Tags: africa


Английская версия "Записок террориста" появилась на Амазоне!


Большая просьба к англоязычным (и дружественно настроенным) читателям, имеющим странички в англоязычных соцсетях, немножко помочь с продвижением)

Надо же людям нашу сторону событий немножко показать...


Английская версия "Записок террориста"

Собственно, часть I, главы с 1 по 11. Книга адаптирована (постарался, во всяком случае) для западного читателя, о Новороссии и войне на Донбассе имеющего самые смутные представления. Продолжаю работать над переводом, планирую завершить к июню.

Буду благодарен за конструктивную критику, а также перепост и PR, особенно на англоязычных ресурсах.

P.S. Напоминаю, что полную русскую версию в электронном виде можно приобрести здесь, цена 200 рублей.


Notes of a Terrorist* (*Freedom Fighter), chapter 4

A few minutes of knocking at the gate and shouting "Is anybody here?" didn’t bring any result. Somehow, I did not want to go inside by myself—first, the doggy wasn’t looking friendly, and second, who knows what’s there. And who. Perhaps I should call back and tell the good news of my arrival. I pulled the phone out of my pocket, dialed… "There is not enough money on your account..." Wonderful. As always, just in time. I knocked again. Zero response, but the dog barked a couple of times without much enthusiasm. Mmmm... Maybe the taxi driver dropped me at the wrong place? And what am I supposed to do? I walked around the fence to the left. There were some gardens. I returned. Still no one. The doggy barked from time to time. Fuck. I heard a noise and looked around. A young boy on a bicycle was coming to the gate.
"Hi!” I said as friendly as I could imitate. “You live here?"
"Hello!” Politely replied the young generation. “I do. You’re here to see my Pa?”



Notes of a Terrorist* (*Freedom Fighter), chapter 1

“One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter”

«… More than two hundred pro-Russian separatists were killed or arrested by government forces in the Donetsk region during …»

A wave of revival ran through the barn looking waiting hall packed with a waiting crowd of bored passengers on the Freetown[1]-to-Casablanca[2] flight. Its point of origin, of course, was not the TV, where strange people with unpronounceable names were killing each other in oddly named cities, but from the descent to the boat dock. Muscular representatives of the local population dragged luggage onto boats; the careless handling of trunks eliciting gasps from the newcomers to these geo-proctologic lands. TIA,[3] guys. T — I — A

A cute newscaster in a neutral-positive manner told a little more about the glorious victories of the Ukrainian law enforcement over the pro-Russian separatists, casually mentioned Ukrainian officials as a source of information and moved to the Near East (for some mysterious reason English-speaking peoples call it the Middle East). However, nobody was listening any longer. People hastily lined into an assault column for boarding, ignoring the feeble attempts of black personnel to place everybody according to the numbers of their tickets. I don’t like crowds, so I was one of the last ones to attach myself to the end of the queue. I have been here for more than two years and never heard of a case when someone didn’t get on board because there wasn’t enough space on the boat, so there wasn’t any need for crowding. I had bought a book in advance (I cannot do without one on the road), so some waiting didn’t bother me.

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