Literary prose magazine. Lamp and chimney - literary magazine - Prose. Nina Turitsyna. "Tragedienne". Almost true

Email: [email protected](editor-in-chief Boris Markovsky)

"Lava"

Literary almanac of the Kharkov club of poetry "Aval". Publishes poetry, short prose, translations, criticism, journalism, reports from literary festivals. Language: Russian, Ukrainian, Belarusian (without translation).

Editor-in-Chief: Ekaterina Dericheva.

E-mail: [email protected]

"Lamp and Chimney"

Lampa i chimney is a Russian literary and art magazine published in Moscow since 2011 with a frequency of 4 times a year. The volume of the magazine is 240-280 pages.

The publication publishes format and non-format literature of all genres, directions, movements, schools. The authors of the journal are well-known writers, critics, teachers of higher educational institutions, researchers, as well as novice authors writing in Russian.

Journal Applications:

Vremya LD is a discussion club in which materials are published in real time for wide discussions. The application deals daily with works of art, journalistic, literary and popular articles. The best materials are selected for printed editions of Lamp and Chimney magazine.

LD Avangard is a special supplement, a section in the paper edition of Lamp and Chimney, which occupies up to 1/5 of the total number of magazine pages. The appendix publishes avant-garde (or modernist) literature. The website of the LD Avangard application has been created and is operating.

The editor-in-chief is German Arzumanov.

"Lexicon"

Online magazine, Chicago.

Designed for creative minds and those who have something to say. If you consider yourself one of those, send us your works, we will definitely consider them and publish the best ones. It can be stories, poems, paintings, photographs, magazine articles - everything that will please not only your close friends, but also those whom you do not know yet.

E-mail: [email protected]

"Lechaim"

A monthly literary and journalistic magazine published since 1991 with a total circulation of 50,000 copies. It combines a variety of genres - fiction, criticism, historical essays, political essays, reviews.

"Likbez"

Literary almanac.

We continue to adhere to the "paper" version of the update - a completely new issue is released every month. As for the editorial policy, while welcoming all new authors, we reserve the right to carefully select their works.

"Literature"

Literratura is a weekly digital magazine that publishes the works of the most prominent representatives of contemporary Russian literature.

We can write and send manuscripts. However, according to the established tradition, you will not receive any reviews and perhaps even a sane answer. We publish the best, but each of them was once a beginner and became the one who exists only thanks to the belief in what he is doing.

Email: [email protected]

"Literary newspaper"

Socio-political and literary newspaper.

Email: [email protected]

"Literary Russia"

"Literary Russia" publishes the ethno-political and literary-artistic magazine "World of the North", the almanac "Litros", which contains the works of contemporary Russian writers, as well as the "Library of Literary Russia" - bibliographic reference books, monographs, books of prose.

"Literary studies"

Literary-critical edition.

The journal focuses primarily on the publication of materials relating to the contemporary literary process. We will also be glad to have analytical articles about online literature, as well as modern literature of the Russian regions (including St. Petersburg) and the Russian diaspora.

Email: [email protected] , [email protected]

"Literary news"

The press organ of the Union of Writers of the XXI century and the Union of Writers of Russia. Newspaper about writers and for writers, as well as for all readers interested in culture.

Email: [email protected]

"Literary European"

The only monthly literary and journalistic magazine in Russian in Europe. Organ of the Union of Russian Writers in Germany. Russian authors participate not only from Germany, but also from France, the USA, Denmark, the Czech Republic, Finland, England, and the Baltic countries. The journal covers the problems of modern Russian literary and public life in Europe and other countries. Prose, poetry, journalism, reviews, humor, topical materials. The authors are mainly representatives of the 4th wave of emigration.

10.09.2019 2600

I have never noticed before how tiring the picture of a tropical paradise is: lurid, annoying colors, sharp transitions, a hot yolk of the sun in ultramarine flowing into bright oceanic turquoise ... I would like rain and fog just right. Why did you come here? What kind of crazy idea is that? Marina pulled her hat deeper over her forehead, blew the sand off her dark glasses, and lay down on the couch under a frail palm tree. The dullness that came after a break with a man who had played the role of friend, passionate lover and influential patron for seven years became unbearable. Her inner eye, usually sharp and receptive,...

31.08.2019 1764

Not amenable to systematic description. Dissolved in the flowing moisture of life. The adhesion of molecules into which the blood, dripping from the knife of a happy fisherman after cutting the carcass, breaks down. No red trickle - but traces are present in the channel to the very mouth. And even then, in the ocean. She returned home - not a girl, a bundle of happiness. No, it's not a lump after all - it is centripetally folded, pulling the lines of force inward, accumulating energy. She had the opposite - it splashed like a bud, a fountain, fireworks. The case when you can hardly even see the face behind the wave of light. She is...

25.08.2019 2034

A minute later, my mother came to wake Roma at school and was very surprised that he was no longer sleeping. "Aren't you sleeping?" Mom asked, seeing that Roma was sitting on the bed and she had no one to wake her up. Roma did not know what to answer, and answered: "I woke up." Roma passed exams only twice: the first time in the first grade, when he was asked to read a poem and determine which of the four pictures was superfluous (the camel was superfluous), and the second time when he entered the children's choir and for some reason did not pass, - that evening, mom and dad suddenly had a fight; dad said "you always...

18.08.2019 2581

In Moscow, street pleshkas in colloquial language are places where you can buy a woman. Constantly avoiding police raids, the baldheads wander from Revolution Square to Karl Marx Avenue, from Marx Avenue to Komsomolskaya Square, and in order to find them, you need to ask the taxi driver: “Chief, where is the baldhead today?” Usually he knows, he immediately undertakes to deliver you, show the goods and take from the sidewalk what you indicate, for which he should have an unwritten, but exact fee - five rubles. That evening the main pleshka worked at the Leningradsky railway station. Andrey and I quickly found her with the help of...

13.08.2019 1588

05.08.2019 1143

Hit me? Yes, what are you! And he had no such thoughts. The vodka had already dissolved all thoughts in him when he slammed his mother in the ear without a swing. She fell to the floor, around her - fragments of cups, saucers, a crystal ashtray, which fell into two pieces. Dad bent over her and raised his right hand. Tubercles of muscles pumped up with two-pound weights. Everyone is young, young, young. And the fist is a hungry hammer. I was so scared that I didn't care at all. I jumped on him from behind, hung on his arm, biting his forearm with my teeth. He snarled and waved his hand away from the unexpected mosquito. I flew out of the kitchen into...

29.07.2019 1549

At seventeen, there was a void in my head. A blissful vacuum that can still be filled with any substances and matter. Well-bred young ladies at this age dream of getting married. Of course, for love. The smart ones are thinking of opening a dog shelter. Difficult - hook up with a talented but unknown bass player. For more drama. I dreamed of getting to a real American party. Once I succeeded. To implement a frivolous intention, I even had to immigrate. Not to America, to Canada. After frowning compatriots, Canadians seemed ...

24.07.2019 1513

Almost everything that happened then happened for the first time. And betrayal too. Yes, it was funny, childish, simple-hearted, and all the same - a betrayal. Where there is betrayal, there is, as a rule, revenge. Half of the classics are based on this simple plot. I still don’t know where the train was going, which was supposed to save us from the Germans, but it never did. We got sick, and in order to avoid an epidemic, we were thrown out of the car in an open field - so we ended up in the occupation. When the Germans were driven out, my mother was sent to a small village as a school principal. Director, as well as the only teacher, watchman, stoker, and ...

06.07.2019 1110

I drank sparkling water. And about three steps away from me, a boy was standing and licking a block of ice cream from all sides. Sheer frivolity! When he spent money on ice cream, he didn't think he would be thirsty. Now he was thirsty and therefore looked at me and diligently worked his tongue. I showed him the glass and nodded my head. He did not believe, or perhaps did not understand, but just in case he put the rest of the briquette in his mouth. - Do you want to drink? I asked. He nodded his head. - Would you like two glasses? He nodded again. - And three? - What are you, uncle, where are I three. I won't drink three. To me, aunty, with ...

14.06.2019 1589

They woke up at dawn so closely intertwined with each other that their first feeling was surprise - how could they sleep through the night with a sound, restful sleep in such closeness? The guy stirred and raised himself on his elbow, looked at the girl with burning eyes for a minute, then said: - Say ... say something loudly, if this is not a dream ... The girl laughed softly. She grabbed his neck with her bare hands and pressed him to her; her body was warm, like freshly baked bread. He heard her heart beating hard in her chest, then she said softly, “Does it feel like a dream to you?” - I do not know anything,...

01.06.2019 1128

Max Brod spent a whole week convincing his friend Franz Kafka of the need to accept an invitation from the Prague Readers' Club. He believed that the works of Kafka, presented to this fair readership, would undoubtedly be appreciated there, and the circle of Kafka's readers, which had not been so wide until that time, would noticeably expand. Kafka himself did not share such an opinion about his works. He always made the highest demands on himself as a writer, and he was inclined to associate the lack of success more with the imperfection of his style than with the bad taste of the reading public ....

23.05.2019 2910

No one knew exactly why, but everyone knew that the authorities from the regional committee dispersed a group of artists who intended to create their own theater "Leningrad-65" on the basis of the Leningrad Regional Philharmonic. They slammed it. Our happiness is that there were administrators in the regional philharmonic society who gave us - me and my wife Lyuda - a hell of a lot. It was a tricky and dangerous business. We played in the provinces, took risks: what if our administrator was noticed at the knock? After all, he took "black cash" from the directors of clubs and heads of other venues for concerts. Then they said: "on ...

21.05.2019 2885

Piasters! Piasters! Khrushchev shouted, vaguely looking around the exhibition hall. — Picadors! Urinals! Papuans! He felt like he wasn't saying the words he wanted to say. However, the very thing that was necessary and the only correct one, as luck would have it, slipped out of my head, and this annoyed the first secretary of the Central Committee even more. Squat, stocky, with a sweaty red bald head, Nikita Sergeevich was filled with evil energy of destruction, requiring immediate release. In those moments, he was like a hybrid of a rhinoceros with a working bulldozer. The artists cowered in fear and took a step back. "Well now it starts...

13.05.2019 1317

The workshop belonged to the office of Sovdesign, for which he worked one and a half days a week. Although it was a semi-basement, it was dry, and there were hours of sunshine. In the evenings, people in the workshop are to the eyeballs, from six in the evening the design rests, the entrance to the lair is free - take a walk, flaw. They drank, sang, brought new pictures, drew on a bet, who dragged the girls, who - the poets, who - the bards. Flutes, candles, dances - smoke like a yoke. And who was not there! The place is central, you can’t do without informers. Yes, don't care. He liked the gatherings, and the noise didn't bother him. He himself was sitting in the corner with a pencil, sketching faces, ...

02.05.2019 2543

The sturgeon was old, the size of a torpedo. The sturgeon was exhausted like a staunch boxer by the twelfth round. The line pulled him steadily into shallow water. At first we thought that we had hooked some piece of iron on the bottom or a wire. When a fishing line appeared from the water, covered in algae, we decided it was just a wire. When the fishing line pulled and led to the side, we realized that this was not a wire at all. The belly of the fish scraped on the sand, a spiked spine and a huge muzzle appeared from the water. The hook caught my lip. One end of the triple hook was broken, the second was free, and the third caught the tip of the lip. A thin membrane separates...

20.04.2019 3174

In the village of Berdavan, Dzork region of Armenia, an ordinary family lived: his wife, Rosa, was a housewife, dug a garden, fed chickens and pigs, and her husband, the first guy in the village, was a shepherd, mowed hay, and then became the driver of one of the first tractors not only in in the village of Berdavan, but also in the entire Dzork region, and his name was Grigor. Loving Grigor was having an affair with an unmarried friend of his wife, and her name, it seems, was Greta. Since the village of Berdavan is tiny, every bush was aware of this unusual and at the same time ordinary triangle. And then one day, for material reasons - ...

11.04.2019 2870

I dreamed about her all my life. For as long as I can remember, I dreamed about her. I saw her on the Odeon in the evening crowd crossing the road. The low sun set fire to her hair, her knees tossed her skirt, her gait was swift and light ... She flickered in the windows of a taxi, in shop windows, I recognized her among the creeping night shadows, among those exiting the doors of the subway, from cinemas, from restaurants. Once I almost tripped over her on the beach in Quebron: sun-polished, she was lying on her back, her eyelids tightly closed behind dark glasses, a sky-blue swimsuit, sand on a towel, sand on a magazine ...

07.04.2019 1590

Uncle Pasha reached for the reflector, felt around for the slippery wires, plugged the plug into the socket. The reflector clicked and the red light came on. He got the reflector with character; wants - warms, doesn’t want - doesn’t warm, no matter how much you take it apart, every time you find extra details, after the removal of which the mechanism works, and then, at the most crucial moment, when a tooth doesn’t hit a tooth and climbing into a cold vest seems to be the worst thing to do light, - bam, the light does not light up, and the hands go numb from touching the corrugated iron. "Clever!" he praised...

29.03.2019 1923

Ten times a day Semyon Semyonovich hit a bone with a bone on the cabinet, and on the tenth time Semyon Semyonovich could not stand it, and, properly, he smashed the cabinet himself. But in vain. Because with this blow, Semyon Semenovich actually picked up the glove thrown by the closet, accepted the challenge, and, accepting it, doomed himself to a bloody, merciless war. A war of those in which no prisoners are taken, and no one surrenders; into a war where, retreating, they burn bridges behind them, and advancing, gutting chickens and women; in a war in which there are no winners. However, striking back at the closet, Semyon Semenovich could not even imagine what it could turn out to be for ...

16.03.2019 3476

In the early July morning, at sunrise, at the steppe half-station, a train with prisoners of war stopped in anticipation of an oncoming train, and this stop saved the life of one of them. He was unconscious and did not react in any way to the unceremonious movement from the dusty and stuffy car into the fresh air. The head of the station tried to object, but who listened to him? Having waited for the oncoming one, the train moved on, and the twisted body remained on a bench near the wayside house, the owner of which had enough worries even without a prisoner of war. While he was thinking, frowning, what to do, a cart sent from the district center for ...

05.03.2019 2448

About the bar? What to tell about him is a thing of the past. Well, if you want to listen… We moved into a new five-story building… let me remember… in the year of 1962. Exactly, I was just ten at the time. Our house was extreme. The latest in a series of five-story new buildings. Immediately behind the house, the steppe began and no one knows where it ended, on which two windows of our apartment went out. I liked to look at the steppe, although there wasn't much to see. The horizon line divided the world into two wide bands: gray and white in winter, blue and yellow-gray in summer. So unpretentious...

26.02.2019 1311

According to one theory, Atlantis was not at all beyond the Strait of Gibraltar, but in the center of the Aegean Sea, on Crete and smaller islands. Moreover, the capital, actually the city of the Atlanteans, was located on the island of Santorini, or Thira, or Fera. The island was the top of a volcano, which 2500 BC. exploded after the sea rushed into the resulting crevice. Now the island has the shape of a squiggle, and in place of the volcanic cone there is a deep bay with very clear, but dangerous water. It is believed that there is a high concentration of sulfuric acid and other mineral constituents, but...

11.02.2019 4901

Vanya dreamed that his father was eaten by lions. He tried to aim and shoot down the predators, but the rifle was so heavy that the barrel stubbornly pulled down and the front sight darted around the target. In an attempt to scare away the lions, Vanya shouted and fired without a lead. But they were not afraid of shots or screams. The lions' faces turned purple and their manes were matted with blood. The animals tore the body dispassionately and slowly, and it seemed that this meal would never end. Vanya woke up in a sweat. Wiped away tears. He wanted to breathe, but there was not enough air. Everything that surrounded him was stuffy and unknown. He lay in the blind darkness, not changing the cramped...

25.01.2019 4590

January 25, 2019 marks the 75th anniversary of the poet and novelist Dmitry Savitsky, one of the best Russian writers of the late 20th and early 21st centuries. Admirers of his talent compare Savitsky now with Vladimir Nabokov, now with Lawrence Durrell; there are also opinions that say that he simply has no predecessors in world literature. Not undertaking to confirm these assessments, just as not trying to argue with them, I can only state with all responsibility: the books written by Savitsky are the novels “From Nowhere with Love” (1983) and “Theme without Variations” ...

Victoria in the factory and translated from Latin - "victory". And she is a victory. She wins with her. She wins. Victoria Viktorovna Viktorova is a burning brunette. The step is fast, as if running along the waves. Breathing is easy. The nose is straight, Roman-Greek. Lips are swollen. Sea eyes, blue. Victoria's leg is 106 cm long and measures 34. And the waist is 54 cm. The waist is just aspen. High tight standing chest is her 3rd number.

Country house. Sun splashes through the window. Through the dense foliage of lilacs, from where from time to time there is a short, but sonorous, similar to the voice of a flute song of a gray bird with a black cap on its head, the bird is called the black-headed bird. Just yesterday, the owners of the dacha, my relatives - the general, with his wife and two children, left for Moscow and will return late in the evening.

The father was on the table. This long table was dragged from the neighbors. But all the same, he was short for his father, his legs in new socks stuck out over the edge. Uncle Kolya, the writer, was now trying to put new slippers on his feet. With one hand. Slippers didn't fit. The legs seemed stubby and as if they weren't a father either.

 

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