Gord Hyles
Stories (20/0)
Hold your hand
Hold your hande is so a hand can lead the dream travel, take me to see the scenery, take me to live a happy to yourself, let me find the round in childhood painting paper not round the sun; There is so a hand can lead me through every setback, take me to pursue the ideal, the detente straight, no matter how big the shadow area in my heart, with warmth on my body, the haze will vanish into thin air; There is a hand can affect the eager eyes, take me to try flying youth, the gentle close to my chest, take me to browse the romantic flower month, let me from now on can not lose that name......
By Gord Hylesabout a year ago in Humans
The moon shines into the memory
In the hometown of overlapping in the night he easily fell into the memories, a turn did not turn on the touch of the past good. Do you suppose I have a cup of tea, or a glass of wine, or a dull cigarette? Because they are the initiator of memories? However, do you know that leisure tea, wine, boring smoke is also the gravedigger of memory? Or is it that in sunny days, the flowing consciousness gives full play to its strengths and fully expresses the feelings accumulated for many days? You think wrong, completely wrong, because it is the holy moonlight, the United States of my warm past. Hometown moon is that only found eyes, she found a touch of nostalgia, but found more or the past passed by the good......
By Gord Hyles2 years ago in Humans
A river of stars
I am far from your river, not far from it, for I am a stranger. In the distance, I can still hear your footsteps over the mountains, day and night, and still see your clear river with stars very clearly. As long as, also only think of you - hometown, is the exotic river will be sprinkled with the stars of hometown. Whether awake or asleep, you will repeat the picture that makes your heart flutter. The stars blink in your river. Because the river full of stars passes through my children without guess, ignorant youth, confused youth, but also through the knowable future, will it be delivered to the sea in the future? In that way, the stars of the sea must be a gift from their hometown. Without the birth of hometown, the sea will lose its aura, because the source of the sea is in the hometown of this head...
By Gord Hyles2 years ago in Humans
Russian is spoken here.
I like this story very much, just like the unforgettable childhood learned some lovely childish words, a think of warm people heart. When Martin said that about Petya, I looked at him with a smile. But Petya was frowning, shrugging his shoulders and frowning. Martin rummaged in the drawer and gave him the best cigarettes in the shop. But this did not dispel Petya's gloom.
By Gord Hyles2 years ago in Fiction
Russian is spoken here.
Martin Martini's tobacco shop is on the corner of a building. No wonder the tobacconists are on the corner. Martin's business is booming. The window is not big, but it is well arranged. The little mirror brought to life what was displayed in the window. The bottom of the window is lined with sky-blue flanges, which rise and fall in a gully, and inside are colorful cigarette boxes, brands glittering in the international lingua franca. The building is a hotel, and the name is glittery international lingua franca. Near the top of the window were rows of cigaretteboxes, the cigarettes inside of which were exposed like smiles and teeth.
By Gord Hyles2 years ago in Fiction
The ridiculous dream
You see, I don't care about it at all, but I can feel pain, for example. If someone had hit me, I would have felt the pain. The same is true in spirit: if something pitiful happens, I feel pitiful, just as I did in the past when I was not indifferent to anything in life. I had pity on the little girl: I had to help her. But why didn't I help? It was the thought that, as she held me back and called me, a question suddenly appeared before me and I could not resolve it. The question was boring, but I was angry. I was angry because I had come to the conclusion that, having resolved to kill myself tonight, I was more indifferent to the world now than I had ever been before. Why do I suddenly feel that I am not all indifferent, and pity a little girl? I remember feeling so much pity for her that I even felt a strange feeling of pain, which, in my circumstances, was hard to believe. It is true that I cannot better convey the fleeting feeling I had at that moment, but it did not go away until I went home and sat down at the table, and I was more angry than I have been for a long time. The inferences began to pour in. It was evident that since I was a man, and not a mere thing, and had not for the time been reduced to nothing, I was still alive, and therefore afflicted, and angry, and ashamed of my conduct. Let's just say that. But since I was going to kill myself, say, in two hours I was going to be dead, what was the little girl to me? What do I have to do with shame and everything in the world? I'm going up in smoke, dead and gone. The knowledge that I was about to disappear, and therefore to cease to exist, had not, then, the slightest effect on my affection for the little girl, and on my shame at having done the mean thing? It is for this reason, you see, that I stamped my foot at the unfortunate little girl, and growled at her savagely, as if to say, "Not only have I no sympathy, but if I had to do any inhuman evil, I could do it now, for in two hours it will all be gone." Can you believe it? That's why I yelled at her. I'm almost convinced of that now. It was quite obvious that life and the world now depended on me; it was even as if the world had been created for me alone: if I had killed myself, there would be no more of it, at least for me. As soon as my senses disappear, the whole world dies, like a ghost, as if it were attached to my senses, for this whole world and all mankind may be myself. It is needless to say that after my death there may really be nothing for anyone. I remember sitting there thinking over and over all these new questions which came up one after another, and even getting whimsical. It suddenly occurred to me, for instance, that if I had lived on the Moon or on Mars, and had done the most shameful things there, and had been denounced and humiliated, this would have been felt and imagined only sometimes in dreams or nightmares; And if, when I came to the Earth, I remembered what I had done on other planets, and knew, moreover, that I would never return to the Moon, would I look up at it from the Earth - - and feel nothing? Do you feel ashamed of yourself? It was useless and superfluous to contemplate these questions, for the pistol was before me, and I felt in my whole body that it would happen. But these questions irritate me and make me angry. I can't seem to die for a while without figuring it out. In short, the little girl saved me, and because of these problems I delayed my suicide. By this time the noise in the captain's room had begun to die down: they were getting ready for bed after a game of cards, but for the moment there was still grumbling and lazy little cursing. At that moment I fell asleep in my easy chair beside the table, as I had never done before. I fell asleep completely without knowing it. Dreams, as you know, are curious things: some are so clear, and detailed as jewels; Some of them you'll feel like they've passed you by, like they've gone beyond time and space. Dreams seem to be caused not by reason but by desire, not by the brain but by the heart; And yet, how clever my reason can be in dreams, and it can produce things that are utterly inconceivable. For example, it has been five years since my brother died, and I still dream about him sometimes: he helps me with things, and we care about each other, and I always remember very clearly in my dream that my brother is dead and buried. Why should my reason be so tolerant of the fact that he is still busy with me, though he is dead? Okay, let's not talk about that. Let's talk about my dream. Yes, I had a dream, the dream of the third of November! They still laugh at me and say it was only a dream. But if that dream can tell me the truth, doesn't it matter if it's a dream or not? If you discover and recognize the truth, then you know, whether you are asleep or awake, that this is the truth, and that there is no other truth and can be no other. Well, let it be a dream, let it be that, but I'm going to kill myself with this life you're talking so much about, and my dreams, my dreams -- oh, show me a new life, bright and fresh and alive!
By Gord Hyles2 years ago in Fiction
The ridiculous dream
That's when I found out the truth. I found out last November, the third of November, to be exact. I remember every moment after that. It happened on a dark, dark night, perhaps the only night so dark. It was after ten o 'clock and I was on my way home. Yeah, I was thinking there's no darker time, even physically. It poured down all day, and it was the coldest, gloomiest, even terrible rain. The rain, I remember, was even openly hostile to men. But at ten o 'clock it suddenly stopped, and gave off a terrible damp, wetter and colder than when it rained. Every stone slab in the street, every alley, was full of mist. If you look down the alley from the street, it's foggy. It occurred to me that it would be more pleasant if the street lights were all out, for it illuminated everything and made it sad. I barely ate all day and arrived early in the evening at the home of an engineer with two of his friends. I kept silent and seemed to annoy them. They talk about attractive things and even get angry suddenly. But it seemed to me that they did not care; their excitement was only for show. I suddenly expressed this idea to them: "Gentlemen, I say you didn't care." They were not angry, but laughed at me. This is because my words are not reproachful, but I just feel that none of them matter. They were happy to see that I didn't care.
By Gord Hyles2 years ago in Fiction
Centenarian
A lady said to me the other day, "I started late that morning, and it was almost noon when I left the house. I had been deliberately distracted into two places not far apart in Nikolaevsky Street. Go to the office first. You'll see the old lady by the door. She gave me the impression of being so old and stooped and carrying a stick, but I still couldn't guess how old she was. She went to the gate and rested on the yard sweeper's bench in a corner beside it. In fact, as I passed her, she only flashed in front of me.
By Gord Hyles2 years ago in Fiction
The little hero
I remember the day after I arrived, I organized a family show. There was a sea of people in the hall, as the saying goes, and there was not a single empty seat. For some reason, I arrived late, so I had to stand and enjoy the show. But the gaiety of the show drew me in and pushed me further and further forward. I pushed my way to the front row and ended up standing there with my arm resting on the back of an arm-chair. Inside the arm-chair sat a woman. That's my pretty blonde. But we didn't know each other then. Without realizing it, I gazed at her strangely round, seductive shoulders. Her shoulders were fat and white as milk foam. In fact, it didn't matter to me whether it was a beautiful woman's shoulder, or a cap with flaming ribbons, worn by a respectable lady in the first row to conceal her white hair. Beside the blonde sat an old maid who had passed her age. I have found many times since that these old maids have always tried to get as close as possible to the young and beautiful women, and crowded with them, and singled out those who did not like to be driven away from the young men. But that's not the point. As soon as the old girl noticed my observation, she bent down and giggled at the neighboring lady, whispering in her ear. The woman next to her suddenly turned her head, and I remember that her fiery eyes flashed at me in the darkness, and I trembled as if I had been burned, for I was unprepared for them.
By Gord Hyles2 years ago in Fiction
The little hero
I wasn't even eleven years old. In July I was invited to visit a relative of mine named T in the countryside near Moscow. There were no less than fifty visitors to his house, maybe more... I can't remember exactly how many, and I never counted them. It was very busy and happy. As if it were a show that had only a beginning and never an end. It seems that our master, who had vowed to spend his vast fortune as quickly as possible, had recently succeeded in fulfilling his promise, that is to say, to spend every penny of it. New guests arrive every minute. Moscow was so close that you could look up and see it, so one group of guests would leave only to make room for another, and the show would go on. The way to have fun, one after the other, new tricks, endless. In the suburbs riding horses, one after another gallop; Go for a walk in the pines or along the river; Or have a picnic, go to the field for lunch; Or have dinner on the patio at home. There are three rows of exotic flowers on the balcony, filling the fresh night air with rich fragrance. Our ladies, almost all of whom were already very pretty, looked even more beautiful in the brilliant light. Their faces glowed with the impression of the day, and their eyes gleamed, and they laughed and laughed and laughed like silver bells. And dancing, music, singing. If the weather was gloomy, pantomime, riddles, vivid pictures, folk sayings, or family theatres were organized, and storytellers, jokers, and witticisers appeared.
By Gord Hyles2 years ago in Fiction
The little hero
Do you think I am afraid?" I gave a bold and proud cry, and my eyes were black with excitement, and I was breathless with excitement, and my face was flushed, and hot tears ran down my cheeks. "You'll see!" We haven't had time to take any action to stop me in the past, I grabbed the tank column's mane, and a foot into the stirrup, but in this evil spirit that, between tanks have perked up front feet, head, flash, a powerful jump, break away from two stunned groom out, like a whirlwind, fly fly up, only heard barking people gave a scream.
By Gord Hyles2 years ago in Fiction