One Long Moment [short story]

Fingers slowly tapped on the table. Their rhythm told of some kind of independence: as if they did not belong to anyone, as if there was no think tank behind them, which would control them and give them commands - “tap steadily, now faster, and now just stop and make neat movements along the table surface".

Hardly that! There was decisiveness in their every movement, the will was manifested: the pads of the fingers alternately went down and up, the surface of the skin caught in a split second the warmth and roughness of the wood and, between touches, oxygen penetrating into the pores.

The intensification of all these sensations was facilitated by moisture - small droplets of perspiration on the skin of all the same fingers. The day was not too hot, but steaming. And you would like that someone, while you are at the table, would come up to you and douse you with cool water from a basin, and so that you keep sitting, in your clothes, and by inertia you continue drumming with your fingers for a couple of moments. And then it’s as if it dawned on you, so that this cool water just by this unexpectedness would wash away all this alien heat, all this unnaturalness from you, and so that the palms calmly, fully spread over the surface of the table, would move from edge to edge, without fear of getting splinters, they would feel the edges and legs. So that the fingers themselves could feel the play of light and shadow, which so poetically paint pictures on wood.

Closing your eyes, you are chilled, because, although it’s hot, you’re soaked. Water flows down your hands onto the boards - you raise your palms, and stains remain. Gradually, soon they will dry out: evaporate or be absorbed. But first, they will run water over you, wash you.

The Third Water [short story]

“How to say... Water is everywhere here. You can swim... No, not swim. Rather float, as if you soar. The water will chill you instantly, but will not let you get overcooled. It has this kind of a wonderful characteristic. You’re like becoming cold-blooded. And the waves from the wind will hammer you to the granite, which grows vertically upwards. Maybe you drift a little with the current, and then you will return back with the counter drift,” he spoke slightly confusedly and very dreamily. Now he even quieted down, as if continued to speak, but to himself. They were at the place where the embankment adjoined the bridge, and looked at the water, which could be painted with only black paint.

“What else?” she calmly let him finish his internal dialog with himself and only then asked her question. “Where else the water is?”

“It also falls from the sky. And all this is also surprising. Because it seems there is not that much of it descending from heaven, but it fills everything evenly. It saturates the air, it penetrates the lungs. It unites with that river water. It was a cloud, and then became a river. These drops are unexpected here. Every year it is the same, but they still take you by surprise. And, given that this is nature, the truth, it would be great to learn to react to these surprises with a smile... Do you like rain?"

They walked across the bridge, trying to bypass the puddles and then stepping directly into the water. They walked without umbrellas. A fine drizzling rain left drops on their faces, and then the wind blew them down.

“You know...” she answered. “The rain is beautiful. And it is here for a reason. So it should be so. Imagine there were no rain at all on this planet. Then there would be no life.”

He listened to her, thinking over every word. They were simple. They were just words. But through them, beauty was revealed. The rain, meanwhile, intensified and now, without waiting for the wind, flowed right down their faces and hands, uniting with puddles, overflowing them, spilling down from the bridge into the river.

“And by the way,” she continued, “I know what other water is. Water inside. In every person. Everyone is filled with it. It flows from the fingers to the heart, it can flow out of the eyes and into the mouth. It is deep. And it revives. It brings purification. Just let it spill. And do not darken it, do not mix it with anything. Let it be. Let it act. I see this water."

“Yes, you’re probably right,” he looked into her eyes and saw the river and rain in them.

They reached the end of the bridge, turned onto the embankment, stopped, and looked at the bank from which they came. The water soaked them from tops to toes. They felt how the water inside was merging with the water around.

My Talking Tree [short story]

The door opened. From the clear comfort of the house, the cute sparkling face of a girl of about eight years old peeped out. She looked at the front yard, at the stars in the late evening sky, at the warm summer breeze vivifying the branches and leaves of a tree in the middle of the fence. Her dad told her that this tree had been growing here for a long time, since the times when there had been no house there, and there had been no roads, and in general there had been almost nothing, except for the same trees. And when their house was being built here, they decided to keep this tree, right at the very edge of their green lawn, right next to the road. And so it happened that now a fence goes from the edge, rests against the tree trunk, and then continues again on the other side of it.

“Sarah!” she heard mother’s voice from the living room.

“Mom, I want to sit by the tree for a while!”

“Okay. But not for long. And put on your sweater!”

Sarah grabbed a windbreaker from the hanger and hastily put it on as she were running down the steps of the porch onto the grass in front of the house. She ran to the tree, touched its thick trunk with her palms. Then she spread her arms as wide as she could and hugged it. The tree was her friend. Not a day went by that they didn't spend time together. Even if it was raining outside, Sarah would run to the tree anyway, hug it quickly and then run back to the house. But if the weather was good, then she could sit there for hours. The tree even told her stories. And she called it “my talking tree.”

“Mom said I have little time. But will you have time to tell me something interesting?” the girl looked up with pleading eyes at the trunk and at the wide, enveloping crown. Then she turned to face the house and sat right on the ground, leaning her back against the trunk. She ran her hands back along the rough bark, repeating the shape of the grooves with her fingers, and then, holding the trunk with her left hand, tried to reach the fence with her right hand. And it almost worked out. The very fingertips felt the surface of the wooden planks.

“I’ve grown up a little more,” thought Sarah.

Then she heard a voice in the distance. Even two voices. Sarah fell silent, trying to hear what they were talking about. It was difficult at first. But they were approaching, and she began to slowly snatch some words from the conversation:

"… act… now…"

"…but… the situation… investments…"

“I heard this word somewhere…” - Sarah thought, - “Maybe dad said it? No, it’s unlikely it was him.” The voices approached.

"I don't see any expediency in this step. We need to conduct a market analysis."

"And I tell you - we can hit the jackpot, they will obviously buy it."

"Let's at least put together a focus group."

“I get nothing. Some nonsense,” Sarah said aloud, with slight displeasure that the tree had slipped her such an uninteresting conversation. Meanwhile, the voices passed by. There was silence again. Sarah looked at the ground, skipping from one blade of grass to another and wondering why it was impossible not to skip, but to look at everything at once, to see all the blades of grass on the lawn at once. Of course, it would be nice to see all the blades of grass all over the world, but at least a lawn in front of the house would be enough.

A voice again. Now alone. What a strange one. It seems to say something, but the words are mixed, and it turns out a mess. And it speaks to itself. Also hiccups constantly.

"Hic!… Aaaa… And he-e-ere the bootsies, yeah, look... B-b-boots on my feet. What for? Why bootsies? Why do… people’ave them? N-n-not on my hands ... Hic! ... Why-y-y-y on my feet? Why I need’em?"

This voice moved much slower than the first two. And now it quieted down. It was as if it had stopped. There was only a kind of inarticulate, intermittent murmur. Or groaning. Or both.

"Ooh, w-well, took’em off… Fly away, bootsies!"

Sarah heard a knock. Something fell on the road. “Did he really throw out his shoes?”

"Here... Hic! Yesss, I'll g-home. Go barefoot… Oooh… It’s m-m-more pleasant… You see, I feel... feel better now..."

Sarah began to think. She stretched out her legs, looked at her sneakers. Then at the grass. She thought for a couple of seconds. Then quickly reached her feet with her hands and tugged off her sneakers and her socks, and put her bare heels right on the ground. She liked the feeling of the grass and the soil – a little wet, a little cool. And she also liked that now she could feel the wind with her feet too.

At that time, the voice came up to the tree. And Sarah heard it quietly half-muttering, half-humming some melody. The hoarseness of the voice only made this melody more pleasant. It was just at times interrupted funnily by hiccupping. So this voice, with singing and hiccups, gradually faded and disappeared...

Then, after a couple of moments, she heard shallow breathing right behind the fence. Sarah recognized it as a neighbor's dog, which used to run away from its house. Every time in some incredible way. The girl, by hearing, determined that the dog approached the fence feeling her sitting next to it. Then she quietly said hello. The dog barked in response, also quietly. And ran on.

Sarah got to her feet, turned to the tree, looked at it, and said “Thank you.” And then she jumped towards the house. She ran up the ladder, and just like that, with wet and slightly dirty feet, ran into the house.