Reference: Larisa Bratnikova is the author of two novels and many stories. Writes catchy, bright, bulk. Not noticed it does not remain: Larisa - the winner of the awards them. Yuri Kazakova (for the best story of the year) and the owner of the reputable Award Roscon 2013, given for achieving fiction. The only author, seven times conquered in the legendary network competition of the story "Rvangery", in which the stars of fiction be fought with newcomers for victory for victory. Bypass at the finish of the famous Sergey Lukyanenko? For Bortnikova, this is the usual thing.
Sea rack beads
There are children, two pieces.
Boy eight years old.
His sister is fourteen years old.
One particularly warm and windless evening children bathe in the sea.
Transparent water. Bottom, like on my palm.
On the bottom, tiny marine crops are moving slowly. Wollective behind you crawled seashelling houses.
Solid, concentrated, important, purposeful ...
"Let's give the raffs a full package, the supreme, we take and make meats," the girl offers. Girls often come to the head of strange ideas.
- Come on! - The boy is rejoiced. - We come to school in the beads in September, everyone will be visible.
Children of two more than two hours roam the shallow water. Lower tanned hands to elbow into the water. Pull the handful of racks. Children, like those wraps. Solid people are concentrated, important ... mean a specific goal.
Closer to the sunset, when the beach is already almost empty, and the sun is about to fall over the horizon, I call children from the water.
"For a minute," the boy asks.
- Halfments, - the girl eats.
I am inexorab like a sunset.
Retribute home. I, boy, girl, sheltered sea races in a plastic bag with water.
- Do you exactly do beads? - I ask the girl. She started. She gathered much more rack than a boy. She decide. - Are you sure?
- For sure! Now come and start doing. Immediately after the shower and dinner.
- How? - I'm interested in.
- Well, first lay out the raffs on the balcony so that they are dried. Then pulling the calf from the sinks, then with the needle's shell with a sink, then ...
The process of manufacturing beads is not interesting to me. I'm curious else. Hacks are alive. They crawl, pushing each other, try to scratch polyethylene by kleesk. Children with curiosity look at prey, discuss the behavior of prisoners, laugh. Recognize especially active or unusual painting of the raschkov. They even gave them names.
I am curious children's rationality.
I know that if the children actually take to do these most beads, they are completely ruthless, without thinking about anything "such", destroy animals. But most likely, no reason will come to any "games in beads", and the unlucky wraps will be aboard everything in the same package, and then they will be thrown into the basket. I am an adult. Unfortunately.
Therefore, I feel sorry for these brainless, but such fun creatures. I'm trying to justify my pity by logic, they say, the death of hundreds and other raches from the hands of indifferent infants is completely meaningless and, although it will not cause tangible harm to the world harmony, but still ... I'm just sorry for the raschkov.
I'm sorry for children too. They were collected. Tried. They have plans. They imagine how to go to school and will boast a unique handmade. But how sorry rachkov ...
- See. If you do not mess with your beads, it is better to let go. Sure?
- We are confident, - shout in one voice.
After dinner, sit on the balcony. Rackets moved to a saucepan. Worried. One even lost the claw. The other seems to have fallen asleep. I remember a children's puzzle. "Once I am starvators Hussein, who had a small pool, said that the former crawling crayons in it lost after the fight" ...
- One died, - I say the girl. - By morning everything will die.
"I'll die anyway," the girl smiles. - Tomorrow I will post them on the sun.
"After all, you can't do anything," I shake my head. - In vain is desoired, poor things. Just. For the sake of whim.
"We will make it," she is writing his foot.
The boy sigh sighs. He is unbearable too lazy. The idea with beads no longer seems attractive. And one dead stroke is an unexpected, unpleasant, sucking under the spoon, the ukorbank.
Another hour of falling backs are becoming more. "Then he began to count the crayfish, the left left was five ..."
- By the morning, no one will remain, - I casually drop.
- Can alive still? - The boy gently touches the fixed straw straw raches for lemonade. Useless.
- And most importantly, wasting. I know that there will be no bead.
- Will be! - The girl is angry. But it seems to understand that I am right.
- I'm driving for fresh water! Until morning stretched, and then look! - Boy joyfully shouts. He found a temporary solution.
- Yes! - Picks up the girl. She also seems so good.
While the boy runs to the sea and back, I am silent. Silent and girl. Combs long hair, sends some sorts, drinking pepsy. The boy returns with a two-liter plastic bottle full of fresh sea water.
Pour in a saucepan. Prisoners come to life, begin to scramble hard on the metal walls, fall, scramble again.
"They want to live," the boy whispers. Gorough tears are heard in his whisper. That's about and he will start crying. But keeps.
- Yeah. But, in my opinion, they want it in vain. In vain, - I also know how to be cruel.
- Not intentionally. I want beads myself. And I will do! - The girl jumps out, leaves the balcony, loudly chlorides the refrigerator.
"They live in nature for a short time, I watched Discovery." Anyway will die this summer, "the boy reports and is waiting for my nodder or any other confirmation of the saving thought.
- How much is needed, so much live. But manage to multiply. And do not choke in the heyday of days in a tiny iron pan. - I can be very cruel.
"I want beads," the girl shouts from the room. It turns out that she listened all this time. - And I will do!
- Nea. Will you do. And animals will die.
It's curious. I understand that I am now on both children some kind of classical history of the life of the Pope, Mom-rake, rachkov kids, and so on, creeping creatures will be saved. I remember, at one time, this is exactly what I saved the crotchie the livestock in the country of my parents. But I do not want. I do not know what I want.
On the one hand, I still sorry for craws. On the other hand, I want children to decide themselves. And in order to solve them, not only single emotions - ah, a sorry for the poor little kids, but also a conscious position. I want the children to do not regret, but they thought "why." I want a lot?
Yeah. But the heat, sea air and niga promote a lot rating.
- Okay. I will not make beads, "the boy decides. - I will go, I will go to the will. Let these breeds breed and live up.
Relief, joy, almost delight ... a little pride, of course. Own mercy is always the cause of self-confidence.
- Only my meh do not try! And you gathered less me, understandable! - The girl flies on the balcony. Evil. Capricious.
I think she is evil that the boy took her opportunity to make a decision first. Now she has nowhere to go. Or insist on your own, or count on me. That I will make an adult will ...
Not. I will not. Today I am not relieving.
- Well ... then let's decide where whose wraps. - I say and make a saucepan. Loofing labels and mashed with clayshs, as if they flaunt me "Choose me, me." But this is all lies and emotions. Straps without a difference. They just want to get out. Those who are still alive.
"That's what I caught this," the boy pulls the first.
- Okay. Then make it so. In this bowl, I put a clay cup next to the pan, "we will lay out those who solve live. And in the saucepan we will leave those who die.
Yeah. This is another. It is not "released" - "leave." This is a solution of a completely different order. Children are taken away. Both.
The girl throws a comb on the table and runs out again. Includes music on full volume.
We are a long "saving" the rachkov for a long time.
- This little one. He has not grown yet. So let it grow and multiplies, - another wrap is doomed to "live".
"And this beautiful," I grab about a spotted shell. " A resident of the shells strives to poke into my finger with his taurus.
- And this one looks like a grandmother ...
I do not know than a large sea cancer in a gray shell look like a grandmother, but I agree. Five minutes later, in the clay cup, more than half of the previously dooms.
- She will not notice that we took more. Let be. Let them live, - whispers a boy.
However, in a saucepan, in addition to those who are asleep, there are also alive. Quite a bit of. The boy is sad looking at them. Sighs chlipko. Smeyshes nose.
- It is her crayfish. There's nothing you can do. Forgive me, crayfish. - sighs again, not without rice. But not without sincere regret.
- Well. Then forward - let out those whom you can.
Boy, happy, runs away. Even the door forgets to slam down. Blowing.
The girl lies on the bed, listening to music, deliberately sinks. Pretends that he doesn't hear when the breathless boy reports, shining a smile and its own significance: "Oh. How did they eat everything! Quickly quickly. Well, that we did not kill them. "
Going to bed. "But I will make myself beads from the sinks, everyone will be visible," the girl will burst, falling asleep.
***
We are leaving next evening. Going later, but I had to. On the bus satisfied, merry, discomfort from the Sun remember these two weeks. And apricot ice cream, which ate tons. And those found on the beach someone's panties. And bursting the ball. And the young man who was so meaningfully looked at the girl ...
"I'll tell you at school," the girl dreams. - We had great rest.
- And beads! - The boy jumps up and looks at us with horror. - Beads! Hacks!
"Forgot," the girl whispers.
- Forgot? Did you forget them there, on the balcony in a saucepan? Yes? You are there just so kill them ... - The boy waves and sits on his place. Nothing can do anything.
The bus slowly crawling uphill. Boy sticking her nose to glass, looking at the sea. I sit, read Gumileva with an iPhone. I listen to how the girl cries the girl on the next seat.
Larisa Bratnikova
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