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Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

The eighteenth letter of Mizhappar

 

 

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

 


Let this letter, which I am writing on a stray dog skin which we slaughtered with a knife and ate with vodka, fly on the autumn wind, fly strictly to the West, where Mr. Sitmrat lives , there, where he often sits drinking whisky or tequila with some ice looking through the window, at the late tired midnight buses, with only a few people still waiting in the bus stops.
Hello, Mr. Sitmrat!
Yesterday Qurumboy called an extraordinary Congress of our party, climbed onto the roof of the pigsty. I ran to where the Convention was supposed to be. When I arrived, Qurumboy rejoiced and uttered this speech:
- Well, the member of the collective farm Mr. Mizhappar is here too. Now we have a quorum, and we can start congress, according to the point of the Charter of our party about holding congresses! So, comrades, if we really want to come to power, we must strengthen political propaganda among the population as never before! On this I declare Congress closed! Members of our party, members and guests of the Congress of our party immediately Yoldashvoy harnessed to a cart! Then he added - do you Hear the trumpet calling?
- Yes! - we answered.
- Then let's go! - shouted  Qurumboy.
We put the clamp on Yoldashvoy, and Qurumboy sat on the cart. We sat down too. We drove on the street, admiring the scenery and sometimes greeting passers-by. The soul sings. I love the road by nature. All around, the trees drop their yellow and crimson leaves. Behind the bare branches of the trees you can see the huts of farmers, with crooked chimneys. Qurumboy humed a melody, good mood from him. Mamadiyar sang some old song.

The cart rattled along, and suddenly it got stuck. Yoldashvoy tensed, trying to pull it out of the mud, but couldn't. Then Qurumboy went to help him, that is, began to beat him over the head with a long whip. Which tore Yoldashvoy's hat, made of dog skin. His pea-jacket was torn, too. Qurumboy mercilessly beat him constantly shouting:
- Get up, don't pretend, you sly quitter! Damned parasite!
Yoldashvoy struggled trying to pull the cart, but it didn't work. The poor man pulled the cart, wrapping the bridle around himself like a fly caught in a spider's web, injuring his shoulders, cutting his neck with swollen arteries. Then from fatigue and impotence he lay down in the mud. His face and clothes were filthy. We had to get off the cart to help Yoldashvoy. Mamadiyar and I pushed the cart from behind, leaning on it with our shoulders. Finally we pulled it out of the mud, and Yoldashvoy ran, dragging the cart along a paved road. We caught up with him and got back on the cart. We went, we waved our hands to children and old men who stood on a roadside watching us with a surprised look. We drove at high speed until our vehicle hit a man. This man was a drunk named Khurram, who was lying on the road tipsy. When we hit it, our cart went up and down again. Well, that local drunk Khurram not died. He got up from his seat and, throwing clods of dirt at us, began to scold us with all his might. Yoldashvoy added speed, but since we did not have a speedometer, we didn't know what speed he was driving at the moment. There were no drunks on the horizon but us. We ride on a high-speed creaking cart, plowing the air. The speed was too great, and suddenly there was an emergency. Our high-speed cart suddenly and unsightly tilted to one side, and one of its wheels fell off. Now the cart stopped listening to Qurumboy, and our uncontrolled carriage went off the road. Dragging Yoldashvoy, it rolled towards a small poultry farm of a local farmer. We rode it and screamed in panic, uttering only one sound:
-A - a - a - a - a -a!  - we shouted.
When we tore down the net, the chickens, geese, ducks, turkeys, too, were frightened, flying noisily away like frightened birds in the night. I don't remember how our cart fell. When I came to my self, I was lying like a boxer in the ring who had been knocked out. My friends too. Qurumboy lying in a pool among the ducks and geese. Mamadiyar was found in a chicken coop, where a thin, tall farmer was standing.
- They're all here, I guess. Now the farmer in despair will take his double-barreled gun and, having loaded it, will shoot us like partridges without trial - I thought.
No, he did not take up the gun, on the contrary, began to help us, at the same time photographing us from all sides for memory. We thought at first that when the poor farmer has calculated the material and moral damage, he went to the roof. Because instead of crying, he was happy as a child and even expressed gratitude to us .
- What are you happy about, bourgeois?! -  asked by Qurumboy, stuffing in his pipe and lighting chicken manure.
- How not to rejoice, Mr. proletarian, after destroying part of my farm you helped me.
-You what, are you crazy? We've done you enormous damage, like hurricane Catherine on the Atlantic coast, you fool! Or do you want to put us on trial? Mind you, my bodyguard Mizhappar abroad there are friends of human rights defenders. They'll raise an international political scandal if you sue. They are even ready to make a revolution for us! - Qurumboy sternly warned the poultry farmer .
- Yes, mister Qurumboy! Why would I sue you when there's another way to get rich? Now, thanks to you, I can write off thousands of chickens, geese, ducks and turkeys, which were taken away by the tax authorities, the Bank employees who gave us a loan, the district Shgabuddinov, then other small officials! - the farmer said.
Then he invited us to a free Banquet to wash up the natural disaster on his farm. While we were drinking tea and eating delicious scrambled eggs, the farmer's wife made rotisserie from the chickens. The farmer ran to the store and we started drinking vodka. After the tenth bottle, Yuldashvoy turned crosseyed, finding it difficult to pronounce the consonant letters. He just smiled and said the vowel sounds. The farmer's wife was a talented woman. She gave an Amateur performance and sang a song about chickens, dancing.    
After the twelfth bottle, the farmer, too, became intoxicated and suddenly turned to God, lazily licking his lips and looking at the ceiling with squinting eyes:
- God, why are you torturing only me?! Is there no one else in the world but me?! Why don't you torture the tax men who skin the poor farmers?! Why do you not punish unjust prosecutors, parasite lawyers, policemen, scaring the people, put innocent, law-abiding citizens behind bars, take away the last penny from people?! Do you not see the pupils and students who, instead of studying, gather cotton on the cold plantations, when the governors beat the teachers and make the prosecutors and police officers kiss the shoes for failing to meet the norm of cotton collection?! Why do you not destroy the unjust leaders who illegally master the people's good, sucking the blood of the people from their arteries and veins like leeches! Now these slaves of yours, instead of asking for forgiveness, are threatened by human rights activists who live a luxurious life abroad, when here the people are starving to eat straw! Is that fair, Lord? Though I don't see your image, I still love you, Lord! Please, God, what have I done to you?! Tell me! Why are you silent?! After all, I participated in the liquidation of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power plant accident. I was hauling radioactive waste out of the sarcophagus in a wheelbarrow, God! - The farmer could not finish his plea, as at that moment the earthquake began. The farmer's hut began to rock and shake. The farmer's wife was the first to evacuate, screaming in fear. Then the farmer shot out into the yard. I don't even remember how or when I ran out of the cabin. I see my party friends standing next to me, pale as the moon, trembling with fear like the skeletons of a hanged man in the wind who has been gnawed by crows. Yoldashvoy too sober, as a good person. Then the ground rumbled under our feet, and we felt as if we were on a Volcano about to explode. Then there was another jolt, and the roof of the farmer's hut went down. It collapsed with a roar, kicking up dust, like a bomb test on the Atoll Moruroa. Hear Qurumboy calling me:
-Comrade Mizhappar, the revolution is in danger! I command you to help me move. You know, Mr. Sitmrat, I was doing Kung Fu, and the commander's order is law to me. I thought Qurumboy was wounded. No, it turns out he's pissed his pants. I'm sorry, but I just have to write about it for the story. Qurumboy had so much shit in pants looking like 1937 military "golife" pants that could not even move independently. Had to pull the dagger out of Qurumboy from the tops of his boots without soles and stick in the pants, which are full of (excuse me again) shit. Qurumboy's Pants  exploded and everything around was yellow. So much for political propaganda among the population! Thank God everyone was alive.


To the following letters, Mr. Sitmrat!
The soldier and member of collective farm, Mr. Mizhappar.

 

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132221451_gorod_Brempton (202x216, 31Kb)

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

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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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.

 

 

 

 

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Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Key

(The story)




When the letter from the commander-in-Chief of The Air And Land forces, General Thomas Yakkabaloon, and his Deputy, Colonel Pascal Salvatore Alfonso de Valdemar, reached the presidential office, the Press Secretary of the President, Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic, thought deeply, staring at the envelope, not knowing what to do.
Then came the terrible command of the guards:
- Attention, all members of the presidential staff! Close the door of their offices on the bolt and clear the corridor! Mr. President is coming!  -the guards shouted through a tin horn. The President's press Secretary stood at attention as if in a photograph. Finally, the President appeared in the corridor, surrounded by heavy security. After a while, the President of the country, Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic, came and stood for a moment at the entrance of his chic favorite spherical office. Before entering his office, he glanced briefly at the Press Secretary's Desk, where a pile of letters lay.
- Well, what news? What are they? Again from the citizens, or what? I am so tired of these stupid letters. Like I don't have anything else to do but read those stupid letters where they only write about their own problems. There is not among them at least one person who could write about the global economic problems, at least about those which concern problems of our state. Give me that big red envelope." Here I see something extraordinary. This letter is either from the leaders of other Countries, or from the diplomatic corps of the Commonwealth countries -said, as if guessing, the President of the country, Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic, taking and examining the envelope with interest. Then he smiled broadly at the address of the letter.
- Oh a letter from a mental hospital? - looking interested at the letter, and he started laughing, shaking his whole body. - Huwah-hah-hah-hah-haaaah! Iehh-hah-hah-hah-haaaaa! Ahahahahahahaaaa! See, the letter from the mental hospital?! no way... This is the first time I've received this kind of letter in my 45-year presidency, honestly! I wonder what they wrote about. It's supposed to be funny...  the President of the country, Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic, said, wiping tears from his eyes with his huge checkered handkerchief.
Entering his spherical office, he opened the envelope and began to read the letter of the patients of the mental hospital with interest , the commander-in-Chief Of the Air And Land forces, General Thomas Yakkabaloon  and his Deputy Colonel Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar.
To the President of our beloved country, Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic.


Mr. President!


Although healthy people consider us fools, crazy, but we, patients of the Central mental hospital of the capital of our independent country, paradoxically, are the most intelligent, the most brilliant people on the planet. We have famous poets, thinkers, philosophers of all stripes, there are psychics, clairvoyants, soothsayers, great scientists, astronauts, valiant invincible generals, telepaths, reading other people's thoughts, who declared themselves prophets and even gods, nomads of time, masters of the universe, defenders of humanoids in solar systems and in the nebulae of the universe, great Opera singers with soprano voices, baritone, tenor. There are also disgraced leaders of opposition parties, human rights activists pyan yes ragged, that could not become your "colleagues". This raises the question: why can't our state use the free services of these capable, talented patients in solving the problems that have arisen in the political arena of the world? To solve questions our forces, patients of our mental hospital in area defense. We often hear that hundreds, sometimes thousands, of innocent, mentally healthy young soldiers of our country are dying in the hot spots of our planet. And what if we, psychopaths, paranoids and schizophrenics, were drafted into the army in the place of healthy children, in the spiritual sense of the word? First, we are strong, healthy, brave, courageous people. Second, we have nothing to fear and nothing to lose. Thirdly, we will not sit here idly on subsidies, as they say, on the neck of our poor independent state when our innocent young compatriots die in hot spots. We are not interested in money, position, awards, titles, orders and medals. We also do not need any apartments, no family and no other completely unnecessary things. We, that is valiant and brave mentally ill of our homeland, can protect our territories from any invaders, including aliens! And we think we'll have a lot more fun at the front than we have here in a boring treatment center, believe me, Mr. President. I never tire of repeating that we are very capable people and, once we are taught how to use firearms, how to operate an anti-Aircraft Missile System, bombers and fighters and how to hijack them, how to fly military helicopters such as "shark", "Apache", use nuclear submarines with cruise Intercontinental ballistic missiles and so on, then I assure You and guarantee that our brothers in healthy talented cadets. They will fly freely on modern supersonic aircraft bombers like hawks and bomb city points in hot spots of the planet, comparing with the earth beautiful cities, Orthodox and Catholic churches, mosques, synagogues, residential neighborhoods, factories , schools, hospitals, pharmacies, kindergartens exactly, without leaving there a single living soul. Be sure that the army of schizophrenics and paranoids, using anti-Aircraft Missile Systems, will shoot down thousands of civilian Airliners with hundreds of passengers on Board, getting missiles in the top ten, then in this monstrous crime to blame the air force and air defense of the enemy!
With great respect, Commander-in-chief, Air Force and Land Forces General Thomas Yakkabaloon.
Deputy General Thomas Yakkabaloon , Colonel Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar ."
After reading the letter several times, up and down, the President of the country, Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic thought, looking bleary-eyed through the armored bulletproof window of his office, like a Hitler bunker.
- Yeaaaah, here is this letter! Unlike healthy people in the spiritual sense of the word, they did not write about their problems, on the contrary, they write about the urgent problems of our society and about strengthening the defense capacity of our long-suffering country. Although this letter is from a mental hospital, but it is still worth thinking about their initiatives. Moreover, they promise to protect the Fatherland for free. If we realize their dreams, then immediately decrease the financial costs for defense, for the army, for weapons, for provisions, for clothing and for canvas boots without soles millions and millions of pairs for our soldiers and officers. We are spending enormous amounts of money, which we annually allocate from the state budget.
And these schizophrenics of ours are ready to fight anywhere in the world, protecting the interests of our country, without military uniforms, barefoot.They don't have to pay a monthly salary. They promise to perform any task of the party, at any time of the day, even in the forty-five-degree frost in winter and fifty-five-degree heat in the desert. Oh all the money we can save with this idea! Why didn't we think about this project before? These living robots have nothing to lose. After all, they are kamikaze-suicide and are not afraid of death. And these our so-called soldiers and officers, at the first danger run away, or, lying in the trenches, shoot themselves in the leg and return home a hero, ringing clusters of orders and medals on their chest. To be honest, I have not received such an offer even from my military specialists, from experts who receive a huge monthly salary in dollars. Parasites! They're no good! I must confess that I used to laugh till I cried when I heard anecdotes about the insane. I guess I shouldn't have laughed then. On the contrary, it was necessary to cry and sob in a huge and leaky plaid handkerchief. That's how they reason! It is necessary, such ingenious people languish in mental hospitals of our immense country! And we ostensibly treating these brilliant people ! It seems to me that people who consider themselves healthy should go to psychiatrists and be treated properly before their mental illness worsens. Yes, these people with unstable mentality, people prone to violence is dangerous for society. But if you think about it wisely, I am one hundred percent sure that we can solve a lot of problems. We will put all the responsibility to their doctors, nurses and caregivers, calling them together with their patients in the army, and send them to the hot spots of the planet. Today in the world establish total control not only over the people and over the Media, over the opposition, but even over tsunamis, typhoons, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, and so on. Are we worse than them? We, too, are able to establish control over patients, through their doctors in white coats, who have ultra-modern equipment, stun guns, sedative tranquilizers and durable straitjackets with long sleeves. Most importantly, we will automatically get rid of unnecessary pickets and rallies that are organized by human rights screamers, grant-eaters who protect the rights of the mothers of millions of dead soldiers who return home in sealed zinc coffins from the battlefield, where they heroically die defending the economic and geopolitical interests of our state. And death mentally ill on the field battlefield, not only causes pity, on the contrary, causes uncontrollable people laughing from souls, look at on tv or having heard about their ridiculous death in bloody battles. In short, this bill I must immediately submit to the Parliament of the country.Let our so-called illiterate MPs-parasites of both chambers and senators-sycophants, discuss and approve this strategic issue in closed sessions of Parliament without free journalists, unanimously in the first reading of the draft. It is clear that these so-called deputies and senators with slave psychology will never vote against what I offer them. I shouldn't worry too much about that, thought the President of the country, Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic, lighting a gold pipe with diamond ornaments, stuffed with expensive flavored tobacco
The President of the country, Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic, before submitting the project to the Parliament, decided to first secretly meet with the authors of the secret letter and instructed his security forces to organize a secret negotiation with the authors of the unique project from the psychiatric hospital. Security forces accurately executed the order of the President, and brought two geniuses in a straitjacket barefoot and without a headdress and, having dressed them in suits of officials and in white shirts with starched collars and with tight ties on necks. They worked so well that even the aides of the President of the country, Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic, seeing those two patients in civilian clothes, took them for high-ranking guests from abroad and hastily saluted, pausing like sticks. During the conversation, it turned out that these two are not only able to solve problems related to the strengthening of the country's defense, but also to create absolutely unthinkable fantastic things, to come up with unique, unheard-of ideas and hypotheses.
President Mr. Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic hugged them both and wept.
- Excuse me, gentlemen, and don't be surprised. These are tears of happiness in my eyes sparkle and tremble like distant stars in the December cold sky of our independent country, when our people drown their bourgeois stinking dung, barely recognizing each other through a veil of acrid smoke, coughing like frowning wipers in the thick fog of an autumn Park. I want to ask your forgiveness, gentlemen, for our psychiatrists, who incorrectly diagnosed, locked you up in psychiatric hospitals of our country, forcing you to drink disgusting liquids and pills. Care-givers beat you like punching bags suspended in sports underground training halls. I also apologize for our compatriots who laughed until they fell and still laugh at you, telling each other funny anecdotes about you. I saw with my own eyes today that you, the so-called patients with mental illness, are a thousand or even millions of times smarter than our deputies and bribe-taking officials! It turns out that we mistakenly locked you brilliant people in mental hospitals not only our country, but also the planet! I will issue a decree tomorrow to release all your brothers in sickness from the mental hospitals of our independent country, and to lock up the physicians, psychiators, and care-givers themselves in their stead. I will order that all my assistants - sycophants, poets and writers, officials and deputies-bribe takers and Ministers-parasites are immediately arrested. They do nothing, but receive large salaries in American dollars, and the citizens of our country because of total unemployment go to other countries, hoping to find at least some work there. They agree even on dirty work, sake of moreover, to find slice of bread and feed its family. They work as janitors and watchmen, work in garbage dumps, almost for free. That's all, I will carry out a reshuffle in all spheres of our society, that is, I will appoint you both as my main assistants, and I will also order that only those people who were previously treated in the mental hospitals of our long-suffering and vast state are appointed as deputies of the Parliament of both houses and senators of Congress. Governors of regions and districts, including chairmen of collective farms and committees, will also be appointed from brilliant people, that is, from your sick brothers. All governors and chairmen of the current system will now be treated for life and involuntarily in psychiatric hospitals until they fully recover. You can both accept the post of any Minister at once, and I congratulate you in advance, gentlemen! - said the President, concluding his speech.

General Thomas Yakkabaloon  and Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar, in return, they expressed their gratitude to the President Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic for the warm welcome, mutual understanding and high trust. Before leaving, Colonel Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar appealed to the President Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic:
- I have a little surprise for you, Mr. President, close your eyes, - he said.
The President closed his eyes with a Hollywood smile on his lips.
- Now open your eyes, Mr. President! - Colonel Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar - said, smiling toothlessly.
President Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic opened his eyes and saw the key that Colonel Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar handed him.
The President's heart skipped a beat at the sight of the key, and his eyes widened.
- Well, thank you, Colonel Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar ! What an honest man you are! Where did you find it? - It was in my pocket!..
With that, President Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic quickly checked his pants pockets and blushed with shame when he found a hole in his pocket where a key might have fallen on the carpet.
- I found this key here, under this chair where I was sitting. Let me, I think, I will pick it up and give it to Mr. President of our country Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic, maybe I think Mr. President accidentally lost the key to his modest one-room apartment, located on the outskirts of the capital of the country, where he lives with his large family plus with his hungry fat grouchy mother in law - explained Colonel Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar.
-Oh, no, no, Colonel Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar ! This key is not from a one-room apartment, and from the nuclear suitcase! You have no idea what heroism You have committed before my eyes in the face of our long-suffering people! You saved the nation! It is a good thing that this key did not fall into the hands of my crazy Ministers, whom I have long distrusted. After all, these corrupt parasites , could easily sell villains religion fanatic terrorists this priceless key for a wad of dollars! And there would have been a third world atomic war! Nope, in my opinion You saved not only the nation, but also saved humanity and the entire Universe from apparent destruction, from thermonuclear war! I award you the order of the Hero of the Fatherland of the first degree! You are now the national hero of our country! From now on, your military rank is not Colonel, but Marshal! Thank you on behalf of our long-suffering oppressed independent and hardworking people and on behalf of all mankind, Mr. Marshal Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar! - the President said enthusiastically.
- Serving the Fatherland!"  Pascal Salvatore Alfons de Valdemar shouted, saluting President Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic. When the two high-ranking officers left the Palace of Mr. President Appalon Gabriel Toledo Puerto Carlos Dominic, General Thomas Yakkabaloon  congratulated his colleague and brother on his high military rank.
- I congratulate you, Marshal, On your high rank." "Oh, no!" - he said, turning blue and green with black envy.
- At ease, General, at ease!" Thank you for your congratulations, - said Marshal Pascal Salvatore Alphonse de Valdemar, clapping General Thomas Yakkabaloon on the shoulder and head.
General Thomas Yakkabaloon continued:
- Excuse Me, Monsieur Le Marechal, but on the one hand, it is good to achieve such success. But on the other hand, I'm afraid we've missed a historic opportunity. By seizing the key to the nuclear briefcase, we could force the President to dissolve the Government and Parliament and resign as President. After all This, you would sleep well tonight, and Wake up in the morning the President of the country! Oh, what a chance missed, my God!  - said General Thomas Yakkabaloon .

- Yeah, don't you worry, General Lattapagon (Rag shoulder straps), I'm not such a fool as you think! When I went to the bathroom, I secretly and carefully removed the mold from the key of the nuclear suitcase, pressing it on this piece of soap. Now we can make a duplicate of the key of the nuclear suitcase from this cast. As they say, it is not yet evening. There is still time for me to become President of the country, and you - the Minister of Defense! The weight of the world is in our hands!  Marshal Pascal Salvatore Alphonse de Valdemar - said with a sly smile.


28/08/2014.
3:40 of the day.
Canada.the city of Brampton.



 

 
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