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When there is no sense in names
Sergey Strelyaev
© Sergey Strelyaev, 2019
ISBN 978-5-0050-2082-6
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
When there is no sense in names
Having died, the engine sniffed, on a body of our “Scythian” ran a shiver.
– Mother, mother. Interiors of the bus stopped, – naive babbling of the child did not cause either laughter, or smiles in passengers.
People with obvious displeasure left the places, got out to a frost.
– Poryadochek, cafe shines, – among us after all there was one happy person.
– And you if only “to fill in plum”, – I answered, muffling in a scarf. – Here tell what we waited for? It was impossible to leave for a week earlier? Were stayed: on the train, aboard the plane there are no tickets.
– It also is clear, – the sounded reproach remained unaddressed. – Where to take them the thirty first?
By a proshkandybala, did not turn sour carrying out old year, children any more.
– And here, check out “vertukha”.
The killed trudging towards, “in smoke” the man, departing to snow, the first estimated reception of hand-to-hand fight.
– Yes, so nothing, – having inclined over floundering in a snowdrift, the guy approved.