Jenna was a seasoned actress.

She never put a fight with colleges or directors.

And fans, they lusted after her,

but she was always kind to pushy faces.

Jenna was well-balanced.

Jenna was a diligent Christian.

In the XXI century, she prayed for the good of every citizen.

She never missed a single mass.

She gave money to dirt poor lads,

and she was a volunteer for UVN.

She was magnanimous and principled.

Jenna was a loving mother.

For breakfast, she cooked bacon and brownies.

Her 20-year-old daughter Kate was still afraid

to go out without permission.

Kate wore classy clothes, but she loved Metallica.

Jenna was noble, and she couldn't allow Kate to have a punk attire.

Jenna was a happy woman.

She took her vitamins every noon.

She loved taking long strolls along the river.

That Friday, she had a script and a Bible in her purse.

Jenna stopped by the stone railing,

and feverishly threw the purse into the stony water.

у всех случается слабость

дряблая

похожая на коровьи сосцы

пресная

лоснящаяся

как улиточьи сопли

и мне не нужно раскидывать требуху по тарелках

не нужно гадать на кофейной гуще

и не нужно смотреть в телескопы

чтобы понять

что если ты не перевариваешь собственную слабость

она сама будет тебя

жрать

поэтому подключай поджелудочную железу

и плюйся цианидом

и вперёд

сарацинов грабить!

My Taurus

Old Io,

of vernal sphere,

of vernal lips,

sings lovingly to a gold skylark. Such, such a joy! L'espoir eternel!

And Io blows a kiss;

and Io waltzes through her starry veranda;

and the skylark slips away from all

the vernal cypresses to meet

with earthly tears, —

to pass a song of blaue Blume

to Taurus.

The Taurus, he stands alone.

Alone he stands.

He's been awaken for never

fall asleep again.

He never sings.

And ever since

his April

hasn't been sincere.

"I need to plan!", "I am indebted,"

he thinks.

"No, blaue Blume will not help me".

But for a second,

why,

maybe,

he may feel hopeful like a human.

Kisstick

A juvenile unicorn dropped his fadeless horn. They covered it with the ivory glaze and hid inside some savory persipan.

He bought her that concentrate of the sweet smile, of the everyday fairy-tale appearance.

Now

she

breaths

erratically, and

the apricot tinge is melting with

her plump skin

because of hot

air.

All of the sudden she giggles, and the giggles jingle like crystal shoes.

The fairy in batiste sticks a kiss on his lips.

They definitely adore

their kisstick.

Dopamine Lolita

There is no shame in writing feelings.

I want to tattoo them inside and outside.

My mind is a beautiful garden, and I can not get out of it.

The wall is nonexistent, but made of metal sticks, and I can see the exit, but I am hopelessly stuck.

Years or days ago I might write lovingly but now I am too stingy. I am penurious for words.

For all so many things inside me, I am a speechless animal.

It is like everything is higher than me, and I am already six feet underground looking up at their boots.

There is a rain in my garden.

Rain

Coming into town

Watching every window

Watching every widow

Watching every nook

The best spy ever

Talking cryptic rhythmes

During afternoons

Starting March till June

I wish there were no rain, no anything, nothing.

I feel like an astronaut

I feel like an astronaut

It's like my ID is a fraud

I feel like I'm here but I'm not

I am a dopamine lolita.

in the dark

to see in black and white

to play with what and why

and there is something lurking in my mind

my call

for being greater

and living longer

they inhere in my fate

deserted soul

Sahara avenue

I am a fool

why cooking when I can just buy

why looking when there is no path

just nonexistent journey

in my journal

and I cried

for my mortality.

Велосипед

В икрах смеются пружины, а на шее напряжены жилы. Спина - полноценный парашют, когда тебя дома ждут. И что-то не так. Периферия сворачивается в спешке, пока катишь велосипед. Мопеды, билборды и пешеходы сливаются с туманной погодой. И что-то не так. Цвета взрываются как от пороха, пока вдыхаешь на полную. Слизистую морозит от пыли, и вспоминаешь давно забытое. И что-то не так. Велосипед колесит по дорогам Израиля, Польши, Марокко. Колёса выписывают овалы. Каблук царапает асфальт. И что-то не так. Не ждут? Ждут. Но там.

Pinochle (Male!Jessica Rabbit/Reader)

You found yourself enormously worried about Jessie. Lately, he was unusually morose, and there were more wrinkles between his arched red browns. His signing, usually bright and foamy and intoxicating just like the best of champagne, became low, cold and dry in emotions. What was worse that nobody noticed it beside you. But, after all, Jessie Rabbit was your best friend since high school.

Sitting on the couch now you were sharing a dinner on a Jessie’s veranda outside the city. Evening was advancing towards your windows; the sounds of bright summers’ crickets and the creeks of accidental birds were in the air, but you were as anxious as never before. Allowing his feet moving without noticing, Jessie muttered something about a tomorrow’s show and broke into silence. He became absorbed beyond mere moodiness as he was biting his plump feminine lips.

Driving by the feeling of uneasiness of wrong-happening, your mind formed the uncertain line of excuse to start a conversation:

‘Let’s never order the take-away from this restaurant again.’

‘Why?’ perplexedly he turned away from his thoughts.

‘I hate the taste of a brownie. It’s too sharp,’ you clicked your tongue.

‘Shame there ain’t nothing we can do now.’

Then you were busy munching your food again. The ticking of the clock on a wall began to get on your nerves and you heard a fly buzzing outside; it was charcoal black and emerald green. Your hands were cold without any sufficient movements and with knee-deep concern. And boredom ate you inside out. You finally stared back at Jessie: he was perfect as always, with his long hair being messy, but just enough, and with his crimson shirt richly flowing down his fair muscles, and with his ears pointing in the cutest way ever. But the thing you loved the most about him was that his beauty that never made you feel insignificant, insecure.

But you definitely were not in love with him.

‘Honest, Jessie, we’d better do something,’ you started again.

Jessie looked up.

‘Sorry, honey, I’m not in the mood. If it were another day –’

‘– but I need you to cheer up just now. Tomorrow is a busy day for you; I want you to have some fun today.’

If it were lighter, you would notice a slight reddish shame swapped across Jessie’s face. But the evening was dark enough. You felt a gale of sympathy as you saw Jessie drumming his fingers impatiently on his lap. It seemed like he wanted to say something. Something high-risky and not on the topic.

‘Do you have cards?’ you asked first. The first rule of defense: attack.

‘I do,’ Jessie sneered. ‘Want me to bring them?’

You smiled back steadily.

‘Pinochle sounds like a great idea actually; what do you think?’

‘Good. Give me a minute.’

Asking Jessie to play cards was dangerous. Not that you didn’t know how to play, on the contrary, you knew and knew fairly well since you had got embroiled in some youthful hijinks, but Jessie was a genius. One could not expect less from a man who’d make drunken women swoon while hustling them in a card room. His smile made anyone lose sight of themselves and their wallets. You thought that, frankly, Jessie just loved leaving people high and dry.

The nasty food was gone, and there were only two pairs of hands on the table.

‘Jessie,’ you said carefully. ‘If I win, you will tell me what’s bothering you.’

Jessie skillfully reshuffled the deck, a sardonic expression on his face.

‘Spades are trumps,’ he declared, bending to put the ten of spades in the middle of varnished wood surface. ‘You won’t win, but I will. And when I will, you will do something for me.’

‘Deal,’ you nodded.

The game was heated. Rush of adrenaline never leaving your veins, arteries, and your throbbing temples, you caught yourself on trembling hands. On the other hand, Jessie was tranquil. With his sullen spirits gone, he looked especially boyish and young. Just like a dog with two tails, you thought. You made another reckless move. The game started to resemble more and more not a fight, but a dance, and if your game were actually a dance, it would be indeed nothing but a tango, with feelings hovering in mid-air and tension on the tips of tongues.

Jessie raised his eyebrow at you when you lost.

‘Please don’t worry,’ he purred, scooping up the deck and putting it inside of a box.

‘Don’t comfort me, Jessie,’ you pretended to be pouting and got on your legs.

‘I do not. Well, I do. But my wish won’t be easy for you.’

Jessie stood up alongside you and clapped you close to his side; you watched him with a great interest and a slight surrender, and your lashes were fluttering. You had never seen such face on him before. You resisted temptation to make a joke. Your heart was pumping heavily. Everything was natural and simple, his palms on the small of your back, his warm, calm cheek near your right ear.

‘I want you to close your eyes,’ he smirked.

And you closed them. Without objections and questions.

And suddenly it was like you were being kissed for the first time. His lips smoldered on yours. You shifted yourself up and put your hands around his neck. Then, turning his head, he licked slowly along the edge of your jaw line, his expression gentle and highly erotic.

No, you were definitely in love with Jessie Rabbit.

But you sincerely hated the taste of that awful brownie.

Thirty-nine years before the future

The God’s machine! The invention of the Devil! The quantum computer! And now, applause for a new age of homo sapience! While the whole civilization celebrated the victory over Moor’s law, he was absent-mindedly rolling over the fingers the small box about the size of the thumbnail. For the humanity that tiny warm cube in man’s palm was a naked prophecy, a hope for the future, for solving the puzzles of DNA; it was a way to stars, and the magnifying glass for an entire micro world, and the telescope for a macrocosm. But for him, for the father of the machine, it was nothing but a daguerreotype image of the God. And a ticket to the freedom.

During almost thirty-nine years he divided days into three equal parts: eating, sleeping, engineering. He had just several goals: to do an experiment, to write down the results, to check them using the appropriate mathematical apparatus, to make sure he is wrong, to repeat. To do an experiment, to write down the results, to check them using the appropriate mathematical apparatus, to forget about the sleep.

But once – it was in the morning – another modification turned the lines of the code into a real gear. He was not wrong. He was standing, his face buried in the LCD-paneled wall, smart wall, which could have changed the patterns with a click of the fingers! – and felt nothing apart from the box in his hands. Now, when he was free, he was also useless. Balance and equilibrium were disrupted, and his obligations were fulfilled… He was waiting for a guest, and he had a feeling she would show up any minute. He couldn’t believe that the leash he had been wearing for so long because of his young female friend would be released, and that the pact would be cancelled, and that he would be able to plunge into any area of interest with the passion high intellect holds. His eyes were burning. There were voices in the hall. The hologram was greeting his visitor. These AR-lenses! The marvel of Japanese lovers of big-eyed women! Without lenses just a plain grey world, with them one can notice the interference of light waves coming from smart walls. With lenses one has a post-noosphere, a dazzling cybersphere full to the brim with virtual assistants. It... Water under the bridge since their development, he thought. Decades without virtual creatures were Middle Ages, or, if a little better, a Victorian age in the conscious of average people, and nobody would be courageous enough to abstain from unrestricted grace of being coach potatoes (while your personal hologram runs the office, monitors production, brings up children, acts in films or goes shopping). His visitor greeted him. He felt like he got trapped in a corral with disgustingly vicious German shepherds. His mistress, who pretended to be a friend, even a wife, abhorred him, and if earlier he had been blind and deaf, now he was able to predict all her stunted manipulations with inexplicable dexterity. She was an eternal shadow in the rooms of important people. She was a timeless somnambulist. With time her lips had faded. Previously, they had been just cheesy and strawberry, but now they are cheesy and look like old chewing gum. Long-haired, old-fashioned, all in artificial flowers and in shoes in the latest fashion hussy.

Okay, so this is just a part of my translation of my own science-fiction story written in Russian. I hoped to translate it for a contest, but the deadline is too soon and I have uni assignments to do, so it will be like this. If anyone takes interest, write me, and I will tell you the plot. 

An apple (Joker/Reader)

You realised he didn't need you (as he said that women, just like men, are nothing but audience to him). You considered yourself lucky he'd not become obsessed with you, but, nonetheless, it hurt.

Joker smiled. You grimaced, and gripped the handle of the knife until your knuckles turned whitewashed. It seemed like Joker did not even care either, but it was a delusion; his posture was practically lenient and lackadaisical on his starching sheets.

You liked everything about him. Since that infamous show episode, you stared at his uneven line of teeth and his whippy hands in the purest form of adoration. You knew he didn't shower himself anymore due to his depression episode. Some men came to help him. If you had been one of them then you'd become bitterly felicitous: the idea of plunging your hands into his greenish hair was intoxicating, especially when Joker was at your fingertips so helpless, so serene.

'Poppet, what are you up to?' he asked.

'Mmm,' you hummed, partly because you were unsure of your answer, and partly because you had hard time catching your breath and putting your thoughts together. You were in some metres away from him, but you could still smell his sumptuous toxic shaving cream.

'I missed your face. How come you're trying to kill me?' he asked again. 'It's been a while.'

'I know you like apples. I brought you some.'

'I don't understand.'

'That's alright,' you whispered.

Though you really had brought some apples in your backpack, it was not unknown to you that Joker's defencelessness was nothing but a momentary still, and that the lack of a weapon in his lodging would lead to bloody – in a literal meaning of the word – disaster. When it came to Joker, you couldn't be prepared enough.

He had a gun under his pillows after all.

'Keep on then,' Joker whistled through his teeth and gave you a discerning eye.

You staggered backwards to pick up your backpack lying near the entrance. You felt laughing and crying and whining at the same time. Knife went to your waist-band, and you squatted slowly, his eyes never leaving your position. Stepping out of his gaze was impossible, and you felt like Little red riding hood visiting her imposter grandmother.

You were not unaccustomed to that kind of disturbance mixed with snow crispy joy. Once you might have despised it, especially when you was younger watching TV-shows about psychos and their sweet meant-to-be girlfriends. Now you were right at your rightful place.

You took out an apple – green and firm and without any blemishes in your palm.

'Poppet, dear, it is time you got some credit for all your hard work,' he teased. 'I want you to hand feed me.'

And you gulped.

Last time your heard these lines was in your sodden imagination.

'I am not sure,' you mumbled.

'Come here!' he patted on his bed beside himself.

Your expectations excelled themselves, and you almost ran to him not worrying about being taken in at your lowest ebb. He rubbed the heels of his hands against his red-rimmed eyes before he took you by your arm to rapidly bend you to his eye-level.

'Want a joke?' he brushed air against your skin. You dropped an apple.

'They call me a Bushmaster not because it is my favourite gun choice.'

And he kissed your wrist.

And then snatched your knife away.

- Jake, the dog

I wonder

Why is it so difficult to get a job (even of volantury nature) in Western Europe? I mean, you have to:

1. compose a motivation letter and a CV;

2. make a portfolio and a LinkedIn account;

3. have preferably a Master degree & recommendations;

4. go through the interview;

5. do buckets of other annoying things.

And to think that all this fuss must be done just. To. Give. Up. Your. Free. Time.

And in Eastern Europe job hunting is so much easier. But maybe not for long.

I hope my UNV application will be successful.

No drabbles for today.

Nonetheless, I made a playlist for our majestic Lord of the Lies! And it may be necessary to emphasise that this playlist refers to Marvel Loki, not to mythological one. They have different vibes.

Here I chose few genres, among them industrial, trip-hop, electronic, dark cabaret and darkwave as they, if not completely, embody his internal conflicts and psychological needs. In my opinion, alternative rock/pop wouldn't (expect some... exceptions) fit Loki. Loki is a powerful, non-mainsteam, and proud character; he would prefer more unconventional music than from Top Ten Chart.

It is better to listen the tracks in proposed order to keep up with the mood.

Playlist:

1. No Maker Made Me – IAMX

2. TickTickTick – IAMX

3. Conflict – Archive

4. Violently – Archive

5. Ignite – Diorama

6. Lord of the Lies – Diorama

7. choke on one another – Death Spells

8. coup d'etat – ghost and pals

8. Think Harder – Sneaker Pimps

9. Manic – Kosheen

10. Up in Flame – Kosheen

11. Zero Gravity – Humanwine

12. Ways of Seeing – Arian Saleh

13. Death in the Candystore – Major Parkinson

14. Epoch – Humanwine

15. My Name Is Ruin – Gary Numan

16. It's a Sin – Sinew

17. Charging Loki – Sinew

Today I bought another Loki action figure. I have been dreaming about Lady Loki for about a year and wowsie, she is finally mine and right before my eyes! She is so gracious! Now, you can definitely expect some of Loki drabbles from me in the near future (you can even propose some ideas both in the comments and in the ask section).

Hetalia Headcanons

Dating (and living with Arthur Kirkland) in XXI century would include:

– unchanging early morning routines. Even on weekends. Even on Christmas. Apparently, Arthur likes his morning flat white with old-fashioned printed copy of The Independent better than an extra hour of sleep. He would rise at six o'clock, than definitely wake up his partner with tenuous kisses as he finds comfort and domesticity in cooking breakfast together.

– constant ‘Do It Yourself’ activities. Arthur is quite good with his hands and is not shy to blow his own horn about it. Your sink is suddenly broken? You need to uproot plants? You have too many books to keep them in your old bookcase? Lucky you! You can bank on your boyfriend. Just do not forget to check youtube videos he is watching in the process if you do not want to end up with a coach out of old jeans.

– booking tickets to punk-rock and rock-n-roll concerts in advance. Singing together rock ballads in local pubs. Besides, there is no doubt Arthur would play on his Gordon Smith guitar once in a while just for you. ‘I know that diamonds mean money for this art, but that's not the shape of my heart’ in a hushed, gravelly, and provocative voice.  

– having autographs of all your favourite British celebrities. It’s not a problem for him to get you imperceptibly behind the scenes. However, try to not make him jealous. His bad mood doesn’t ease off quickly, and by the time you come home you would have got a migraine because of his grumbling.

– free environmental education. Since last decade, Arthur has become preoccupied with ecological problems. England is the country with a big population, so the effects on the environment after subversive behaviour are evident. And while Arthur may not be a vegan, he would be conscious about waste sorting and water saving. He is also likely to present you cosmetics that hasn’t been tested on animals.

– passionate nights. Arthur is not into PDA, but he compensates that with affection behind the closed doors of your bedroom. And yet, there is one drawback for you: Arthur is an old hand in relationships, so you would not be able to surprise him. ...But he would definitely be able to surprise you regularly.

You are precious

First: productivity is not equal to personal value.

Second: nobody is stupid for what they love, even if they love to watch Teletubbies.

Third: you have to be boisterous about every little gift you have because you are indeed talented.

Adult life calls for including whatsoever discipline into one’s curriculum, and so I have decided to stop on regular blogging. The grounds are simple: I love English language, and I want to master it into my maternal language, and I wish I made to England for employment reasons someday. Therefore, I heavily believe this is the right call.

I just hope I don’t sound too bombastically now. But practice makes perfect, right?

Attention: my ramblings may be incendiary.

Recently I had a business trip that was a real turning point for me. Almost ten years ago to the day, I was wrong, and I was in a rut, and thus I was suffering.

But that experience helped me to realize three priceless matters.

FIRST: Estimating personal value by productivity is nothing but a smokescreen made up by capitalism to cheapen personal happiness. If you have ever felt guilty and indisposed about not working around-the-clock, if you have ever thought that life is a race, if you have ever agreed with walking all over people, that’s spot-on it. Do not bow to that confining capitalistic lie.

But the ultimate truth is in the opposition. A person matters just because of their existence. If you exist, you are valuable. If you breathe, if you laugh, if you cry, you are precious. Point.

SECOND: The second matter follows the first one. In my opinion, the biggest reason we shame others’ hobbies is that we measure hobbies by potential income and prospective prestige. E.g. acting and travelling and playing tennis are considered to be ‘prestigious’ hobbies while binging films and making selfies and even cooking are not.

Just let people do what they want. Don’t spread pipelines. Why live if not for happiness? Life is too short to be judgy. And there is no need to hang back; you can enjoy things you love as well as anyone else. You deserve it.

THIRD: The third matter is the wooliest of them all. I haven’t mentioned what kind of trip I had anyway. Some of you may know that I am really shy.

Some of you may know that I am a French/English to Russian/Ukrainian (and vice versa) interpreter.

And that trip was for AR-programmists and for (what matters more) illustrators/game-designers. In my opinion, I cannot draw well. I don’t like drawing. But I had jumped at opportunity and, to my surprise, I got an offer to continue my project not on bare enthusiasm but on funding.

So, do not believe your impostor syndrome. It’s inimical to you, to your future, and to your dreams. If you speak up, your success is on cards.

Thank you for attention. 

This is Alex and Anna, and they are the characters from my short story "Just thirty years before the future". The story is about the consequences of invention of a quantum computer & toxic relationships.

Alex is a coder – he works with software. Anne is... well, spoilers. :) But she has fierce personality and absolutely adores "My Little Pony".

OCs by my  friend