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Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

Letters of Mizhappar

(The short novel)

 

 

 

(In loving memory of the great humorist of Uzbekistan Hadjibay Tadjibayev)

 

 

The first letter of Mizhappar

 

 



Let this letter that I write now, rushing like a storm, storming like a Typhoon, reach the hands of dear Mr. Sitmrat, whom lives in those countries where democracy flourishes like the Japanese Sakura in the spring. Let this letter be clear to him as the full moon in the deserted silence of the snow-covered field of the collective farm, where we plant cotton in the spring. Hello, Mr. Sitmrat, my name is Mizhappar. I'm a member of the collective farm. My fellow farmers work from early spring until late autumn, cooperating with the government to reach their goal, to exceed the annual plans for the collection of cotton, bravely defeating all the vagaries of harsh nature. Thank you very much, our wise President and the government, for making bread cheap. A man will not die if he does not eat meat. That is, anyone will do without meat. For us as long as bread is cheap along with water. Now, think for yourself, Mr. Sitmrat, if your clothing or boots tear, you can patch them up. But the stomach? What do you think, is it possible to sew up the stomach at least for a day and live without eating anything? It is not so. Here is recently, we were in search of bread with bags in armpits. And now, we thank again our wisest President and the government that there is bread, water and air.This is the most important thing. I am writing this historic letter and I think about those days when the first mandatory goods disappeared from the shop counters and I remember one funny story. The story is very funny and when I think about this case, I burst into laughter and can't stop. I can't stop even when I stare at my fingernails to stifle my laughter. Even now as I write this letter and cracked hand from my hands are shaking due to laughter. In short, in those grim days of my age, me and relative Qurumboy from the village "Lattakishlak" went to town in search of cotton oil. He was walking among the shops of the Bazaar when he saw a young man selling cotton oil. Qurumboy asked the price from this seller. The seller named the price. The price was reasonable and Qurumboy decided to buy, thinking "the Price is reasonable. I'll buy more. I will resell the excess to the neighbors in tridorogo ". While he thought, the seller asked him a delicate question, he said: - How many liters will you have, sir?
- Two... no, three pints please, ' said Qurumboy, pulling money out from his tarpaulin boots without soles. -Well, Mister - he said, and took one three-liter glass jar with a sealed lid. Then wiping it with a towel, gave it to Qurumboy. He paid and carefully placed the three-liter glass jar in the bag. When Qurumboy arrived home safe and sound, on a bus branded "Pazik" with a loaf of yellow bread, his mother was very happy. And, of course will be delighted. After all, they have not eaten hot food for 3 months in a row, and now this! The mother of Qurumboy even cried of joy. They then cleared the cabbage, corn, turnips, potatoes with surgical care put them into a kettle of vegetable oil, brought by Qurumboy. The well-oiled, clear oil lay in the bottom of the blackened kettle. Qurumboy began spreading the fire by adding dry dung. The fire burned quite a long time but, for some reason the oil was not warmed up. there was no smoke rising from it. Suddenly the heated oil began to boil. Seeing this, Qurumboy and his mother became surprised. It turns out that the seller was a liar, and he sold Qurumboy not cotton oil, but cold tea, which looked similar to oil.Then Qurumboy spent one week using the money on transportation, he went into town looking for the seller, a scoundrel on the market, but could not find him. Now, cotton oil, thanks to the government and our generous president, appeared on the shelves. Although, more expensive, but there it was. I don't understand people. Some complain all the time, because of the light turning, then about the shortage of gas for their furnace, then about drinking water. If it was my choice, I would have destroyed all those power lines, poles, in general electronics. It turns out this electric current is the most dangerous and harmful substance for human life. How many people died from the electric current in our village, when they picked an eletric breaker with a screwdriver in their hands, hoping to twist the meter, as to avoid paying for electricity. As the fire breaks out, with a green-red spark, the meter explodes in place with the host like a time bomb. Some of their houses were burned to the ground by a flash from power lines on their roofs into the attic, where dry hay that they were gathering for the cattle is ignited. It turns out, too, it's as flammable as gunpowder in a keg. It's better to live without electricity. In our village named after Chapaev every day, from evening  to morning  we should turn off the electricity. Naturally, I rejoice in this. My parents, my stepfather and stepmother are also happy. My stepfather to say, when the electricity is off I will not be watching TV and i'll fall asleep early. Yesterday I, was cleaning cows butts, suddenly, a chorus of villagers yelled  and I slightly had a heart attack. They loudly shouted: Uraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!. I think, Mr. Sitmrat came on an armored personnel carrier with the oppisition starting the revolution. I went out Jogging on the street and see the villagers fleeing their homes, rustling their heavy coats and stomping with their tarpaulin boots without the soles.
- What are you saying, fellow villagers?! - I asked them.
- The lights on! - Thank you, our wise President and government! - they answered with a shout of joy. Through later hours, as they finished their food, they were waiting to watch television, the electricity had turned off.
Some citizens complain about the lack of gas. Well, what can you do, if these fools do not even know how dangerous this gas is. Last year in the winter the gas is nearly burned our house. In our village, people in order to take more gas, installed motors mounted into the furnace. And with the help of this mechanism, they extract the gas from the pipe, leaving small amounts of fuel to their neighbors. After consulting with my stepfather and stepmother, I also bought a motor of this kind and mounted it in the pipe of our furnace. As the motor began to work, immediately began to create blue flames in the furnace and it terribly buzzed like a ship sailing in the icy expanses of the Arctic ocean. The flame in the furnace fluttered like a flag on a flagpole and in a short time we became warm.  My stepfather and stepmother rejoice, praising me. When it became stuffy, I had to take off my coat and hat with earflaps and sit in my undershirt. Our home became like a Finnish sauna and I had sweat all over me. Even breathing became difficult from the unbearable heat. Suddenly, the motor mounted into the pipe of the furnace, giving the sound of bats, flying in different directions, then the motor exploded. It turns out the pressure on the gas pipeline rose sharply. I saw the flames have risen to a meter and a half, if not more, and our shack has turned into a stone cave of a fiery hell. My stepmother in hysterics shouted in a shrill voice like a whistle of an ancient factory, calling for the help of people. I'm shocked. I stand still. I see my stepfather is also snarling like a wild man at a waterfall.
-  Mizhappar! Look, my adopted son, the sheepskin is burning with the mattress by the furnace!Put it out, for God's sake! Oh, Lord! - he growled.
- I see, I see, stepfather! I will put the fire out!  I growled in reply, and began feverishly to trample on the flame, which was raging terribly near our furnace. I trampled the fire with my flat-footed feet, like the fins of scuba divers, and finally, I managed to successfully contain the fire. But, during the struggle with the fire, my pants burned up to my knees and they turned into shorts. I've been afraid of gas ever since. Our poverty saved us from destruction. Because we except the clay floor, clay walls and ceilingmade out of almost nothing. If we had wooden floors and ceilings, luxurious furniture, it would definitely burn down. From there, and the popular saying complained that not beauty, but the poor will save the world. Here you are a great scientist in the field of profanity, think for yourself, if the people of the whole planet were poor, they would not be able to invent atomic and nuclear bombs, right, Mr. Sitmrat? Would a poor, hungry man think about inventions? they would only think about filling their stomach. They, too, would hope to find dry bread, and would work on the cotton plantations, from morning to evening, picking cotton, not ceasing even in the cold days of December in a place with their children. I firmly believe that wealth and luxury are the number one enemy of all mankind. After the fire that broke out in our house, it looked like a closet, I dismantled the pipes from the gas pipeline and we began to heat our shack with dung, that is, cow dung. Although dung in a furnace burns slowly and smells bad, at least it is safe for human life. Extracted dung is also not difficult. Sit on a donkey and go to the lawn where the juniper trees grow, where there is a lot of dung, which cows produced. Collect them, put them in your bag and the police will not even arrest you for it. Sometimes the mown rye field will also turn into a quarry fuel of energy resources for us, that is, for the poor. We need to live in harmony with nature, not destroy it.
With great respect, the member of collective farm, Mizhappar.



January 21, 2008. 19 hours 15 minutes.
Collective Farm "Chapaev".

 

 

 

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Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

 

Review by an unknown reader about the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves" in the electronic library"Ridley".


Dear readers, we sincerely hope that the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves" will not look like any of the already read by you in this genre. Through images do not remain without attention, appearing in different places of the text they perfectly harmonize with the main line. It is clear that the issues raised here will not lose their relevance in time or space. Considerable attention is paid to the place of events, which gives the color and realism of what is happening. Fascinating, sometimes funny, very touching makes it possible to think about yourself, evoking memories from life. Portrait of the protagonist picked up very well, from the first lines imbued with sympathy for him, empathize with him, rejoice at his success, and upset failures. There is a certain feature, try to go beyond the basic idea and to introduce the uniqueness, thanks to which there is a desire to return to read. As you get closer to the outcome, it becomes more important great and beautiful, cleverly hidden than what it seemed at first glance. As you get closer to the apotheosis inadvertently freezes the spirit and later felt the desire to follow multiple reading. In addition to the fascinating, exciting and interesting narrative, the plot also retains the logic and sequence of events. At first glance, the combination of love and friendship seem mundane and bored, but later come to the conclusion that the evidence of the selected studies. The short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves" read free online unusual, as the product is sometimes incredible, but at the same time, very interesting and exciting.

19.09.2016.

Thank you very much for the sincere review of my work.

Sincerely, Holder Volcano.

The second review of an unknown reader about the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves" in the electronic library "Ridley".


Dear readers, there are interesting books, and there are very interesting books. To what category include the short novel "falling leaves" Holder Volcano you decide! Unwittingly living out the book - then disappear completely in it, then resume, finding Parallels and a private Foundation, and suddenly grow a soul. From the first lines visual images draw attention to themselves, they are in many ways distinct, colorful. The finale is a little tightened, but it compensates a totally unpredictable ending. Thanks to the dynamic and fascinating story, the book keeps the reader in suspense from beginning to end. Harmonious mutual admiration of conflict episodes with the external surrounding reality, once again confirm the talent and skill of the literary genius. Thanks to the mind, charisma, wit and nobility, you instantly feel sympathy for the main character and his companion. Soft irony along with comic situations are so harmoniously woven into the plot that they become an inseparable part of it. This short novel is a kind of mystery posed to the reader, and the usual logic is not to solve it, until the very last page. The Creator is in no hurry to prematurely reveal the idea works, but through the actions with the help of the hints in the dialogues gradually brings to his readers. The themes of love and hate, good and evil, friendship and enmity, no matter what time they are touched upon, always remain relevant and urgent.
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Thank you very much for the sincere review of my work.
Sincerely, Holder Volcano.

This short novel  has magic. If you start reading this book, you won't be able to stop.The story just drags you in like quicksand in the desert and swallows. Read and enjoy.


Copying, distribution, and commercial use the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves" without the written consent of the copyright holder is prohibited.


Sincerely, Holder Volcano.

"Falling leaves"

(The short novel)

(Translated by author)



Chapter 1

Spring fields

 



Spring, birds singing in the high poplars at field mill, where the white acacia. Recently, among the thorny branches of acacia could see a nest of magpies, and now it disappeared from sight among the leaves and flowering bunches of the tree. Magpies are very smart birds. They know that boys can't climb a tree, whose thorny branches, as its sharp spiny thorns may hurt to scratch his hands and feet and even to rip their harem pants. Acacia flowers have captured the soul like Souvenirs made from pieces of white porcelain. The pleasant smell of these bunches winds spread across the field where farmers work. Khurshida worked, knocking hoe on the rocky field. It was a girl of eighteen, fair-skinned, with a dense and gentle curly dark brown hair, with a slender figure and magnificent Breasts, with hazel eyes, and clear eyes. She is so beautiful smiling coral lips, showing white healthy and beautiful teeth, that a lot of guys in the village were crazy about her. But Khurshida did not pay attention to either one of them, as she felt for him the tender feelings called love. His indifference she has increased "oppression" on the lovers. She didn't even answer your love letters that boys wrote and passed her through her friends.

Khurshida"s father Abduljabbar very strict towards his daughter Khurshida and his difficult character and behavior more like a stepfather than her own father. He often drinks alcohol and satisfied with drunken fights. But Abduljabbar is a good specialist in the field of sheep shearing. He works as a mechanic on a cattle farm. Repairs on the farm milking machines, automatic drinking bowls, conveyors, cleaning barns, combines, forage shredders and so on.
Although Abduljabbar is not a religious fanatic, but he strictly prohibits Khurshida to go to parties dedicated to the birthday of her classmates, which was attended by boys. Abduljabbar swore that if his daughter Khurshida will disgrace their family, he will curse. So mother of Khurshida Raheela every day insisted that she did not play with fire and was cautious in communication with her classmates and other unknown guys, Raheela knew that the class of her daughter not all girls were friendly with Khurshida. That is, some girls are jealous of Khurshida and look at her with despise, because she's pretty and many guys were in love her but not with them.

With these thoughts in mind, Khurshida continued to work on the field, leveling soil for planting cotton. She loves to work in the fields alone, as nobody bothers to think about what she wants to think. Loneliness for her freedom was like the boundless sky. Sometimes Khurshida stops to straighten her back, listening to the distant of a sad voice of an alone hoopoe which comes from Willow Grove, where the wind wanders drunk. From far away came the muffled rumble of a lone tractor. Khurshida thoughtfully watched agile low flying swallows. They flew over the fields, almost touching the ground, and its white belly and wings similar to bent black daggers with sharp blades. Then again she set to work, humming a sad song about love. And the sun slowly but surely rose to the tip of the sky. Khurshida worked on the field under the scorching sun and stopped work only when on the hill, the cook Tubo shouting the beginning to entice people for lunch.

-Choygaaaaaaaaa!- she cried, and her voice flew over the spring fields, like a bird freed from its chest.

Leaving the hoe on the edge of the field, Khurshida went to the side of the field mill. Approaching her, she smelled a delicate sweet smell fragrant acacia which bloomed near the field camp, which grew tall poplars and weeping willows. At this point, of the cultivator, which stopped near a field camp, jumped a young tractor driver of about twenty to twenty five, in a worn skullcap, tall, broad-shouldered, snub-nosed, with curly hair, with a mustache above fleshy lips, a peculiarity of the guy with a green scar on his left eyebrow. It gave him the appearance of harshness and masculinity. His appearance resembled a Roman Gladiator who fought with his bare hands with hungry tigers. Khurshida had not seen this tractor driver in these parts, but I just remembered his tractor, which she just watched from afar in the cotton field. While Khurshida was removed from the branches of the mulberry tree a small pouch in which was bread, sugar, welding, aluminum spoon, and a mug with a bowl, the tractor driver was already standing in the queue at the field tin samovar, where workers were poured theirself a Cup of boiling water. Taking her mug, Khurshida poured her the tea and also got in line. Seeing her, the guy turned to look and gave up his place. Not expecting such a gentleman, Khurshida thanked the young tractor driver and kindly smiled. After a few minutes the guy started to talk to her:
- Girl, let me tell you an amazing story while we stand in line. In short, yesterday I go past this tree - beauty!- from the white acacia flowers that you can’t stop looking at. The acacia blooming was like a young bride in a white wedding dress! I stopped involuntarily admiring the unusual beauty of this tree, looking at it with delight, like a farmer who came from a distant village with a bag on his shoulders, who first saw the city. Then there was gunfire. I thought, there was a terrorist shooting at me from the machine gun. I quickly lay down on the ground, so he couldn’t fire the whole clip at me. I layer down for a while and I look, and there's a singing magpie. Well, I felt ashamed about myself. Stood up, looked around, found my dirty skullcap, shook off the dust, jammed it on my head and went on. It’s a good thing nobody but me saw it.

After hearing the story of the tractor driver, everybody having lunch amicably laughed. Khurshida too, then came their turn. But, unfortunately, boiling water ceased to flow from the samovar's tap. It turned out that the cause was the fact that in the samovar boiling water level dropped below the level of the faucet, so it stopped showering. But the tractor driver found a way out: he asked Khurshida to bend the samovar and pour the boiling water into a mug, which he set up.

- Okay - agreed Khurshida and when the young tractor driver framed his mug to the tap of the samovar, Khurshida gently bent the samovar. But then disaster struck: Khurshida accidentally dropped the samovar, and he fell over, the young tractor driver scalded with boiling water. Tractor driver, making a face from a severe burn, started to jump from the pain, leaning on one leg, pulling air into the lungs.

- Vsss -ah-aaah! Vsss-ahh-ahhhh! Ooooohhhh!- he jumped from the stinging pain and spun like a dog chasing its tail.

Khurshida started to cry, not knowing what to do and how to calm the poor tractor driver. And workers who had already begun eating, all got up from their seats, feeling for the tractor driver who accidentally scalded with boiling water. Some laughed, especially when the timekeeper Abdelkasim cried, you take off your pants and jump right into the pond!

- Oh, excuse me, for God's sake, mister! This is all my fault!.. Badly burned?! Poor!.. I don't know Your name... what your name? - Said Khurshida, crying and circling around the guy in confusion.

A young tractor driver, holding his scalded thigh, stopped for a moment and with a grimace on his face said:

- Me? A-aaaaah- ahhhh... my name is Sultan!

- Oh, Mister Sultan, sorry! I didn't want to... - said Khurshida with tears in her eyes.

-Don't worry, girl, about anything... Aa-a-ahhh-ahhh... Ahh-ahh-ahh....My leg will get better before the wedding said tractor driver Sultan, smiling through the grimace on his face, continuing to jump on one leg.
Then he asked, distorting the face of unbearable pain:
-And You? What's your name?

- Me? Oh yeah, my name is Khurshida.

-Very nice... Vsss-aaaaa-aah... Yyyyh! That's a beautiful name, like you, honestly. You, Khurshida, do not pay attention to me. Better get yourself something to eat. Its lunch time right now... - said Sultan, continuing to rely on one leg to alleviate the pain.

- No, I will not eat. Well, how am I supposed to eat when you suffer because of me? - cried Khurshida.

Here the tractor driver Sultan stopped limping and said.

- Well, Khurshida, now quit crying! After all, people are looking at us. Already released the pain, don't you worry. I have everything in order. Don’t you believe my words? Well, then I have no choice but to prove to you that I'm healthy as an ox.
Here look and, humming a tune, he began to dance, stamping their tarpaulin boots, as a dancer with great experience.

Sultan danced, whirling like a whirlwind and singing cheerful music. Seeing this, everyone around laughed as if the viewers who are watching a funny presentation of a wandering artist. Khurshida was also smiling through her tears, rejoicing that the Sultan let go of the pain.


 

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Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

Dalakazan

(The short novel)

Translated by the author.

 


Any commercial use of the short novel "Dalakazan" by Holder Volcano is prohibited without the prior written consent of the author.




This is the birth of a new genre in world literature. If you do not believe, then read this work to the end, and You will firmly see this.This short novel has its magic that will cause you to read unstoppable. You won't even notice that you read the whole book from start to finish, and you will read it over and over again. I personally believe this.

All an enjoyable read!

(Holder Volcano)



Chapter 1

Bank robbery in broad daylight


A gang of masked robbers, armed to the teeth, suddenly burst into the Bank with wild cries, threatening to shoot anyone like a partridge who dares to show the slightest disobedience or resistance. They ordered all Bank employees to lie down on the floor and not move.
- Anyone who tries to raise his head, immediately receive a bullet in the forehead! - one of them shouted.
One of the employees of the Bank, of about forty, tall, skinny build, with a nose like the beak of an eagle named Dalakazan, the bandits raised, pointing at him nervously, with trembling hands, the barrel of the machine gun:
-Come on, bastard! You will help us commit the robbery of the century!Come on, open the safe and put the money in those bags! If you try to give signals to the cops, pressing the alarm button, then you, instantly turn into a corpse! - shouted another thug, as he kicked Dalakazan's butt hard.
-Okay!Okay! I'll do anything you say!Just please don't kill me!I have a family and young children! -begged them Dalakazan. He obediently walked towards the cash register, raising his thin arms high, like a young soldier in a hot spot of the planet who had just been captured.


 

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Гўзаллик, покликдан уялиб,
Қисиниб, қимтиниб турасан.
Қоп - қора деворга суяниб,
Ёп -ёруғ хаёллар сурасан.

 

Шавкат Раҳмон.

 

 

132221451_gorod_Brempton (202x216, 31Kb)

Холдор Вулқон

Ўзбекистон Ёзувчилари уюшмасининг аъзоси

Шавкат Раҳмон ҳотирасига

 

"Осмон тўла ҳаволар, фақат менга етмайди."

Шавкат Раҳмон.

 

 

Хато қилғай деса кимки вабо ўлдирди шоирни,

Деманг тилло кумуш оҳанрабо ўлдирди шоирни.

Лабинда ғунчадек нозик табассум, қўйнида ҳанжар,

Бахил, қалби қаро "дўст - ақрабо"  ўлдирди шоирни.

Яёв, ёлғиз кезаркан бир ўзи ойдин чаманларда,

Саҳар ғир -ғир эсиб ўтган сабо ўлдирди шоирни.

Муҳаббат дардига топмай даво, шеър ёзди у бедор,

Кийиб гулгун қабо, нозик адо ўлдирди шоирни.

Келиб кўклам, чақин чақнаб, чопиб ёмғир аро шодон,

Шалоббо кўйлаги бир дилрабо ўлдирди шоирни.

Хазонлар рақсига термултириб бўм - бўш хиёбонлар,

Самода турналар айтган видо ўлдирди шоирни.

Ялонғоч дов дарахтлар беркиниб сокин туманларга,

Хазонли боғдаги шарму ҳаё ўлдирди шоирни.

Назм бўстонига келтирди соф муздек ҳаволарким,

Бу не қисмат, қаранг, охир ҳаво ўлдирди шоирни.

 

 

 

05/08/2015 йил.

Кечки соат 6 дан 36 дақиқа ўтди.

Канада, Онтерио.



Холдор Вулкан

Мероприятие

(Памяти великого узбекского поэта Шавката Рахмона)

 


Хоронила поэта на кладбище толпа,
Плакали, роняя слезы с ресниц.
Пышные венки, шепот и мольба,
Будто таял снег в начале весны.

Любил он тишину заснеженных полей,
Писал о полетах бабочек стихи.
Грустил как фонари туманных аллей,
В табачном дыму, одиноко в тиши.

Журавли в его стихах трубили,
Бежала темным буйволом тьма.
Сверчки мглу насквозь сверлили,
Молча заглядывала в окна луна...

Все ушли, шагая осторожно и тише,
Шли дни и многие о нем забыли.
Только деревья, не уходя с кладбище,
Стояли долго над его могилой.


25/08/2016.
4:07 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.



 

 

Холдор Вулкан

Член Союза писателей Узбекистана

 

Далаказан

(Повесть)




Любое коммерческое использование повести Холдора Вулкана "Далаказан" запрещено без предварительного письменного согласия автора.

(Холдор Вулкан)




Глава 1

Ограбление банка средь бела дня




В банк неожиданно ворвалась вооруженная до зубов банда грабителей в масках, с дикими криками, угрожая пристрелить как куропатку каждого, кто осмелится оказать малейшее неповиновение или сопротивление. Они приказали всем сотрудникам банка лечь на пол и не двигаться.
- Тот, кто попытается поднимать голову, тут же получит пулю в лоб! - крикнул один из них.
Одного из сотрудников банка, лет сорока, высокого роста, худошавого телосложения, с носом, похожий на клюв орла по имени Далаказан, бандиты подняли, направив на него нервно дрожащими руками дуло автомата:
-Ставай, гад! Ты нам поможешь совершить ограбление века!Давай, падла, открой сейф и быстро положи деньги в эти мешки! Попытаешься подать сигналы ментам, нажимая на кнопку тревоги, то тебе хана, моментально превратишься в труп! Давай шевелись задницей! -крикнул бандит, изо всех сил ударив ногами по заднице Далаказана.
-Хорошо, хорошо! Я сделаю все, что вы прикажете!Только, прощу вас, не убивайте меня!У меня семья и несовершеннолетние дети! -умолял их Далаказан. Он покорно шел в сторону кассы, высоко подняв свои худые руки, как молодой солдат в горячей точке планеты, который только что попал в плен.Но он неожиданно повернувшись назад, молняносными движениями повалил бандита на пол и быстро отобрал у него автомат "Калашников". Потом нажал на курок автомата, чтобы обезвредить банду грабителей и спасти сотрудников, но выстрела не последовало.

 

 

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Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

 

The landscape poems


Translated by the author

 

Longing for the desert


My soul is like a single grain of sand
longs for the desolate deserts,
where, like long chains of ants
word caravans go silently.


09/04/2020.
10:00 PM.
Canada, Ontario.


 

Time



O time, that walks with a limp on one leg
in the dial of the old clock,
tell me, do you hate each other, like people do
on our planet and often tied between you
brawl, with knifes, and axes and even
bloody hundred years of war where soldiers kills
millions of peaceful, innocent people and even children,
turning beautiful cities into ruins?
What bloody war did you fight, if it's not a secret ,
in what field hospital of which you had one leg
amputated by military surgeons, by removing
a piece of shell from it to prevent gangrene?
O one-legged time, walking, limping on a prosthetic leg,
in the dial of the old clock!
I'm hearing the sound of your footsteps
in the midnight silence, or is it sounds of bitter tears
that drip rhythmically onto the floor
from your gray eyelashes?



17/09/2019.
4:44 of the night.
Canada, Ontario.


Oh, if you only knew!



Sometimes we get a grain of sand in our eye and we are removing it
from our eyes, we do not even think how lonely this grain of sand
is in this city, like a city man in a desert.
Maybe it was brought here by the wind from the distant deserts
and it longs for the desert where the Agamas and monitor lizards run,
raising their tails, so as not to burn their belly on the hot sand, where
sand snakes crawl sideways, leaving traces on the surface
of smooth silk dunes and these traces sweep brooding sand blowing,
like in the deserted midnight streets of snow in winter.
There the Saxauls sing, then crying a hysterical voice on the wind.
They buzz in a sandstorm on the slopes of dunes, like the hump
of wild and yellow camels, where whirlwinds sometimes dance,
like a man who dances whirling, with a sharp dagger in his teeth!
You sit down and look at the ghostly dunes under the starry sky,
when the lonely moon slowly begins to rise in silence,
silently and quietly illuminating the expanses of the midnight desert.
Sometimes skiing on the smooth silky sand dunes,
like the frozen waves of dried seas and oceans, you will feel like a
crazy surfer, barely holds on the crests of giant waves.
Oh, if you only knew how lonely that grain of sand in your eye is,
as humanity and as our orphaned planet in the vast cosmos,
in the nebulae of the universe that have no end!
You will immediately take the grain of sand back to the desert,
or the desert itself will come for this a grain of sand, accepting giant
form of rights, and knocking grains of sand, like grains of snowflakes
in the twilight winter, and it will look in the tiny window of your hut.



15/09/2019.
8:10 am.
Canada, Ontario.

 

Echo



The water droplets fall at the midnight silence.
No, it's not the thawing snow outside the window crying 
and not the footsteps of time, which
walks, hobbling on one leg on the dial of the wall clock.
It's the echo of your tears dripping by the window,
in the moonlight and desolate silence, there
across the oceans, in my distant homeland.



03/09/2018.
10:22 of the day.
Canada, Ontario.


Time clicks its tongue rhythmically



I'm not a king or a caretaker of dogs,
but a distant echo of the sad cries of cranes.
I'm the somber sky and the rainfall pecking
the bunches of the Rowan trees
outside your window, which you will look
through at the distant landscape during winter,
where snow covered forests, fields and
the empty winter snow-covered roads,
the rickety huts of the village.
I'm not a king or a caretaker of dogs,
I'm just a slave to my desires.
A slave of air, water and food.
At night I look at the moon, like a fish
looking through an ice hole, in a frozen river,
listening to the sounds of the wagons of the trains
knocking against the steel spines of the Railways.
A knock that sounds like a heartbeat,
knocking of a clock sounds like hiccups
after eating the time from our lives.
I'm not a king or a caretaker of dogs,
I'm just loneliness and peace.
I am the silence and the orphan hood of old graves.
I'm a lonely passer-by, drunk in the snow blizzard
who forgot the path home.
The twilight is lit by the moon like empty white paper,
like snow-covered winter roads,
similar to our September cotton fields.
I go and lengthen my silent shadow.
Balding trees in parks, as if in a dream,
and the leaves are gently flying to the pavement.
The fallen leaves are so soft,
I want to lie on them and sleep...
Let eternity pass on it's tiptoe,
you can sleep, locking the door.
And let time click it's tongue rhythmically,
swinging the pendulum of the grandfather clock.



03/07/2019.
10:18 of the day.
Canada, Ontario.


F sad holiday



I'll go out on a autumn field as if on a holiday,
like going to the train station, and standing
on a high slope,like if on a platform,
say goodbye to the migratory birds,
that fly south, flapping their wings.
I wave to them, my weathered skullcap
until they disappear over the horizon
and their sad voices in the distance
do not cease.
Until my soul is emptied, like an empty nest,
which blacken from the distant
in the grove, on the branches of birch trees.



22/08/2019.
10:07 in the morning.
Canada, Ontario.



The distant bird noises



At sunset in a poplar grove by the river,
where there are abandoned ruins of the pigsty,
high poplars deafening noisy birds.
The chirping of hundreds of sparrows, the distant noise
still ringing in my ears,
like the sound of waves in a seashell.


22/08/2019.
11:38 of the day.
Canada, Ontario.

 

 

Religious Man



He believed in God, but God did not believe him.




14/08/2019.
8:09 in the morning.
Canada, Ontario.


By the autumn fire



You're busy alone in a quiet autumn garden,
sweeping the fallen leaves with a broom.
Thoughtfully and silently collect firewood,
thinking about our meetings and making a fire,
similar to fuming volcanoes, which smoke
the bitter cigar in the Kuril Islands.
Sitting by the fire, looking into the smoke,
so that people think you're not crying,
it's just your reddened eyes with
tears, because of the bitter smoke.



02/08/2019.
12:26 of the day.
Canada, Ontario.


Longing for spring



Spring as love works wonders,
Waking nature from a sweet dream.
Soon, deafening cries heaven,
The birds return, when the grass is green .

Coming from the pathways is spring,
A slim, naive, youthful lady.
And on the poplar the bird will sing:
-Chicka - di-di-di-di-di-di-di!

Hearing this for a while in silence,
People will stop digging gardens.
Will enjoy the singing birds,
Leaning against the shovel shanks.



16/10/2015.
4:53 of day.
Canada, Ontario.




The poor trees



Rivers and ponds covered with ice,
Outside the window, the blizzard howled.
Oh trees, I would let you into the house,
And you would warm yourself by the fire,

But you're motionless along the road,
In parks, gardens and beside the gates.
Like families in the bitter cold,
The same as people without fuel.

Scurrying, shivering on the frozen river,
And you have no shelter over your head.
But trees, you don't have a stove,
And some wood?..



04/03/2015.
2:08 of the day.
the city of Brampton, Canada.




Winter dandelions



The late dandelions appearing beautiful
They look like fluffy, snow-white balls.
Their hair turns grey, since they are fearful
Fearing that winter is just after fall.

Their winds blew like children in the fields,
It's fluff whirled and flew weightless.
The trees were playing an accordion well,
Like a musician in a cluster of snowflakes.

The blizzards have changed into dandelions,
And the fluff from them is blown away!
These snow-covered streets lights,
The flying dandelions it looks like!



21/01/2016.
12:00 noon.
Canada. Ontario.

 

 

 

 

 

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

About the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling Leaves"



Review by an unknown reader about the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves" in the electronic library"Ridley".



Dear readers, we sincerely hope that the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves" will not look like any of the already read by you in this genre. Through images do not remain without attention, appearing in different places of the text they perfectly harmonize with the main line. It is clear that the issues raised here will not lose their relevance in time or space. Considerable attention is paid to the place of events, which gives the color and realism of what is happening. Fascinating, sometimes funny, very touching makes it possible to think about yourself, evoking memories from life. Portrait of the protagonist picked up very well, from the first lines imbued with sympathy for him, empathize with him, rejoice at his success, and upset failures. There is a certain feature, try to go beyond the basic idea and to introduce the uniqueness, thanks to which there is a desire to return to read. As you get closer to the outcome, it becomes more important great and beautiful, cleverly hidden than what it seemed at first glance. As you get closer to the apotheosis inadvertently freezes the spirit and later felt the desire to follow multiple reading. In addition to the fascinating, exciting and interesting narrative, the plot also retains the logic and sequence of events. At first glance, the combination of love and friendship seem mundane and bored, but later come to the conclusion that the evidence of the selected studies. The short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves" read free online unusual, as the product is sometimes incredible, but at the same time, very interesting and exciting.



19.09.2016.



Thank you very much for the sincere review of my work.

Sincerely, Holder Volcano.



This short novel  has magic. If you start reading this book, you won't be able to stop.The story just drags you in like quicksand in the desert and swallows. Read and enjoy.



Copying, distribution, and commercial use the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves" without the written consent of the copyright holder is prohibited.



Sincerely, Holder Volcano.



Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

"Falling Leaves"


(The short novel)



(Translated by author)




Chapter 1

Spring fields



Spring, birds singing in the high poplars at field mill, where the white acacia. Recently, among the thorny branches of acacia could see a nest of magpies, and now it disappeared from sight among the leaves and flowering bunches of the tree. Magpies are very smart birds. They know that boys can't climb a tree, whose thorny branches, as its sharp spiny thorns may hurt to scratch his hands and feet and even to rip their harem pants. Acacia flowers have captured the soul like Souvenirs made from pieces of white porcelain. The pleasant smell of these bunches winds spread across the field where farmers work. Khurshida worked, knocking hoe on the rocky field. It was a girl of eighteen, fair-skinned, with a dense and gentle curly dark brown hair, with a slender figure and magnificent Breasts, with hazel eyes, and clear eyes. She is so beautiful smiling coral lips, showing white healthy and beautiful teeth, that a lot of guys in the village were crazy about her. But Khurshida did not pay attention to either one of them, as she felt for him the tender feelings called love. His indifference she has increased "oppression" on the lovers. She didn't even answer your love letters that boys wrote and passed her through her friends.


Khurshida"s father Abduljabbar very strict towards his daughter Khurshida and his difficult character and behavior more like a stepfather than her own father. He often drinks alcohol and satisfied with drunken fights. But Abduljabbar is a good specialist in the field of sheep shearing. He works as a mechanic on a cattle farm. Repairs on the farm milking machines, automatic drinking bowls, conveyors, cleaning barns, combines, forage shredders and so on.

Although Abduljabbar is not a religious fanatic, but he strictly prohibits Khurshida to go to parties dedicated to the birthday of her classmates, which was attended by boys. Abduljabbar swore that if his daughter Khurshida will disgrace their family, he will curse. So mother of Khurshida Raheela every day insisted that she did not play with fire and was cautious in communication with her classmates and other unknown guys, Raheela knew that the class of her daughter not all girls were friendly with Khurshida. That is, some girls are jealous of Khurshida and look at her with despise, because she's pretty and many guys were in love her but not with them.


With these thoughts in mind, Khurshida continued to work on the field, leveling soil for planting cotton. She loves to work in the fields alone, as nobody bothers to think about what she wants to think. Loneliness for her freedom was like the boundless sky. Sometimes Khurshida stops to straighten her back, listening to the distant of a sad voice of an alone hoopoe which comes from Willow Grove, where the wind wanders drunk. There, in the distance, a willow grove, a cotton field, she saw an alone tractor that silently glided over the field like a ship on the surface of a green sea of cotton. Khurshida thoughtfully watched agile low flying swallows. They flew over the fields, almost touching the ground, and its white belly and wings similar to bent black daggers with sharp blades. Then again she set to work, humming a sad song about love. And the sun slowly but surely rose to the tip of the sky. Khurshida worked on the field under the scorching sun and stopped work only when on the hill, the cook Tubo shouting the beginning to entice people for lunch.


-Choygaaaaaaaaa!- she cried, and her voice flew over the spring fields, like a bird freed from its chest.


Leaving the hoe on the edge of the field, Khurshida went to the side of the field mill. Approaching her, she smelled a delicate sweet smell fragrant acacia which bloomed near the field camp, which grew tall poplars and weeping willows. At this point, of the cultivator, which stopped near a field camp, jumped a young tractor driver of about twenty to twenty five, in a worn skullcap, tall, broad-shouldered, snub-nosed, with curly hair, with a mustache above fleshy lips, a peculiarity of the guy with a green scar on his left eyebrow. It gave him the appearance of harshness and masculinity. His appearance resembled a Roman Gladiator who fought with his bare hands with hungry tigers. Khurshida had not seen this tractor driver in these parts, but I just remembered his tractor, which she just watched from afar in the cotton field. While Khurshida was removed from the branches of the mulberry tree a small pouch in which was bread, sugar, welding, aluminum spoon, and a mug with a bowl, the tractor driver was already standing in the queue at the field tin samovar, where workers were poured theirself a Cup of boiling water. Taking her mug, Khurshida poured her the tea and also got in line. Seeing her, the guy turned to look and gave up his place. Not expecting such a gentleman, Khurshida thanked the young tractor driver and kindly smiled. After a few minutes the guy started to talk to her:

- Girl, let me tell you an amazing story while we stand in line. In short, yesterday I go past this tree - beauty!- from the white acacia flowers that you can’t stop looking at. The acacia blooming was like a young bride in a white wedding dress! I stopped involuntarily admiring the unusual beauty of this tree, looking at it with delight, like a farmer who came from a distant village with a bag on his shoulders, who first saw the city. Then there was gunfire. I thought, there was a terrorist shooting at me from the machine gun. I quickly lay down on the ground, so he couldn’t fire the whole clip at me. I layer down for a while and I look, and there's a singing magpie. Well, I felt ashamed about myself. Stood up, looked around, found my dirty skullcap, shook off the dust, jammed it on my head and went on. It’s a good thing nobody but me saw it.


After hearing the story of the tractor driver, everybody having lunch amicably laughed. Khurshida too, then came their turn. But, unfortunately, boiling water ceased to flow from the samovar's tap. It turned out that the cause was the fact that in the samovar boiling water level dropped below the level of the faucet, so it stopped showering. But the tractor driver found a way out: he asked Khurshida to bend the samovar and pour the boiling water into a mug, which he set up.


- Okay - agreed Khurshida and when the young tractor driver framed his mug to the tap of the samovar, Khurshida gently bent the samovar. But then disaster struck: Khurshida accidentally dropped the samovar, and he fell over, the young tractor driver scalded with boiling water. Tractor driver, making a face from a severe burn, started to jump from the pain, leaning on one leg, pulling air into the lungs.


- Vsss -ah-aaah! Vsss-ahh-ahhhh! Ooooohhhh!- he jumped from the stinging pain and spun like a dog chasing its tail.


Khurshida started to cry, not knowing what to do and how to calm the poor tractor driver. And workers who had already begun eating, all got up from their seats, feeling for the tractor driver who accidentally scalded with boiling water. Some laughed, especially when the timekeeper Abdelkasim cried, you take off your pants and jump right into the pond!


- Oh, excuse me, for God's sake, mister! This is all my fault!.. Badly burned?! Poor!.. I don't know Your name... what your name? - Said Khurshida, crying and circling around the guy in confusion.


A young tractor driver, holding his scalded thigh, stopped for a moment and with a grimace on his face said:


- Me? A-aaaaah- ahhhh... my name is Sultan!


- Oh, Mister Sultan, sorry! I didn't want to... - said Khurshida with tears in her eyes.


-Don't worry, girl, about anything... Aa-a-ahhh-ahhh... Ahh-ahh-ahh....My leg will get better before the wedding - said tractor driver Sultan, smiling through the grimace on his face, continuing to jump on one leg.

Then he asked, distorting the face of unbearable pain:

-And You? What's your name?


- Me? Oh yeah, my name is Khurshida.


-Very nice... Vsss-aaaaa-aah... Yyyyh! That's a beautiful name, like you, honestly. You, Khurshida, do not pay attention to me. Better get yourself something to eat. Its lunch time right now... - said Sultan, continuing to rely on one leg to alleviate the pain.


- No, I will not eat. Well, how am I supposed to eat when you suffer because of me? - cried Khurshida.


Here the tractor driver Sultan stopped limping and said.


- Well, Khurshida, now quit crying! After all, people are looking at us. Already released the pain, don't you worry. I have everything in order. Don’t you believe my words? Well, then I have no choice but to prove to you that I'm healthy as an ox.

Here look and, humming a tune, he began to dance, stamping their tarpaulin boots, as a dancer with great experience.


Sultan danced, whirling like a whirlwind and singing cheerful music. Seeing this, everyone around laughed as if the viewers who are watching a funny presentation of a wandering artist. Khurshida was also smiling through her tears, rejoicing that the Sultan let go of the pain.

 

 

 

 

 

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Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Chapter 7 of the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves"

(Translated by author)

7 chapter

Funny story of the tractor driver Sultan




- Daughter, have you collected information about the guy? -asked Raheela.

- Yes, mother, I learned that the tractor driver Sultan from the village of "Tuyamuyun", located at the foot of the Charvak mountains. According to him, near the mountain village flows the river, which originates high in the snowy peaks, where even in summer the snow does not melt. Healing water, the air crystal clear, the village is in the verdure he says. At the foot of the snowy peaks stretch for miles, pistachio, apricot and hazelnut trees, mountain ridges covered with tall thickets of wild raspberry, old spruce forests, where woodpeckers knock, run and jump squirrels in the pine trees, the chirping of birds - in short, a Paradise on earth. Here will go there, spend a day or two, and all You have, says he, will disappear forever the desire to return home, it is here in the farm Tillaquduq. If you want You can stay there for life he said.

And why is he leaving such a wonderful mountainous land here? How did he even get here? You did not ask him?- asked Raheela.

- The fact that he is out of his mountain village went to Tashkent to enter the University, but he failed, and he was ashamed to go back. He decided to work here next year to try again to enroll at Tashkent State University. Prior to that, he is graduated from proof those College and received a law tractor. And he found a job here. In short, that his fate is - explained Khurshida.

- Well, that aggravates the situation, and I'm afraid that your father will never agree to let you marry him because you're our only daughter. If you had brothers or sisters, it would be possible for you to give in marriage, at least in Canada, at least in Europe or in Africa .And I don't want you to go away in distant lands, because without you, I can slowly fade away like a kerosene lamp, which is running out of fuel. Yes, your father is strict but he loves you more than life, and that is why he is demanding to see you. In life anything can happen. In order not to happen something irreparable, we must be very careful. Especially you, because it all depends on you - said Raheela.

What if he wants to stay here and live? -Khurshida asked, not looking up from his work.

- And are you confident in this? He himself said about this?

- No. I'm just guessing.

- I don't know, daughter. You should talk to him about everything.A life of marriage is not a toy. Marriage is for life. But many lovers parted with their beloved, who immediately after the wedding, who later when there are differences and different issues between them. It's the fact that they didn't know about each other before the wedding. The world is a market and life together by. The person, who wants to buy something, must carefully inspect the goods. Or they can buy what he will soon have to throw in the trash. Well, let's say, you bought shoes in the store. In a day or two you feel it's too tight. Going back to the store and change them. A man is not shoes to be able to go and change. To not have to change after marriage, girls should be able to choose the right husband, after a careful examination and testing before getting married said Raheela. Khurshida thought then asked:

- Mom, what if I bring him here? I would talk about everything specifically in your presence.

- Not a bad option. But will he agree to this? And what will the people who see it with us? - said Raheela.

- I need to talk to him about this and bring him here - said Khurshida.

- Good - agreed Raheela.

Mother and daughter worked until lunch, during lunch, Khurshida spoke to the tractor driver Sultan, and he agreed to go there, where Khurshida with her mother. After lunch, did not wait long, the tractor driver Sultan arrived at the appointed place. After they shook hands, Raheela the first to start a conversation:

- I beg do not judge us strictly, son. Frankly, I know about your warm relations, and see that you are a good guy. Although I believe in you, but all the same I need to know the guy my daughter wants to link their fate. Don't get me wrong. In my place any mother would do the same. Khurshida told me about a mountain village where you come from. In my opinion everything is fine .But, you know, to confess, father of Khurshida strict man with a tough character, and I'm afraid he will not agree with me if I say that I intend to give her husband for you, since you live in a remote mountain village "Tuyamuyun". My question is as follows. Once you are accepted into Tashkent State University, you will go back to your village, or want to live in our area?

- To be honest, Auntie, I used to think that enrolling in Tashkent State University, I live in Tashkent. After graduation, I think to go to the native village, and there to teach lessons to students at a local school. And now I have other plans. You see, that I check young and I am only twenty-five, but I'm still not married. I'd show you my passport, so both of you have seen this,

But I left my passport at home that is in the tractor Park, where I live temporarily. I don't want to carry all the time, both in the area where the curfew, right? - He said.

After these words, Raheela, too, began to laugh.

- Oh, You Joker. And I, naive fool, believed. Don't worry. I believe you, son - she said.

- Thank you for your trust, Auntie. To be honest, though, my name Sultan, means king, but I'm really, pathetic slave of your daughter. Now I'm ready to do anything to be with Khurshida. Not to stay in these parts, I am ready even to go to the edge of the world if Khurshida wants. Day and night I thank God for what he sent me here, and Iet such a beautiful girl like Your daughter. My life acquired meaning only after I met her. I used to be a simple tractor driver. But despite this, I read a lot for example the novel "don Quixote Lamanchas". Loved the library of our village, where always reigned peace, comfort and tranquility. Come, walk between shelves, looking at books, and relax the soul. Dizzy from the fragrant smell of books, get drunk. Well, the library was for me something quiet resort, free resort, where people restore their health. Read Jack London, Tolstoy, Turgenev, Gogol, Cervantes, Hemingway, Pushkin, Kafka, Yesenin, Abdullah Kadiri, Chingiz Aitmatov and many wonderful writers and poets of world literature. Once I was asked if I wanted to earn a little in the field of sports. I grew, interesting you people of the Lord. So, who wants to earn money, especially in my situation? Of course, want. After that we went. We drove for a long time through the wilderness, crossed the desert, and went to the trailer of the truck, "lorry" of the Stalin era through the mountain passes, where we were being chased by the mute moon. A torn piece bedspread fluttered in the wind like a tattered flag on Mars. We finally arrived in a city. Walked into a building where there were people - a full house. There I was told to take off my clothes. I stand, then, in his shorts and holey t-shirt. They put my skinny arms like sticks, Boxing gloves, and one of them, says he, I am your coach, Mr. Trendeldinov, and you will participate in the world championship on Boxing. Then I accompanied with healthy big boys went to the side of the stage, enclosed by ropes resembling a sheep pen. When everyone walked out on the stage, that is, in the ring, I left my opponent, a short, bald referee with a goat's beard. When the referee introduced us, I was surprised to see his rival, with overly large heads and slanting eyes. The opponent reminded me of Bigfoot, and he continually jumped up and down. His muscular body, from head to toe was covered with tattoos. He drew on his body, the devil knows what: naked mermaid, an octopus, a dragon, devil, Rhino, skull, cemetery, graves, and crosses - in General, a gallery of creepy paintings. Despite his scary appearance, he seemed a good, honest, helpful friendly honest God-fearing man. Finally it was the long-awaited Gong. You see, slash the opponent hits me. I said that you, dear scythe rival, beat me, that said, have I done wrong?! And slash the opponent instead of stop and apologize, even stronger began to beat me. Well, I think things... Crazy to some a patient who just escaped from a psychiatric hospital. He hits and I'm freaking out screaming, through crushing blows. Wanted was to turn to the undersized bald referee with goat beard, but he could not, began to poison us with each other:

- Fight! Fight, scum fighting dogs, rabid bulldogs and pit-bull in human form! Kill, gnaw, throat each other, and tear, meat ripped up!

I said shame on you, comrade undersized bald still narrow-eyed referee with a goat's beard?! Then slash the opponent hit me in the face, and I almost fell. Look - my coach, friend of Trendildinov, also looks with interest and does not take the necessary measures of intersection to solve problems peacefully sitting at the negotiating table.

- Help, people-All! Christians! Jews! Muslims! Bhuddists! Godless atheists -Communists! Well though someone! - I shouted to the whole room.

But my voice disappeared in the noise of onlookers. And people used to to separate us, on the contrary shouting in unison:

- Go-RIL-La! Go-RIL-La! Cross eyed gorilla, kill the skinny boxer with hands like sticks!..

Well, I think, really, not a bit of pity left in this world. Well, to my happiness, came the long-awaited Gong, saving me from the apparent death. I was moving on all fours, barely reached the stool, which was missing one leg. Sitting on a stool, my nose broken, eyes lined on his forehead a lump a size of a lemon, mouth dripping bloody saliva as the count Dracula. Breathe. Suffocating. Give, grew, water. The coach opened the thermos and pours me a cut in a Cup of boiling water. I said, well, you are a greedy miser, where, grew the sugar? Eaten?

- Oh Yes! - remembered my coach friend of Trendeldinov, and pulling from his pocket bodysuits sugar "Comrating", throws in a glass. Coach Trendeldinov, says he, let's chug it down to the bottom, sugar, helps alert, which had lossed a lot of blood in the ring. Then I started to rush, let's great faster, they say, the second round started, and again sounded the Gong. One pot-bellied woman in a quilted jacket with a short, curves and skinny legs in a dirty canvas shoes without soles walked across the stage, raising high the banner with the words "Round 2". I said, comrade coach Trendeldinov, but may not be necessary, they say, stop this bloodshed? Coach, says he, no, not Sultan. People, bought expensive tickets with great hope to see a bloody hand to hand combat modern Gladiator with a fatal outcome. We, says he, now, is doomed. If you pause the fight, the crowd, very angry and could attack us and trample, stoned. Can even apply to us in the Basmanny court, so we returned them the money they spent from the family budget to buy expensive tickets. You, says he, must fight to the end. Then I drank the second glass of water, got up, and again started beating him in the literal sense of the word. When the blows intensified, I began to suspect that slash the opponent whether wearing iron gloves, or inside the glove he put lead knuckles. I'm covered in blood, yelling wildly, beckoning for help, but no one, unfortunately, never responded to my call. In the skull of my head came a solid crack from where a red fountain spurted blood. Bald and diminutive referee with goat beard did not run in the paddock and was driving around in my blood, like ice skating at the arena and shouted, pitting us all against each other. Then, to my luck, the doctor asked to suspend the combat, to cover a crack in my skull something and bandage tape, and that skinny athlete (me) can die, and the carnage will stop earlier than scheduled, greatly disappointing the audience. Only then the referee decided to give me a break. After examining my wound and measure its width and length by using a hand caliper, and the doctors were so scared, pale face as the boy was attacked by a vicious dog. In their conclusion, the crack in my head was so dangerous that through the crack was visible to my brain, like a walnut kernel. Doctors quickly after consulting among themselves, decided to cover the crack of my skull antiquated way, and they put her back a towel. When the towel disappeared in my head, they've sealed the gap with tape. Then let me again return to the ring and fight to the end. But I could no longer fight, as I lost consciousness and fell. In-about-from, so please forgive me if I say silly words that you don't like, -finished his funny story Sultan, wearing his skullcap, which he kept in his hand. After hearing his story, Khurshida and her mother laughed heartily.

- A joke is a joke, but I do not intend to part with Khurshida, even in that light, if not ask about it me she - said the tractor driver Sultan.

eb23ebae4e2f0a5747a3836a73a792433eb756231883193 (700x510, 39Kb)

 

 

Холдор Вулкан

Член Союза писателей Узбекистана

 

Второй отзыв неизвестного читателя о повести Холдора Вулкана "Листопад" в электронной библиотеке "Ридли".


Дорогие читатели, есть книги интересные, а есть - очень интересные. К какому разряду отнести "Листопад" Холдор Вулкан решать Вам! Невольно проживаешь книгу – то исчезаешь полностью в ней, то возобновляешься, находя параллели и собственное основание, и неожиданно для себя растешь душой. С первых строк обращают на себя внимание зрительные образы, они во многом отчетливы, красочны и графичны. Финал немножко затянут, но это вполне компенсируется абсолютно непредсказуемым окончанием. Благодаря динамичному и увлекательному сюжету, книга держит читателя в напряжении от начала до конца. Гармоничное взаимодоплонение конфликтных эпизодов с внешней окружающей реальностью, лишний раз подтверждают талант и мастерство литературного гения. Благодаря уму, харизме, остроумию и благородности, моментально ощущаешь симпатию к главному герою и его спутнице. Мягкая ирония наряду с комическими ситуациями настолько гармонично вплетены в сюжет, что становятся неразрывной его частью. Данная история - это своеобразная загадка, поставленная читателю, и обычной логикой ее не разгадать, до самой последней страницы. Создатель не спешит преждевременно раскрыть идею произведения, но через действия при помощи намеков в диалогах постепенно подводит к ней читателя. Темы любви и ненависти, добра и зла, дружбы и вражды, в какое бы время они не затрагивались, всегда остаются актуальными и насущными.


--------------------------------------------------------------


Спасибо Вам огромное за искренный отзыв на мое произведение.С уважением, Холдор Вулкан.(Х.В.)



The second review of an unknown reader about the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves" in the electronic library "Ridley".



Dear readers, there are interesting books, and there are very interesting books. To what category include the short novel "falling leaves" Holder Volcano you decide! Unwittingly living out the book – then disappear completely in it, then resume, finding Parallels and a private Foundation, and suddenly grow a soul. From the first lines visual images draw attention to themselves, they are in many ways distinct, colorful. The finale is a little tightened, but it compensates a totally unpredictable ending. Thanks to the dynamic and fascinating story, the book keeps the reader in suspense from beginning to end. Harmonious mutual admiration of conflict episodes with the external surrounding reality, once again confirm the talent and skill of the literary genius. Thanks to the mind, charisma, wit and nobility, you instantly feel sympathy for the main character and his companion. Soft irony along with comic situations are so harmoniously woven into the plot that they become an inseparable part of it. This short novel is a kind of mystery posed to the reader, and the usual logic is not to solve it, until the very last page. The Creator is in no hurry to prematurely reveal the idea works, but through the actions with the help of the hints in the dialogues gradually brings to his readers. The themes of love and hate, good and evil, friendship and enmity, no matter what time they are touched upon, always remain relevant and urgent.


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Thank you very much for the sincere review of my work.
Sincerely, Holder Volcano.

 

 

(не читают абсолютно талантливых мастеров, не меньше чем Габриэля Маркеса, например Холдор Вулкан "Жаворонки поют над полем" - абсолютный талант, нет ему равных.)

Борис Сокольников

Писатель.

Источник: -Литературный портал «Изба-Читальня»

 

 

(There are many talented writers whom are no less than, Gabriel Marquez and many don't read their novels, for example Holder Volcano "Larks sing above the field" is an absolute talent, he has no equal.)

 

Boris Sokolnikov

Writer.

Source: -the Literary portal "Izba Chitalnya»

 

 


 

Холдор Вулкан

Член Союза писателей Узбекистана

 

 

 

Дедушка Холдора Вулкана

 

1 глава повести "Далекие огни"






Бабушка Холдора Вулкана

Детство



Я задумчиво смотрел на падающий снег. Он падал, кружась, то торопливо, то тихо. Крупные белые снежинки, кружились в воздухе, словно пушинки пристреленных лебедей, собравшихся улететь на юг.

Снег падал так красиво и так густо, что я едва различал деревянный забор, стройные березы, кафе под названием "У Ахмеда" и частную лавку, которая в народе называлась "Камок", где торговала продуктами добрая дунганка по имени Халима.


Я здесь жил, днем убирал снег, рубил топором дрова и иногда топил баню. Я любил колоть дрова. Это было одно из моих любимых занятий. Когда я орудовал топором, я чувствовал себя лесорубом, который валит вековые сосны и кедры в глубине далекой тайги, где от стука дятлов дрожит воздух, где с грохотом падают срубленные деревья, пронизывая воздух запахом свежей и сочной сосновой коры. Я колол дрова и забывал на какое-то время о моем изгнании из родных мест, где я родился и вырос.

Я колол дрова, а из окна глядел на меня мой маленький сын Саид, улыбаясь и махая мне ручкой.


Проклятое изгнание не пощадило даже моих сыновей, лишив их друзей, которые остались на родине. У Саида здесь не было друзей. Он играл один, и, глядя на него, я чувствовал, как на глаза мои наворачиваются слезы. Жалко мне было сына.


Я думал о своей прошедшей жизни, которая было похожа на трагикомедию. Если хорошенько подумать, то мне представляется, что я был врожденным оппозиционером. Помню, я часто играл в футбол со своими друзьями во дворе старого, заброшенного свинарника, который располагался на берегу реки Карадарьи, где в маленьком хуторе жили каракалпаки. Хутор находился недалеко от глубоких оврагов и ущелий. Какие высокие тополя росли тогда в этом хуторе! Как шумели воробьи, оглушая своим щебетаньем всю окрестность, когда садилось солнце, скрываясь за горами Тянь-Шаня, господи!


Я вспоминаю, как-то раз мы, ребята с нашей округи, долго играли футбол, не заметив, как стало вечереть, и возвращались по пыльной дорогой домой, голодные, усталые и довольные. Приближаясь к дому, я вспомнил о заданиях, которые дал мне отец, и в сердце моем тоже начали опускаться сумерки. Отец у меня был строгим, и я чувствовал всегда его пытливый взгляд и боялся его. Я хотел зайти в дом тихо и незаметно, продвигаясь на цыпочках, как аист в рисовом поле, который шагает осторожно, чтобы не вспугнуть лягушек, надеясь полакомиться ими. Но тут вдруг появился отец и - хоп! - я попался. Начался "суд" надо мной, в котором отец единолично был одновременно и прокурором, и судьей. Он вынес мне суровый приговор и определил наказание.

Лишённый адвокатов, я оказался на улице.

В такие моменты я знал, что мне делать. Не раздумывая долго, я пошёл к дедушке с бабушкой, которые любили и жалели меня. Я попросил у них политическое убежище, и они, не требуя особых документов, дали мне убежище. Помывшись, я сел на курпачу обильного дастархана*. Накормив меня, бабушка постелила мне мягкую постель с пуховой подушкой и, поцеловав меня в лоб, пожелала мне спокойной ночи.


Низкий дом, где жили дедушка с бабушкой, имел глиняный пол, на котором была расстелена мягкая солома, покрытая ковром. Человек, который наступал на этот ковер, чувствовал себя человеком, стоящим над огромной резиновой грелкой с теплой водой.

Смотрю - дедушка мой сидит и при свете керосиновой лампы читает какую-то книгу с пожелтевшими страницами, надев очки с овальной оправой, какие люди носили во времена Антона Павловича Чехова. Бабушка латала белый яктак*, похожий на японское мужское кимоно моего деда. В лачуге царила такая арктическая тишина, что я слышал громкое, ритмичное тиканье старинных часов, похожих на голос ящерицы Геккона, которая жила в щелях не отштукатуренных стен и в сумраках охотилась за мотыльками. Дед мой в то время пас колхозных лошадей. Хотя он был пастухом лошадей, он был большим ученым, то есть муллой, который знал наизусть "Куръони Карим" и умел правильно трактовать ояты из этой священной Книги мусульман. Как он гонял лошадей на водопой! Какие были красивые лошади! Красные, белые, черные, серые, пятнистые! Как они пили воду отражаясь в воде арыка, шевеля своими смешными губами и храпя, у края арыка, где мы купались, где на ветру шумели высокие зеленые ивы и стройные тополя! Как эти лошади скакали дробя своими копытами по наших улиц, теребя на вольном ветру свои гривы словно разноцветные флаги государств мира у задании ООН!


Дед мой был стариком высокого роста, худого телосложения и с короткой бородой. А бабушка моя - напротив, была низкорослая и полная. Дедушка с бабушкой напоминали мне Дон Кихота с Санчо Пансой. Но, несмотря на различие, жили они дружно. Когда бабушка смеялась, во рту у неё виднелся один единственный сохранившийся зуб, как у зевающего бегемота. Лежа в постели, я глядел в окно низкой лачуги.


За окном сияла огромная луна, тихо поднимаясь из-за деревьев. Неподалёку стояло огромное дерево бака терек*- белый тополь, который принадлежал соседке дедушки с бабушкой по имени Куки-хола, то есть тетя Куки. Это была чересчур худая женщина, кривая на одну руку, которая высохла, к тому же она была почти без нижней челюсти и слепая на один глаз. Слепой глаз её был похож на белый камень, торчащий из щели в заборе. С непривычки, человек, увидев её в первый раз, упал бы в обморок от сильного испуга. Но эта одинокая старуха была доброй, любила детей, и мы, дети, тоже любили её и не боялись её внешнего вида. Было ли имя Куки её псевдонимом или настоящим именем, я до сих пор не знаю. Знал только, что она всю жизнь ждала своего любимого мужа, который ушёл на фронт и не вернулся домой после второй мировой войны. Она всё время ждала его, так и не выйдя замуж. Тетя Куки хотя была внешне некрасивая, но она была самой красивой женщиной внутри, то есть в душе. Я часто вспоминаю тётю и её дом с низким окном, где вечерами за окном грустно тлела керосиновая лампа, освещая её грустное лицо, покрытое тенью одиночества.

Я лежал на постели и думал о ней, но тут неожиданно дед, сняв с глаз очки с круглой оправой, сказал бабушке:
- Ну, старуха, кончай штопать! Ты ляжешь спать, в конце концов, или нет, латтапарст! Если честно, я до этого никогда не слышал такое смешное слово как латтапараст и не знал, что оно означает Женщина, которая любит тряпки. Я чуть не захохотал. Еле удержался. Я давил свой смех так, что от напряжения весь покраснел до самой шеи, набрав полный рот воздуха. Сижу и думаю, не дай бог, я захохочу, ведь они тоже могут выгнать меня из своей лачуги. Куда я пойду, на ночь глядя. Но я не смог удержать себя и взорвался. Захохотал. Смотрю, дедушка с бабушкой тоже смеются. При свете керосиновой лампы я снова увидел единственный сохранившийся у бабушки зуб, и ещё сильнее начал смеяться. Сам шайтан алайхуллаъна попутал меня. Смеюсь - и не могу остановиться.

Тогда дедушка снова сделал серьезный вид и, глядя на свои ногти, как бы подавляя смех, сказал:
- Астагфируллах, Астагфируллах!*


И мы перестали смеяться. Потом, потушив керосиновую лампу, легли спать. Утром после завтрака дед мой взял меня за руки и депортировал меня обратно, то есть отвёл домой.

 

 

 

Холдор Вулкан