Perenopovic romance. Zakhar Prilepin

Zakhar Prosepin - prose writer, publicist, musician, winner of the Big Book, National Bestseller and Yasnaya Polyana. The author of the novels “Abode”, “Sankya”, “Pathologies”, “Black Monkey”, the cycles of the stories “Eight”, “Sin”, “Boles full of hot vodka” and “Seven lives”, collections of journalism “Peresvet is coming to us” , “Flying Burlaki”, “Not Alien Troubles”, “Sighlight”, “Some will not go to hell”.

"The militia romance" is his first attempt not to journalistic, but of artistic understanding of the war years lived in the Donbass.

Three steps from Brillbird, the Earth stood, where no laws were acted. People who lived here did not obey anyone from the outside. Moreover, from the inside they were also not really controlled by anyone.

He gathered quickly and unexpectedly for himself to the Donbass. Nobody even asked Vostritsky’s plans for the next month.

Vostritsky rode on the Donbass from the ease of life, and also because the universe seemed to have a sink, grimaced, moved on its side - but he did not love this.

The field commander is reasonable - unlike Lesendesov, the local, Donbass, ”the historical type that existed previously was reproduced: he resembled a very good teacher of geography, who suddenly, when the seasonal apocalypse began, discovered the ability to kill.

I tried to kill a reasonable way.

The creak was Kazakh in nationality, but local. His name was a creak, because in childhood he not only engaged in boxing, but also went to a music school.

Mother arrived at the dead piston. She took away her son to bury her son in the village where he grew up - not far from thirty kilometers from their positions. The Buttercup was surprised: how such an unusual one, reading books and listening to the piston wild music, grew up in the village. Buttercup thought that Piston was urban.

The Donbass War painted him. There were wrinkles, hand lines, steps of steps. He was weathered, broke off. Now he knew the sound of his voice. In the middle of the faces, the touched eyes bloomed with steppe dust.

When Vostritsky, after 4 Donetsk years, accidentally saw his previous photographs, he was almost muddied: as if he were naked, white and taken by surprise everywhere.

Leshentsov knew the commander for two weeks and one day. And these were amazing two weeks. For their sake, it was worth living the previous forty years.

The forester was an Estonian grandmother, the thin had a Tatar admixture, and only Abrek turned out to be Russian. About twenty years ago, having served in the army, Abrek fell in love with military affairs, traveled at the contract with distant hot spots and when the war began, he returned to the places where he grew up.

The detachment was commanded by an amazing man, the call sign - the artist. He could serve as a priest or live in a monastery: almost visible heat came from him, he was incredibly affectionate and always carried sweets with him. The artist was born somewhere here, in the Donbass steppes, then moved to Russia - and when the war began, it reached back.

I left Slavyansk, duck call sign. From Russian contractors. At the aunt, he rested in the village near Slavyansk - and, when it began, he immediately went into the militia.

They considered themselves the bearers of the truth of volumetric and important so that their specific life against this background became almost weightless.