Logs Mugs

… In the light of thunder-storm flashes, like a native of inferno, a bristling clod of four kilograms of glance at us looked from us in the net …

For two hours we lashed the quiet expanse of the reservoir near Dubova with lures, but everything was in vain – the pike did not take. Either because the water was clarified to a stream purity, and the baubles in it burned with hot fire, or perhaps because of the appearance of a full moon at night, the fish rejected our tricks. In a word, a fisherman will always find a worthy explanation for his failure. And then Nikolai, whom we met on the shore, suddenly pulled a nylon canal from under the boat bench. Water splashed in it.

– Are there any circles? He asked, opening the bowl.

I shook my head and looked into the can. Small fish swam there. Continue reading →