New Year Clearing — R E S U L T S !!!
BRONZE FOR THE TALE
JURY’S SPECIAL MENTION FOR ILLUSTRATION
There is such a literary game. Something like writing on a given theme.
Yesterday I received the task of writing a fairy tale in which the following had to be mentioned:
1. A white little horse;
2. Lingonberry jam;
3. Magic bronze bells;
4. Frost patterns;
5. Warm palms.
Such sweet introductory elements, so warm))
I worked on the task until night; here, read what came of it))
No one knows how a fairy tale begins. You seem to live and live, and then — suddenly, a fairy tale.
One day I was sitting in my little kitchen, drinking tea with lingonberry jam.
Outside the window the blizzard howled, frost patterns covered the glass, and at home it was beautiful!
The light from the yellow lampshade created coziness; the curtains were freshly washed and starched. The tablecloth was edged with lace, and the cups were from Grandmother’s old service — ultramarine with a gold rim.
I love it when the house is clean and quiet. That is why I clean my apartment from morning till evening, wash and iron. But I do not like guests: they bring only dirt and disturbance.
And so I poured myself a third cup of tea, spread jam on a bun, and was just about to bite into it, to enjoy myself, when there came a knock at the door. Yes, my doorbell does not work; I disconnected it so that no one would disturb me.
I felt so offended that someone was distracting me from my tea, so angry at the uninvited visitor, that I even became angry at the bun, from which an ugly lingonberry drop splashed onto the new tablecloth.
I walked to the door with a determined step, looked through the peephole — no one!
What tricks are these, Donnerwetter!
I had already turned to go back when the knock sounded again. And what was interesting, the knock was somehow unusual — ringing, perhaps.
“What could one knock like that with?” I thought, growing still angrier.
And in my strictest voice, full of irritation and indignation, I shouted, pressing myself to the faithful peephole:
“Who is making trouble out there? Go away or I’ll call the police!”
“It is I, your new neighbor,” at last I heard a weak voice. “Please open. I have lost my keys. Could I climb from your balcony to mine?”
At that my anger vanished somewhere and I became very curious. A couple of times I had seen a plump lady with white curls and a white coat coming out of the neighboring apartment. The neighbor was no longer young; to be honest, probably no longer even in her second youth. And how, at her age and with her plumpness, would she climb from balcony to balcony? The distance between them was quite decent.
This impressed and interested me so much that I even forgot about the spoiled tablecloth and the unfinished tea. And the bun soaked with tart, sweet lingonberry.
I opened the door, stepped aside to let the neighbor pass, and nearly sat down on the floor from astonishment.
Before me stood the lady in white curls and a white coat, while into the room walked a small, compact white horse. And its mane was white and curled, just like the lady’s.
I pressed myself into the wall, blinking, unable to utter a word.
And the little horse, who had introduced herself as my neighbor, calmly went into the room without wiping her hooves, which plunged me back into irritation.
“Where is your balcony?” she asked, and without waiting for an answer went into the kitchen, saw the poured tea and the jam, and swallowed convulsively.
“Would you like some tea?” I asked sarcastically. “Or will you jump over the balconies straight away?”
“I would,” answered the so-called guest. “And a bun. I have never eaten jam like that at all.”
“And how will you eat jam?” I wondered.
“Would you feed me from your hand?” she asked, lowering her eyes, answering a question with a question.
I cannot say that this option pleased me, but I could hardly wait until she put her hooves into my jam. I took the bun spread with jam in my hand and held it out to the little horse.
She reached for the bun with her lips, swallowed the treat in one bite and said:
“Thank you very much. The bun is tasty, the jam is sweet, and your palms are warm. I have strengthened myself; now I can gallop over the balconies.”
I threw on a little fur coat, opened the balcony door and went out onto the balcony. The little horse followed me.
Only then I saw: on the balcony again stood the lady in white curls and a white coat.
She went up to the railing, grasped it with both hands, jumped, boldly threw one leg over the railing and reached with her hand to her own balcony. A couple more efforts, and the neighbor was on her territory.
“Thank you!” the neighbor shouted and, having again become a white horse, struck the balcony glass with her hoof. A ringing sounded, as if magic bronze bells had chimed, and the little horse, looking in my direction one last time and waving her tail in farewell, disappeared into her apartment.
And I stood on the cold balcony under the crosswise snow whirlwind and thought: either something was wrong with the jam — perhaps the lingonberries had grown beside fly agarics — or all uninvited guests appear to me in the form of animals.
But I had seen with my own eyes that it was not a woman but a white horse that entered the neighboring apartment from the balcony.
On the other hand, we are all a little bit horses...
