LEILA ASKAROVA

Мертвые писатели Сбежим давай… Время от времени… С точки зрения кота

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Подборка стихов Лейлы Аскаровой демонстрирует многообразие ее поэтического голоса и литературного инструментария. Несмотря на серьезные лейтмотивы, ее лирические герои способны на иронию, самоиронию, сарказм, ностальгию и т.д.

Безумство мира, в который я попадаю по ночам, дошло до того, что вчера, сделав почетный пробег по внешнему кругу ада, я попала в затхлую тёмную спальню больного Толстого. Угу, молодого температурящего Льва Николаича. 

В моем сне он выступал в роли сфинкса, по сценарию "дашь удовлетворяющие ответы – пройдешь дальше, не дашь - голову откушу". 

Он ужасно долго ныл и я пыталась его хоть как-то успокоить. Истерики, слёзы – такой самовлюбленный гадёныш, честное слово. 

В общем, я не вытерпела и потребовала, чтобы он взял себя в руки, что за нытьё. Всё будет тип-топ, граф, ещё кучу всего прекрасного и значительного напишете. 

И вот дверь открылась, и я побрела дальше, оставив удивленного, но довольного Толстого с его гриппом и самотерзаниями. А дальше уже привычный коридор, тусклый свет вдалеке и мрачная тишина, прерываемая звуками усталых шагов.

NURAIYM KOSSYBAK

XI IX In my pole of view Serpentine

from the editor

In her translanguaging, Nurayim constructs images reminiscent of the Soviet 60’s narratives and the Silver Age of Russian Poetry, in particular, the Symbolist narratives. Her prosody is characterized by internal rhyme, a song-like rhythm, and word play.

You are a Star Rover,

and I, a galaxy.

You travel all around the universe,

and I am caged by my gravity.

You are a Star Rover,

and I, a satellite.

In pursuit of tangency,

stubborn to burst, I circle 

spinning around your route.

You are a Star Rover,

and I, a moon.

In my rivers your

hot flashes groove.

You, too, are caged. 

 ZINEDIN ALDIYAROV

Kunyu Wanguo Quantu

from the editor

In telling this story of a midlife awakening, the story of a quite literal but also deeply metaphoric discovery of a new world, the author deftly avoids the pitfalls of easy epiphanies. While his story is set in 17th century China, its motifs and concerns far transcend its historical costume. As all good fiction, this is a story that is on one hand firmly about Zheng, the disaffected merchant haunted by his past; but on the other it is a narrative of universal yearning.

‘ANY LUCK?’

The fresh ink dripped off the cheap parchment, threatening to spill onto the desk.

“I’m afraid not.” Chen’s face contorted into an annoyed grimace for a moment before returning to his usual stoic expression. Was he expecting me to elaborate? 

“You know, making money isn’t as easy as just going down to Nanjing. First, there’s the...” Before I could explain, Chen had already finished scribbling.

‘WHATEVER.’

The broad brush strokes betrayed a barely concealed sense of irritation.

Chen did have a nasty habit of getting increasingly terse as his mood worsened, but dropping down to just one hanzi this early just... seemed odd. Come to think of it, ‘ANY LUCK’ wasn’t much wordier either… Was he just having a bad day at the desk?

“A-ah!”

Whenever I’d space out waiting for him to finish writing, he’d shout, like a babe in need of feeding. Turns out you can still do that just fine even without a tongue - makes you wonder what it is that actually makes the sounds.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to leave you hanging. Anyway, think we should call it a day?”

‘SORRY, YOU’RE RIGHT. JUST KEEP ME UPDATED, ALRIGHT?’

“Sure thing.”

As usual, he calmed down faster than I could get mad at him. Well, we were done for today anyways. Getting up from the desk, I noticed him searching for something in his drawer. 

“Want me to wait for you?”

“Uh-uh.”

He produced a poster, the kind you’d see on an announcement board. Something about a public exhibition? On the top, the title read ‘KUNYU WANGUO QUANTU.’

“Uhh… Something-or-other map of countries? Didn’t take you for the traveling type, Chen. Want me to go check it out?”

‘MAP OF THE WORLD’S MANY COUNTRIES. INTERESTED?’

ARUZHAN IBEKENOVA

Headache

from the editor

I am ostensibly writing about a story about a woman who is locked, barricaded in her room, terrified of knocks, phone calls, ignoring emails, exhausted by television, hiding from the people pushing and shoving their way into her home, her room, yet I have found a truth that feels so personal and familiar about a woman who hasn’t had her period in three months, who cannot eat, cannot shit, and seeing a bit of my own reality—and maybe because this story has nothing to do with being locked in a single room while others are knocking.

You slowly open your eyes and stare at the ceiling. Your head hurts. You try to think, but the pain doesn’t let you. “What day is it? What time is it?” You reach out to your phone. Zero notifications. Even your mom didn’t call. Why should she? 

You waste two hours of your life on Instagram. These people are graduating, travelling, drinking, and having fun, while you lie in this bed. You are pathetic. 

You drag yourself out of the bed. Your vision goes black when you stand up. You blink several times to restore it and go to your window. The city continues to live, but you are not there. The sunlight irritates you, and you close the curtains. 

You go to the toilet, and don’t close the door. You sit on the toilet, but there is nothing. You haven’t had your period in 3 months. Or more? You can’t even go to the toilet like a normal person. 

You head to the kitchen. You open the fridge. There is a single plate with cheese on it. You see the cheese is covered in mold. You want to puke. You close the fridge. You didn’t want to eat anyway, did you? If you eat more, people will see that you are fat. Do you want them to hate you more? 

You go back to your room, lie down, and turn the TV on. You go to Netflix. “Friends.” They are talking about a wedding. Isn’t that silly? The background laughter irritates you. You turn the TV off. 

Your phone buzzes. It is an email. 

ARMAN NURLANOV

Жуки

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На первый взгляд рассказ Армана Нурланова прост -- конфликт и решение человека измученного собственными комплексами и неспособностью выжить в мире. Но сила этого короткого текста не в ожидаемой трагичности финала и даже не в многолетней борьбе главного героя за право существовать без боли. 

У меня странное хобби - я люблю коллекционировать жуков. Первого жука я поймал в детском саду во время тихого часа. Малыши, сильно уставшие после долгой прогулки, надевали свои пижамы. У большинства детей штаны были синие, у некоторых красные, но ни у кого не было зеленых штанов. Кроме меня. Один мальчик-задира заметил это и спросил: "У тебя зеленые штаны - ты не такой как мы?". Я ничего не ответил и просто поймал мимо ползущего жука, серого и до жути медленного. Он выглядел некрасиво, постоянно переворачивался и, наконец, залез мне под кожу, где до сих пор и живет. Я кормлю его грустными мыслями два раза в день, утром и вечером. Сытое насекомое довольно и никуда уходить не собирается. Ну и пусть - оно уже стало частью меня.

DARIYA TALASBAYEVA

Perestroika

from the editor

The narrator, whose wry observations about the daily life of the family bring to mind Pelevin’s Shed XVII (though the china hutch is neither naive nor confused about its place in the world), is not a mere symbol or gimmick. While the protagonist of this story is not human, it is what his reflections say about the human world that stay with the reader; the questions of what do we fight to keep, how much are we willing to sacrifice to project our history nto the future; and, ultimately, what does it take to move on from the golden haze that often clouds our view of the past.

Whenever he thought about his lineage, he rigidly stood on his four legs and proudly faced the opposite wall. Like any other china hutch, the factory he was assembled at granted him the honor to serve as a hold for porcelain and crystal tableware, an indispensable part of every self-respecting household. And ever since the day he saw light, he faithfully executed his duty for three generations: he overlooked the living room towering above all the chairs and the wooden folding table, which could show its glory only when the family was preparing to meet guests, and reflected the sun rays that were coming from the window to the left every afternoon onto the wall in front of him. Every morning he carefully watched the window for any sign of clouds or rain, and if he didn’t notice any, he would stand at his usual place fully prepared to glow. Mother loved to praise her cupboard every time her rather antiquated friends came over for a cup of tea, and he relished every moment of being put on a pedestal and serving his duty to the fullest. After all, he was the veteran of this house: each renovation gradually altered the guise with newfangled furniture, leaving him alone surrounded by mere objects with no history. What the cupboard scoffed at most were the rowdy glowing boxes Father brought in every couple years. Each time they appeared thinner, louder, and sometimes china hutch wondered whether Father was just struggling to find a painting that would cover the wall.

YANA ZGURSKAYA

Reach Out

from the editor

Throughout “Reach Out” by Yana Zgurskaya we watch a kind of balancing act, laid out and traced for us through the streets, through the maze of Grisha’s work and through both the stuffy air and open windows, silence and noise, tea and coffee, iPods and record players. As Grisha the little ping pong ball bounces nervously between worlds exhaustively expressing all of his thoughts and desires to us, but also hiding himself from us, we should ask, where in this contradictory yet compelling space does the reader fit in?

My new year's resolution this year was to stop biting my nails.  It’s one of those things that teaches you to despise yourself - you know you’re doing wrong, but you just can’t stop chewing on that thumb. I remember that now, looking at my clean round nails as I am standing on the corner of Sivtsev Vrazhek and Gogolevskiy, one hand holding a cup of black coffee and the other scrolling through my contact list for my dealer’s number.

Don’t get me wrong here, I am not an addict. I am what you might call “a non-dependent user”. I have a dealer precisely for that reason - Max is one of the only guys who deals quality smack. Would a junkie be so picky about shit in his needles? I don’t think so. You know how people live with their allergies, but when they have trouble breathing they inject adrenaline? Same here. I just inject another “in”. Tomayto, tomahto.

My finger lingers above the call button. Early April morning smells like a baby's smile and a trip to a corner store to get some fresh bread and that last day of sophomore year when you skip classes and go to Vechniy Ogon’ instead to grab a smoke. I take a deep breath, but my lungs stay painfully empty and I press call.

“Max, man, what’s good?” I say.

“Mayak? Didn’t expect to hear so soon from you, man,” he sounds genuinely surprised and I almost feel like I am chewing on my thumb again.