Читать книгу Fairytales for adults in the fourth dimension - Slava Sarazhin - Страница 10

A big black fly struggled on the window, trying in vain to overcome its invisible barrier and, in spite of everything, with a persistence worthy of respect; it battered its head against the glass.

"Yes, a concussion is guaranteed," the man wearing the tight but expensive suit thought to himself, but without much interest.

Two things occupied his mind:

Firstly, to help finish the fly's suffering, and send it off to another world.

Secondly, to complete the strategic planning for the next six months for the company.

Both the first and the second options were boring and uninteresting, but the thought of the fly was more fun.

He stared blankly at the computer monitor, which was showing line after line of boring figures. In his brain, which was accustomed to providing blinding strategies, correct and sharp as the stab from a sword, three active thoughts were spinning around:.

Firstly, what to use to kill the fly?

Secondly, he needed to go to the restroom.

Thirdly, a cup of coffee would be nice.

His wandering gaze stopped on a glass snow globe, which was stood on his large desk, indicating his rank in the company. You know what we are talking about: it's a ball of glass, and inside there is a wooden house and a tree covered in snow. If you shake the globe, it will begin to snow again (wouldn't it be interesting to know what sort of liquid was inside it?).

The man in the expensive but tight fitting suit slightly loosened the knot of his tie and reached for the ball.

"I should have thrown this out a long time ago," he thought to himself. "Colleagues at business meetings used to look at it with curiosity, probably whispering behind my back. Each to their own."

The man shook the globe, turned it over, and a blizzard of fake snowflakes whirled around the tiny house with its miniature windows, through which the man dreamed that he could see some movement. He brought the globe up to his eyes, and through the window frame he could clearly make out someone's silhouette. "What the…?"

The buzz coming from the fly became more annoying. It literally filled all the space around, and then suddenly everything became blurred somehow, like an unsuccessful snapshot taken while still moving…

"Are you completely out of your mind? Can you hear me? I am asking you, what are you doing?"

A freckled faced boy with red-hair appeared before the man's eyes. He shook his shoulders. The man himself felt like he was sitting on a hard wooden floor. It was bitterly cold, and puffs of cold vapor escaped from the boy's mouth.

Making sure that the man could see him, the boy repeated: "You should have warned me beforehand if you had the itch to shake this thing! I smacked my head, and the room was left freezing cold!"

"Who are you?" Was all the man managed to squeeze out, pulling up the collar on his expensive suit.

"What do you mean who am I? I'm your inner child, that's who!" The redheaded boy replied, hugging himself, as he stuck his red hands under his armpits.

"Who are you?" Asked the man again.

"Your inner child! You created me yourself so don't give me any crap. The idea has been growing in your head for years!"

"Am I dreaming?" The man asked, pinching himself painfully on the thigh.

"Well, of course you are. How else do you think your fat body managed to squeeze inside this tiny house?"

The boy laughed loudly, his mouth was wide open and he clutched at his stomach.

The man looked around the walls of the wooden cabin. Everywhere, literally everywhere, paintings were hung on the walls. He had already seen them somewhere before, and he tried to remember where…

Ah, yes, they were his paintings, the ones he drew as a child! Here was one of his favorite dog chasing a brightly colored ball. "That's my mother with a bouquet of roses, presented to her on Mother's Day…"

"So these are all my paintings," said the man quietly, standing up and looking at the walls. "Here is one of the whole family, with the sun high above us, and we were all smiles. What wonderful pictures." The man people remembered an old professor who had taught him to paint as a little boy.

"Your son has a natural talent," the professor told his parents on numerous occasions. "He will become a great man and bring a lot of joy to many people."

"This won't make him any money," they answered. "What kind of work is that? An artist! That's just ridiculous!"

So the boy was no longer allowed to go to the old professor, who believed in his dream.

But the boy had a big, beaming, watercolor dream. He wanted to be an artist! Not just a painter, but the best of the best, so that his paintings would live a life of their own, so that the people who saw them could understand how an artist feels when he creates a masterpiece.

"You had a dream!" Murmured the boy, standing behind the man.

"But the money…"

"You must still have a dream!" Said the boy. "Otherwise I would have died in your heart, and yet I live! This is your life," said the boy pointing at a series of pictures.

The man came closer to the wall and he could see his life in the form of a slideshow. He finished school with honors. He entered university to study economics. He achieved great success, and Internships in the UK. He achieved his first position of great responsibility, and after that he climbed the career ladder. On another picture, a simple pencil drawing, he saw himself sat in a puffy chair, with nothing showing in his eyes, holding a glass snow globe. There was a black spot on the window pane behind him… It was the fly.

"Do not let anyone discourage you from your dreams!" Whispered the boy. "I'm still alive, but my strength is running out!"

"You will be discouraged. They will tell you that you're crazy and it's impossible. There will be those who will laugh at you, trying to make you change your mind! They will try to make you just like everyone else! Don't you dare listen to them! Your dream – this is your real life!"

The man covered his face with his hands… and was awakened by the noise of the glass snow globe falling to the floor.

Baffled, he looked around. His cozy office, the summer heat, his over tight neck tie… All he could feel was the cold in his heart. The cold from the abandoned wooden lodge and the cold from his unfulfilled dreams.

The man looked at the broken snow globe at his feet. A viscous puddle shining with fake snow pooled around his expensive shoes.

The man stood up, slowly loosened his tie and walked to the door, then paused for a moment. He came back in, went over to the window and opened it wide, letting out artificially conditioned air, and the fly into the bargain. Then he walked confidently out of the office.

"I'm not acquainted with that person. Who is he? Maybe it's you or me, or someone else? Did the man become an artist – I don't know. I know one thing for certain, there are fresh flowers all year round on the lonely grave of an old professor who believed in his dream."