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Category Archive: рассказы и сказки

Monday is a Lucky Day

Monday is a Lucky Day

Monday is a Lucky Day


Monday is a Lucky Day by Yuri Teplyakov
from the magazine Youth
“Wind north-west, hurricane force. Vessel heavily coated with ice. Losing stability. Engines working at capacity.
Just before putting out to sea the captains of the fishing trawlers received a storm warning.
“If you run into trouble make for Russkaya Bay.”
But, there it is, in black on white, on the sea-going fishing vessel’s lienee: No limitations. That means you can sail off to any point on the oceans of the world. How are you going to get there if you spend your time waiting around for good weather? A storm? So what. After all, the heart of your ship throbs with the power of 300 horses and there are no limitations on your grazing grounds.
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How Kangaroo Got His Tail

How Kangaroo Got His Tail

How Kangaroo Got His Tail


How Kangaroo Got His Tail. Australian folktale
Long ago, before kangaroos had long tails and before wombats had flat heads, the animals played and lived together.
Kangaroo and Wombat were great friends and spent every day together. But at night each one liked to sleep a different way. Wombat liked to sleep indoors, warm and snug. Kangaroo liked to sleep outdoors beneath the stars. Each thought his way of sleeping was the best.
Then one night a terrible storm cracked open the sky, and harsh winds and rain scoured the land. Kangaroo was outside and was miserable in the cold, wet night. He knocked on Wombat’s house and called to Wombat to let him come in and warm up. But Wombat thought of how much room Kangaroo would take up, so he refused to let him in.
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Key to the Door by Sergei Voronin

Key to the Door by Sergei Voronin

Key to the Door by Sergei Voronin


from the magazine NEVA
Sergei Voronin was born in 1913. After finishing a technical school at the Leningrad Metal Works, he became a turner, and then worked with geological expeditions, and in journalism. In 1947 his first volume of short stories was published. He has written a full- length novel, On His Own Soil and a shorter one, Unwanted Fame.

So that was all. . . All that was left to do was to close the door and take the key from the lock. Right until that moment she had still been hoping. Perhaps he would come. Just come to see how they were getting on. After all, between them there had been something that would never be forgotten.
The room was quite empty. It was time to go. It was a gloomy room, the sun came in only in early morning, and that was in summer, no other time of year … Then it shone in at 5 a.m. At first it lit up the right-hand side and then the whole room was filled with golden air.
“What’s the time,” he glanced at his watch.
It was five.
“Must you go?”
“It doesn’t really matter now …”
“Why not?”
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Do not blame the moon

Do not blame the moon

Do not blame the moon


Don’t blame the moon by Lev Sukharevsky, M.D.
A frantic mother brought her 10-year-old son to the children’s clinic. “There’s something wrong with the boy. He’s talking in his sleep. Sometimes he sits up in bed and even walks about the room. His eyes are open but he doesn’t see a thing.”
The boy had all the symptoms of somnambulism—a rather complicated disorder. Before describing the treatment the boy was given, I would like to say something about the disease itself.
Ilya Mechnikov, the Russian physiologist, demonstrated that the human body, while continuing to improve and develop, retains a number of vestigial organs and latent instincts—something inherited from the anthropoid ape, our remote ancestor. According to Mechnikov, sleepwalking—or in the scientific term, somnambulism—is one of these manifestations.
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The boy who yawned by Yuri Yakovlev

Yuri Yakovlev

Yuri Yakovlev

He would yawn infuriatingly during lessons. He would screw up his eyes, wrinkle his nose and open great gaping jaws. After that he would shake his head vigorously to drive away sleep, and gaze intently at the blackboard. In a few minutes he would yawn again.
“Why do you keep yawning?” Zhenechka asked, convinced it was from boredom. There was no point in continuing her questioning, for he was one of those silent souls.
One day he brought a bunch of slender twigs into the classroom and put them in a jar of water. Everyone laughed at his twigs and somebody even tried to sweep the floor with them as if they were a birch broom.
He took them away and put them back in water. Every day he changed it.
Zhenechka laughed at him, too.
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The Third Son — Short Story by Andrei Platonov

The Third Son - Short Story by Andrei Platonov

The Third Son — Short Story by Andrei Platonov


A Short Story by Andrei Platonov from the book In the Beautiful and Violent World
An old woman living in a small town had died, and her husband, a seventy-year-old pensioner, was at the telegraph office sending out to six different addresses in various republics six identical telegrams: “Mother passed away come home father.”
The elderly clerk took her time counting the money, getting confused over the change, her hands shaking as she wrote out the receipts. Then she stamped them. The old man gazed meekly at her through the wooden hatch, vague thoughts flitting through his head as he tried to distract himself from his sorrow. He felt that she, too, had a sad and troubled heart—perhaps she was a widow or by some evil fate a wife deserted by her husband.
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The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry

The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry

The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry


One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
Della felt so bad she sat down on their shabby little couch and cried, but that didn’t help either. Drying her eyes, she walked to the window of the small apartment. The furnished flat at eight dollars per week was all that she and her husband Jim could afford on his weekly salary of twenty dollars.
But tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for her Jim. She had spent many a happy hour planning to buy something nice for him. If she had only been able to save more money, she could have bought something line and rare, something that deserved the honor of being owned by Jim.
Whirling from the window, she stood before the mirror. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
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Fair’s Fair by Jane Speed

Fair's Fair by Jane Speed

Fair’s Fair by Jane Speed


I knew right away mother had something besides breakfast on her mind when she set a bowl of oatmeal in front of me. I mean it was Saturday. She usually gives that «busy little engines need good fuel» stuff a rest on Saturdays and lets me have whatever I want.
I was still wondering if it would do me any good to point this out to her when Daddy came in and sat down at the table. So I decided to just put a lot of strawberry jam on the oatmeal to pep it up and not say anything. Maybe, if I kept quiet, Mother would halfway forget I was there and go ahead and talk to Daddy about whatever was bothering her. Of course, it might be just bills. You’d be surprised how worked up my parents can get on that subject sometimes.
Daddy drank his juice down in one gulp like he always does and picked up the morning paper. But I could tell by the way Mother was stirring and stirring her coffee that he wasn’t going to get much read.
Sure enough, in about half a minute she said, «Harry —»
He just said. «Mm?» and kept his head behind the paper, although he must have known already that it was a lost cause.
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Fables by Aesop

The Wolf and the Crane

The Wolf and the Crane


The Wolf and the Crane
A Wolf had been gorging on an animal he had killed, when suddenly a small bone in the meat stuck in his throat and he could not swallow it. He soon felt terrible pain in his throat, and he ran up and down groaning and groaning and seeking for something to relieve the pain. He tried to induce every one he met to remove the bone. “I would give anything,” said he, “if you would take it out.” At last the Crane agreed to try, and told the Wolf to lie on his side and open his jaws as wide as he could. Then the Crane put its long neck down the Wolf’s throat and with its beak loosened the bone, till at last got it out.
“Will you kindly give me the reward you promised?” said the Crane.
The Wolf showed his teeth and said: “Be content. You have put your head inside a Wolf’s mouth and taken it out again in safety; that ought to be reward enough for you.”
“Gratitude and greed go not together”.
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Posthaste by Colin Howard

Posthaste by Colin Howard

Posthaste by Colin Howard


“I say, I am pleased to see you!” declared the little man standing dejectedly by the pillar-box.
“Oh, hullo!” I said, stopping. “Simpson, isn’t it?”
The Simpsons were newcomers to the neighbourhood, and my wife and I had only met them once or twice.
“Yes, that’s right!” returned Simpson. He seemed quite gratified by my ready recognition. “I wonder if you could lend me two pence-half-penny?” I plunged an investigatory hand into my pocket. “You see, my wife gave me a letter to post, and I’ve just noticed it isn’t stamped.”
“They never are,” I said, sympathetically.
“It must go to-night — it really must! And I don’t suppose I should find a post-office open at this time of night, do you?”
The hour being close upon eleven, I agreed that it seemed improbable.
“So I thought, you see, I’d get stamps out of the machine,” explained Simpson, not without pride in his ingenuity. “Only I find I haven’t any coppers on me.”
“I’m awfully sorry, but I’m afraid I haven’t either,” I told him, concluding my explorations.
“Oh, dear, dear!” he said. Just like that. He was that sort of little man.
“Perhaps somebody else —” I put forward.
“There isn’t anyone else.”
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