КОНКУРС  "Sun Turner:" If you give not a damn about where to go and why, just head for the nearest beer bar.

The day of the release of Alisa's "Sun Turner" we are bringing in the results of the best short story that includes all the song titles of the album. The winner was Anton Ignatichev, who sent in if not the shortest, the most wonderful story. He will receive a CD of the album, and we have the pleasure of reading his story once more.

Sometimes, you know how it is- for some it's the turn at the gate, or the star-fall, or the moon's silvering or the baking of the sun. Then it's the sun turner, wrapped in a bundle. Whatever it is, if you find it you can bite yourself off some happiness, but then that takes luck and chance, as it goes. And not just any luck and chance will do. You get tangled by a string in the labyrinth, for example, and you've got no way out but to deal with the minotaur. There's been a case like that already. Or walking around behind the Pig's Star- there's nothing pleasant about that either.

Then again, if you give not a damn about where to go and why, just head for the nearest beer bar. Just follow the scent.

But the Fool comes back, tired and glum- turns out he hasn't found the sun. Probably looked in all the wrong places, probably didn't quite know what he was looking for. Everyone knows, after all, that the sun is really a bit of "Friendship Brand" farmer's cheese, thrown at Christmas all the way up to the Ostankinskaya tele-tower, the tallest in all of Europe. Just like death... what is death, after all? Just a "stairway to heaven," in Old Church Slavonic. It's a strange road. You can even try out and be God up there, except that the position's already taken. And it's been taken for a long time already, too. You can turn and wiggle as long as you want, till you inevitably understand that at best all through death all you can be is a ruler of fleas. Then again, if you think about it, you can do that on earth.

It seems that we're all more or less Orthodox, but we all do the same- you'd sell a bit of your soul for a penny and more. Then you're an adult more or less, but still believe in fairy tales: beyond the fields, beyond the forests, beyond the red mountains.

But how is it in the fairy tales? Paths and forks in the road, three roads and a stone. And life's like that, except there's no instructions on the sign- just a good old four letter word on the fence.

You wear out those closest to you, even though you love them. A little. And that close one, who shared your canned corn with you from the same can, is still near-by. Except dead. When you come back home and kiss your mother, throw a chair at the TV... you split in two, and feel suddenly, for the first time, perhaps, the sorrow of joy. Then you pull your boots on, and go looking for the sun again.

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