessing that all bases here are near - 10-15 km.
And on the next day we met our comrades. A car full of guests came and brought a pilot - his chest covered with orders, a confused look and a suitcase with presents. He has a face full of expressions: who do I thank? He says, how did you know (those fucking Air Defence Forces) that I needed help so quickly? Yeah, to hit the bull's-eye. I brought you a cigarette case, bacon and presents as a thank you.
We nod at Carrot-top - thank him! The pilot is bewildered, he thinks he is being played. And the foreman tells the long version of the story, you have already read it.
To his credit, the next day the pilot returns with two kilos of fresh liver for Carrot-top. He wasn't kidding about the cat, he believed him and thanked him. Fate is a tricky thing.
After demobilization the petty officer took Ryzhyk with him. And that means that there are colorful descendants of VHF radars running around in Belarus even now. It was the petty officer's homeland.
To tell the truth I don't believe that the pilot brought only 2 kg of beef liver. My grandfather, Maxim Viktorovich, fought as a gunner on IL-2. He said that apart from the liver they should have brought three or four litres of alcohol and cigarettes at least.
*(GRAU index - 52-P-167) - Soviet anti-aircraft gun of the Great Patriotic War period. It was developed on the basis of the Swedish Bofors 40-mm gun. The chief designer was M.N.Loginov. It was the first Soviet automatic anti-aircraft gun, launched in large-scale production. The 61-K was the basis for a family of shipboard anti-aircraft guns, and this gun was mounted on the first Soviet self-propelled self-propelled anti-aircraft guns on the ZSU-37 tracked chassis. The 37-mm 61-K anti-aircraft guns were actively used throughout the Great Patriotic War, and for a long time were in service with the Soviet Army. In addition to fighting attack aircraft, fighter-bombers and dive-bombers, the 61-K was also used as an anti-tank gun in 1941. In the postwar period many guns were supplied overseas and as part of foreign armies took part in various postwar conflicts. The 61-K is still in service with the armies of many countries.
(C) Vitaly Sergeevich.
( voffka.com )
Casual sex. Bodies on wrinkled sheets.
They're in Adam and Eve couture suits.
For the first time he wants to lie in her arms.
For the first time he pities that he is not the first.
The springs creak and freeze, tired.
For the first time, in the dawn's haze, the bitch's face evaporates.
For the first time he kisses her hands and lips.
For the first time she is ashamed that he was not the first.
From http://www.inpearls.ru/