Prose: Best

In one of the cities there lived the Critic, who has been blaming everything he meets.

“Hmm, is that really that place? I am, as these mortals usually say, boggling,” asked the Imp, continuing to look through a hardly noticeable door opening.

“Well, come in, come in, take a seat.

Immense hourglass of a silvery color, which were smoothly soaring in the center of a hall, were slowly passing tiny grains of sand through themselves, gradually rotatin

Fantasy…

A-a-u-u-u-u-u!

In this most significant for him day Artem Sergeyevich was, as they say, out of sorts.

By a road, made of black stone blocks, along with the anthem, coming from a loudhailer of the accompanying armored personnel carrier, accurately measuring out the pace,

Tommy Whistler was awesomely unlucky.

This particular day of Anton Pavlovich’s life went awry from the start.