Екатерина Кузнецова

Доброго времени суток! Прозой я увлеклась недавно, хотя с детства писала стихи и песни. Я учусь на звукорежиссера кино, и в связи с этим начала писать сценарии для мультипликационных фильмов. Целью своего творчества я вижу выражение красоты мира и его цельности.

Hi! I am not really experienced author but some time ago I found out that writing excites me much more than all of my cinema-stuff. So I am going to pour out the world beauty I feel in novels and scripts. Hope you will enjoy reading.


Bumping into a fair sea brush makes a high wave over the tile floor. Sparkling laugh of Nereid is still dancing between the walls so Master tries to catch it on the tongue just like the firstlong-awaited snowflakes. Slim and flexible and light Nereid image is still flashing in the mirrors whereas the other one, belonging to a woman dull and weak, who hardly handled with a heavy front door an hour earlier is forgotten once and for all.

‘That’s right; no long-haired Nereids’ — thinks Master taking a fair strand off alamp.Finishing the cut he couldn’t restrain from tossing up handfuls of dead nymph’s hair and crying out ‘Raise sails!Give the mooring lines!’ Harmonica wich suddenly appeared from Nereid’s backpacksounded so paganish that they started a wild ritual dance around non-existing flames smoking non-existing incense. That’s all right, Nereids have to live for today — or may be for tomorrow a bit — but never for yesterday.

Master smells a draft and fires up with a wide smile. ‘Hi there, give me a minute and we’ll start!’ — what a beautiful thick hair frames impenetrable eyes of his new fresh client! ‘Take your coat off’

Her coat submissively slips from swarthy shoulders. Master sweeps the last shadow of Nereid and puts the brush away. His hands tremble anticipating some bitter-chocolate streams between the fingers. ‘Please’ — he turns the client chair inviting the girl to take a sit. Silky flow reflects in his eyes. Oh, my beautiful Medea… — ‘Align tips?’

Actually, judging by this grinding arrowy grand, its owner hasn’t visited stylists for five years of even more. Still, that isn’t a big trouble for such a hair. This has taken the hole power of the sun who has been singing it for ages. Just keep your ears open to feel the throb of warm and calm certain power…

‘Cut it all, please’, — she says.

Sorry, what?

‘Sorry, what?’

‘As short as possible’, — she repeats.

Master stands opposite his numb reflection. The earth is suddenly gone from under the feetso he is falling into the bottomless well together with stones and clods of soil. Skittish but brave Nereid is left somewhere far and far above. Her milky laugh can never get that deep into the blind and stony darkness. ‘Are you sure?’ — He really tries to smile. — ‘You have adorable hair’.

‘Just do it’, — she says.

Her hair sheds the heat. Master knows it for sure: for its short life it has seen more sun then the hole city with its dusty outskirts. And that’s not only about the sun. Her hair is aware of how green the river water could be and how tart could be the horse sweat. So tight that it doesn’t matter for how many times it has been weaved in braids. The strand falls on the floor. Stubborn wistfulnessreplaces the air in the studio.

‘You’re getting married’, — Master says not distracting from his job.

‘That’s true’.

There is a ring on her finger. Calluses of guitar strings are slowly going off her pads. Her hair falls down making the studio vibrating and taking through all of the buckwheat honey and sinewyplasticity and hot summer…

‘Congratulations’, — he says.

There is a diamond in her ring. Flashiness. Master would never choose a stuff like that for his beloved. Exquisite things should be simple and never plateresque.

Scissors clicks and scratches; the hair is definitely bleeding in his hands. Medeais still. No reaction at all. Her head set is full of  equestrienne proudness. Oh yeah, she used to be a equestrienne. She would help a farmer to train young and restivehorses. But Alice with its brown skin and black mane and tail was the only one for Medea. They used to cross a forgotten field before the sunset and just to stay alone at the water’s edge: Medea — reading in the roots of the old willow, Alice — pinching grass next to her.

The grade falls on the till.

Medea used to love library books. Between its shabby pages she could find some fragments of readers’ souls having got stuck in it long ago: emotionsand conjectures and fantasies and even unexpected thoughts hardly clung to author’s words. Once Medea even found a crumpled piece of someone’s memory. She smoothed itout and plaited into a new song. And one day at the club concert the memory flew out of the black varnishedguitar body and stayed with a random person. It wouldn’t ever get back.

Some pines of pure amber start to flash around turning Medea’s hair under Master’s feet into the needles on the copper earth. Sky shine is unimaginably high above.

They met in the pinery. Medea’s company visited the caves next to it when her future chosen one was hunting for the territory for a new suburban hypermarket. So it happened, so it turned out, so it was meant to be that she would take a diamond from him, would live in a luxury penthouse in the city center together with him, would wear high hills for him, would forget both Alice-the-horse and guitar-the-black thinking of him, would cut off her hair by his word.

The last chocolate drop joins the ocean. Master puts his scissors down. ‘Have you think it out?’ — he asks even so.

‘A bit late for such a question, isn’t it?’ — she puts away the cloak and rises on her feet. She barely stands incredulously stroking the nape. Her pupils swoon for a second. Willfully she raises her hand trying to find a brand new equilibrium point. ‘So flat’, — she chuckles.

Settling with Master Medea is unwittingly touching her cut hear. The car beeps impatiently and she stumbles once again. Only when she disappears inside of the Mercedesand softly roaring enginefalls finally silent behind theconcrete turn, Master let himself relax.

‘No choice, isn’t it?’ — he thinks putting the ‘closed’ plate on the door. The brush is shaking as it wants to dig into the sunny whirlpool of Medea’s past. Master just can’t send every single effort to hell being step away from the desired aim!

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