The book “Random Passerby”

Not so long ago, I noticed in blogs the recording Sibiryak23. “. I was interested in what it was, and I devoted several minutes to studying this small, but an entertaining story … And I decided that since Stopgame is turning into a literary circle, so why shouldn’t I put up my brainchilds for users? My name is Ilya, and I’m 14 years old. I read from early childhood, or rather, from 3.5 years old. I am writing on the system of Nikolai Nosov. I suffer from paranoid that you should feel throughout the story, if, as I hope, you will like it. I will be happy to accept criticism. If readers like my notes, then in the future their continuation will begin to appear on the forum. So…

Preface
The door creaked loudly, and the gloomy room was lit up with a yellow light. A black figure came through the shining opening – an emaciated, with a weathered face and red leather, she threw a loaf of blue white bread on a shaky table. Glasses answered with a light glass hum. The figure only muttered something angrily.
The man who entered was about thirty -five – wide in the shoulders and high. His hair was once black, but clearly burned out because of the Italian sun, under which he had now lived. Narrow gray eyes ran around the room, as if looking for something. The door that slammed behind the stranger passed two yellow lines of light.
By the rapid movement of dry sinwered fingers, the one who entered turned on the table lamp and his body, dressed in rags, was illuminated, as well as his face. It was clear that he was horrified. Tears rolled over the stranger’s eyes. They shone in the light of the lamp.
The one who entered went from corner to corner, nervously holding on to the back of his head – the first drops rolled down his fallen cheeks and fell on a stone raw floor with a rumble. For courage, the man poured himself cheap whiskey, and then quickly, with one sip, drained the glass. Suddenly his eyes filled with blood. He shouted something on the likeness of “ah, you’re like. “And with a scale threw a glass on the floor. He scattered into dozens of fragments – they lit a dull glow from the lamp, a moist, moldy, ceiling.
The stranger rushed around the room, muttering warmly under his breath all the well -known curses. He went to the dirty table and took a knife stained with juice with a trembling hand with a trembling hand. With a composure, breathing heavily, the stranger brought the tip to the right ear. Closing his eyes wet from tears, he slowly spent a sharpened blade on the base of the auricle. There was a frantic scream – either from pain, felts from the realization that he causes it to himself. Blood slowly settled on a dirty knife, and then flowed to the floor, mixing with ledge and dust, on which the imprints of rat paws froze.
– This is not a thing. – the man whispered through the yellowed teeth, holding on to the red ear. He touched the cartilage again-no, there was definitely something metal in him. Small, invisible, it was never felt, except after the realization that it is. Hot tears of anger rolled on the eyelashes of the man again – it was impossible to believe that this was happening precisely with him, here and now. He, with all his might, almost on the handle, stuck a bloodied knife into a dirty table. The glasses rang again – this time louder. For some reason, this was very angry with a man-the table flew down, covering the remaining glass dishes with himself. The stranger, not paying attention to the arranged mess, again swept around the room, scolding and cursing everything in the world ..
An hour later (at least they spoke half a hidden clock that hung on a stained wall) The structure was ready. The man wanted to amputate the ear as quickly as possible, without self -flagellation, and therefore hung a meat hatchet, no less dirty than a knife that was still not yet pulled out on the site, after all the knife, having previously tied it with a rotten rope and passing it through a rusty ring sticking out of the wall. The end of the rope was wrapped around the legs of a broken chair.
On the table, the man drew a line with his own blood – right under the blade shining upstairs. With trembling hands, the stranger took large creaky scissors. Carefully putting the earlier ear on the line, from which the low smell of a cocktail of blood, cigarette butts and dust had already emanated, the man nervously brought the end of the scissors to the rope and, closing his eyes, instantly cut it. A cry of pain, cruel and terrible, filled the room ..

The best comments

Dude, this five!
bronze-casino />I haven’t seen such a stylistic mismatch for a long time. Times-jump forward and forth, everything floats somewhere.

As for the “place of the fall of drinking” I agree, many indicate this mistake for me, but at least I can’t understand what this very “baking” can be replaced with.

As for the system – I am jokingly sitting on the “Treatise of Literature” Nosov.) In the modern concept, this means “mow” in style.

This phrase in its structure is just a nightmare literary critic.
There you need to either change the proposal, or how else.

For fourteen years – very. Some are the pluses, and then they were shut up, xs how to understand these people in general.
And I decided that since Stopgame turns into a literary circle
In fact, everything is somewhat different: some of Stopheim, who believes himself as the authors, turns into a circle of seniles, plusing each other and minus all who did not praise their creations and at the same time ventured to lay out his.