Rodion Rakhimov - Thistle

© Rodion Rakhimov, 2018

ISBN 978-5-4490-2942-3

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

“Published in the periodical press as a journalist and publicist. Was totally dumb when I had to sing along with the Almighty the voice of the world, and wailed when I had to say its weighty word in favor of those who could not speak. As a novelist published in many national and regional Newspapers, in the magazine “OUR STREET” and the anthology “PROSE”.

The interesting thing life. Spinning, spinning, and make it all right. But life makes its own adjustments, and surprises, which begin not only to think but also write. And what happened in front of You. Maybe naive task can not leave You INDIFFERENT to everything around him, because sooner or later it will affect each of us. In nature everything is interconnected. The flapping wings of a butterfly can cause a hurricane. Tear a hungry child, fallen to the ground, can cause flooding. The cry of despair of destitute war people can cause an earthquake and typhoons. Let’s not tease the geese!

As for me, I have always been in opposition to all bad faith in the triumph of justice”.

Sincerely, Rodion RAKHIMOV, a journalist, a writer-journalist, environmentalist, social activist, member of the RUSSIAN UNION of WRITERS.

Day surprisingly turned out to be clear. The whole previous day and night, I entertained the hope that there will be inclement weather postponed jumps. But in vain. And here’s an old “kukuruznik”, breaking away from the tarmac, shaking the green peeling wings, gaining height. To jump with a parachute for the person in the chair, put on the table to wrap the light bulb, was already the height was dizzy and shaking hamstring – was a lifelong dream.

This fear was not there before, I said to the instructor, blue-eyed “classmate” Irsuto Sharipova, a former pilot, has retained the optimism, despite life’s troubles, trying to shout over the roar of the engine. – We are with you in flight school came, fear came later. When I foolishly free ticket Union climbed to the Ostankino tower to sit in a Silver room with moving floors. Drinking champagne to admire the evening lights of Moscow.

But when we are, pretty pumped not only champagne, brought to the observation deck with glass floors, heart and skipped a beat. For some reason I feel under a not the height and the abyss of the abyss, and from the fall which was separated by only a thin glass like cracked ice. Had to change the profession of industrial climber a carpenter.

And now the fear of heights even worse than on the mountain AI-Petri in the Crimea. Remember, just trembling knees up there when I wanting to look at the sea from the height of bird flight, the yellow barriers came up only after three glasses of the “Black Colonel”. The wine gave me the courage and strength, began to feel like something new. And maybe, after all, it was necessary to “pull” a hundred and fifty grams of cognac. For courage!?

– Nothing, fight fire with fire, you’ll jump with a parachute, and everything goes!

– Easy for you to say jump, but how to do it? I confess, once I had jumped in Koktebel in the Crimea during summer vacation. Although the feeling was indescribable, to call this jump was difficult. Fifty hryvnia with the parachute caught from shore on a long tether, dragged behind a boat over the Bay and thrown into the cold sea of a mountain Chameleon. And fear did not pass. And I want a free flight as in a dream – to spread my arms – wings and hover above the ground.

– Now fly!

And here I am at the door with the eternal Hamlet’s question, dressed in a jumpsuit, helmet, shoes, glasses and two parachutes: the front and back. I am the last. Leaped before me of colorful umbrellas crumbled beneath my feet, and, describing in intricate circles, flew to the ground. The last instruction of Ireta:

– Counted to ten, and then with all the dope pull here for this ring, if the parachute doesn’t work, unhook the main, as I taught you and pulls here in this ring, yelling can be, but not Mat down after all female athletes. A slight push in the back and I’m on my way to mother earth…

The sensation was strange, first captured the spirit and all the tightened lower abdomen. It happens on a swing, when you go down and in a small plane at the air pits. But there was one endless pit.

– Irsha-a-at! Damn it, – I yelled all around. Then I spun, the air was a mouthful so that it became impossible to breathe. Close your mouth, open your eyes and see a little of what I was hyped, but I still flew face up. And I suddenly realized that my parachute in this position, will not open. Trying to roll – does not work. Don’t know how it happened, but I pulled a ring. Probably with fright. I was waiting for the promised Hirsutum cotton, but it never came. Looking up, instead of the dome saw something like a piece of bedsheet with a pillow, which to my legs stretched “linen” rope. I was seized with wild terror, and before my eyes flashed footage of my past and future lives. Swept years and millennia compressed into moments…

…The old parental home. A dimly burning low fly-bitten kerosene lamp with chipped smoked glass, suspended to a joist curve rusty wire. In the air hung the smell of burnt wick, fallen leaves and sagebrush. From the cracks in the joist protruded branch of juniper – a true remedy for the evil forces, and a twig of willow – is an educator who served for my brother, probably as a visual aid than as an instrument of revenge for our childhood pranks that sometimes go beyond “small”. Right on the log wall was nailed inside-out already dry skin of the sacrificial goats, next to the ticking wall clock, considering the last second, because weight together with a pair of scissors for sheep shearing and rusty a padlock already touched the floor that meant the clock is about to stop. With the clock supposed to stop not only my time, but the entire Universe.

The ceiling and roof for some reason was not, and from a height, without a single cloud, autumn sky, ominous wink of a star. I was lying on a broad parental beds with carved headboards. On the glass of the old sideboard was reflected in my bandaged head and the body, something resembling a mummy. Next on the squeaky chair, hunched over, sat the old mother and the end of the large colorful handkerchief furtively wiped the treacherous tears, barely holding back coming from his chest, the horror of despair.

“Go right, son…” “Where is”, in disbelief I asked. “Sabantuy,” I was trying to remember and couldn’t understand where it is so I’d. But apparently somewhere hard did you hit your head, that not only the body but the brain remained motionless. And I only subconscious knew where it went, I felt every cell of my still young body as the droplets, particles, took my may be worthless, but my own life. Then there was darkness. Oblivion… the Sky was lit up with a green shimmering light. In the rays of the laser projectors, filling all the sky, solemn rows of airplanes. Behind them stretched a huge piece of cloth with portraits of the rulers of the Earth from the great and Herod, to Yeltsin and Reagan. If it was Sabantuy, not a village or district, and, most likely, on an international scale. Where different skin colors people had fun, participated in the competition, struggled on the sashes and running in bags, and danced, and sang in all languages of the world, and that is interesting – I understood. “Happy holiday, dear friends”! – heard from the heavenly speaker.