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
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.