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Max Kotin Phone
Hi,
Max Kotin here.
I mostly write about business. But this is my flash fiction. The diary of a writer of sorts. Enjoy!

Our chestnut

Without warning — two flashes. Thunder rolled across the sky, smooth and tender, lovingly. And as if following a conductor’s baton, the rain came pouring down. Drops of water bounced off the iron ledge with soft, coaxing clicks. I went to the window. Just in time to see the disturbed chestnut — our chestnut — begin to shed everything past its bloom. Wet flowers were pouring down onto the trash bins, the abandoned bikes, the pathway nobody had cleaned in a long time. But when it cleared, our chestnut stood unchanged. In full bloom, as if nothing had happened. The evening grew brighter than the day.

Acorns in the lake

Along the bank of a forest lake, following its every turn and curve, runs a path. Trees here grow on both its sides, some right on the edge of the bank, dark trunks and roots washed by the water. The path is dim, and you won’t immediately notice the oaks hiding in places more suitable for willows, branches hanging over the lake. In September, acorns start to fall down. Some right into the lake, making a dull sound, disappearing forever in the brown water. Some on the shore and, occasionally, the heads of the passersby, who nevertheless brave the path, determined to enjoy the last warm days of the year.

Pillow fight

Who knew that marriage could bring so much unpredictability into a man’s life. When I go to bed, I never know which pillow I will be sleeping on. My wife’s neck pain means she’s always buying different pillows, trying to find some relief. But nothing is constant, everything is ever-changing, as it probably should be. One night a thick pillow bought at a fancy pillow shop works. Another night a simple soft one from Ikea does it. So every night carries an intrigue. I inherit the pillow that is dismissed.

A woman with a broom

The crunch of dry gravel underfoot. As if you were walking over the dead beetles, their empty shells cracking under your soles. The gravel was scattered the other day on the icy road but there is no ice no more. The street is now bleached by sunlight. You’d want to take off your hat. And in front of the kindergarten — a woman with a broom sweeping away the stones’s corpses from the path.

Teenagers no more

A pack of white old-timers are sitting at a worn-down table in front of a kebab shop. Thin hair. Unshaved saggy cheeks. T-shirts and sleeveless denim jackets. Smoking, drinking bagged tea from small scuffed glasses, watching the street. A bluetooth speaker is placed on the table, a small orange cylinder nevertheless capable of producing deep bass, similar to those weapons of audio assault that any group of teenagers would carry with them nowadays. The men at the table aren’t teenagers no more. But the beat is thumping.