Introduction
“William” and “Potter” are two kitschy modern day labels from the UK which I dislike. The story “Willy Potter” is a winter tale and summer tale at the same time. Summer will be soon, in a month. The story is a parody of the christmas tales that were popular in America in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. I would really appreciate your critique.
*Willy Potter*
Who does not know the stories on the dreadful christmas snowstorms when the howl of a wind mixes with the whistle of the tempest, when gray heavy clouds as though want to lie down on the earth, when the rich dance and play at the parties and the paupers freeze at the doors of their wealthy neighbors, doing much undesirable troubles! The brightest fantasy of a christmas feuilleton flavoured with a good prepayment turns faded as compared to reality. William Potter! The little child Willy Potter, who froze and was snow-bound in the frosty christmas night! I would like to tell about him.

William Potter was a child (who have never been a child?); as a matter of fact, he was even more than a child, for he was 35 when he came to New York City in one of the horrible christmas nights, described above.
True, there was neither a frost nor a snowstorm in the night, because it was a middle of July. As a matter of fact, there was not night, because the train had come at 10 a.m.
So what?
He had come from his rancho for refreshment. Because there was a certain special freshness in a big town; a great deal of money could not help to find such freshness in countryside. Usually Potter went to Chicago for refreshment, he was a tyro in New York City, so with a virginal carelessness he placed reliance on the cabman.
The cab took him to the boarding-house in 13th Street. Potter thrust his suitcase to the hall porter and went running to look for a barber’s. For he was a dandy.
Now he came out of the barber’s and went home, whistling gaily and expecting nothing bad. But he did not get to the boarding-house!
In New York every kid knew that 13th Street consisted of boarding-houses that were alike so much that even a very experienced eye could mix them up. And an inexperienced one – so much the more. Potter had an inexperienced eye, and it brought him to the wrong rooms. The bellboy ascertained Potter’s error and took him out.
Potter looked round and went to the opposite house.
“What do you want?” asked him the hall porter.
“Mister Potter… Does he stay here?”
“How does he look like?”
“Well… The nice one… Nice, not very tall. Like me”.
“No. I didn’t see such a man”.
“Well, but he left his suitcase here…”
Potter hung his head. “I remember the house so good! The main entrance, the gates on left, and a boy’s standing at the gates”.
He tried to butt in one more house, but the hall porter said dryly:
“As you’ve been here two times already, so, I’ll call the policeman in no time, and they at the police station will make out quickly who and what that Potter is!”
There were men of strong nature who were not lost at crucial moments of their life or at minutes of any dreadful danger. Potter had not been lost either. He took a cab and went to Roosterman’s for lunch.
There were few people at the dining-hall of the restaurant. A fat gentleman was sitting at the next table, and peeping at Potter he repeated emotionally:
“D-devil!”
Taking notice of it and being a gentlemen Potter stood up and introduced himself.
“You blockhead!” shouted the fat gentleman. “I’m Johnson! Mike Johnson! I was at school with you!”
“Ah! And how long you are here?”
“About three yeas”.
“About three years at Roosterman’s?! Well, you are a tiger!”
“In New York, three years, in New York! Let’s have dinner together?”
“I can’t. Busy up to a neck, going to the police office to find out where I’m living”. Potter told about his mischief.
Johnson helped with an advice. Consoled, calmed:
“Don’t be hurry, brother. They’ve stolen all your things already anyway. Come to stay the night at my place! Manhattan, 1914, 666th West Street, apartment # 7. I’ll be late today, and you feel yourself comfortable. Tell the maid to get a bed ready in my study”.
At 3 in the morning, the highly refreshed Potter found the house # 1914 in 666th West Street.
“Master-r told-d to get a bed in the study…” he mattered to the bewildered maid.
He slept very well. Woke up about 12.
It was silence in the flat. In the ajar doorway a round face of a gray-moustached old man looked in. A home velvet jacket could be seen beneath the face.
“Ah! There you’ve awaken!” said the face and came in.
The guest approached and sat confusingly down on the edge of the bed. Potter felt like encouraging him.
“And you… Have you spent the night here too?”
“Yes, I have… too. For four months I… spend the night here”.
“Well, that’s really something! Doesn’t he drive you out, ha-ha-ha?”
“Who?”
“The owner of the flat”.
“Why? I pay… 65 dollars”.
“65?! He’s an old file! To take such a lot of money! He’ll be rich soon!”
“He has three houses as it is”, said the old man.
“Three houses! And told nothing about! Indeed I’ve noticed something in his expression, I declare, when he ate the kipper. Something of the sort was in his face… And yet he’s a blockhead. Mike Johnson’s a blockhead, isn’t he?”
The old man was as though offended:
“Well, I can’t judge on that, you know”.
Knowing nature of humans Potter thought: “He fawns. Such a wheedler, sycophant and sponger”. And he said aloud:
“Has he woken up?”
“Who?”
“The owner of the flat”.
“Why should I know of that?”
“You are a crank! You live in the same house and know of him nothing”.
“Why in the same house? He lives in 9th Avenue”.
“Mike Johnson?!”
The old man nearly wept:
“Not Mike! Oh, God! My landlord lives in 9th Avenue. Mister Morgan. Good Heaven! Suffering because of my exceptional delicacy!”
Potter smiled ironically and started dressing.
“Because of exceptional delicacy? You?!”
“Yes, me! Other one would drive you out!” The old man rolled his eyes. “A man gets into my flat and sleeps! And sleeps!”
“I say! Johnson himself invited me…”
The old man topped on Potter’s shoulder and pointed up with the same hand.
“There’s Johnson! There! Got that?”
“Died?” guessed Potter and drew up not to yield to fain-heartedness.
“He’s up!” cried out the old man. “He lives upstairs. In the second floor. And I am Finch, retired. Finch! Dear me! Dear me!”

It’s fearful in christmas night, when death, embracing the snowstorm, dances and howls entwining like a snow-bonfire… At the christmas night let’s remember of the homeless ones.

The End
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*The Lamp*
(eastern tale)
The desert. People gathered to dig a well in the sands. As soon as they thrust their spades, something metal rang. One man thrust his hands into the yellow sand, rummaged a little, and then he took out a beautiful lamp.
“A genie lives in the lamp! He can fulfill three wishes!” everyone cried out, and they set to take the lamp away from the man. But the man was quick; he took his find away from somebody else’s hands and took to his heels.
The crowd of the people and the man ran all over the desert for a long time but, eventually, the chasers perspired in the scorching sun, got tired and stopped chasing. The man hid over a high barkhan, and fell to thinking: “What would I ask the genie to do for me? Well, to begin with, let him make me beautiful like a Turkish prince, then – rich like an Arabian sheikh, and finally, married a most beautiful girl in the world”. He set to rub the lamp and call the genie.
He was rubbing for 5 minutes – nothing had happened; 10 minutes – without any result; he was rubbing for an hour – the genie did not get out of the lamp, but an odd inscription appeared on the side of the lamp. Now the man guessed to apply to a wise old man. He came to the wise old man, showed the lamp and asked to read the inscription. The old man tried to read the inscription for some time, and then he said that the words could not be translated but they could be read as they were.
“What’s that?” asked the man, when the weird words were pronounced.
“I don’t know”, said the old man. “It may be the name of the genie with the help of which one can invoke the genie”.
“Well now. I’ll do it”.
Since then the man walks with the lamp in hands, rubs its sides and reiterates:
“Ikea. Made in Sweden! Ikea. Made in Sweden! Ikea. Made in Sweden!”

The End
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Part 1 and Part 2 of my novel La Lune Blanche have been recently published at Turner Maxwell Books. Be sure to get your copy here:
http://www.turnermaxwellbooks.com/LLB.htm
http://www.turnermaxwellbooks.com/LLB2.htm
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*My Week*
On Monday I woke to go to work on Tuesday, but on Wednesday I learnt that it would rain on Thursday, so on Friday I thought: Why should I go to work on Saturday if Sunday is a day-off?

*One Day…*
One day, a satanist came to himself. But… nobody was there. “Sorry,” said the satanist, “I’ll come next time”. With that, he departed.
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*The Spiritualist*
(Sci-Fi)
Everything is in confusion in the Sumarokovs house--in other words, all in the patrimony of Count Sumarokov is in agitation. Yes, rather--for according to rumors, the most famous prophet and spiritualist Omenov is expected here. On the occasion, many noble and respectable families have gathered at the Count’s estate today. Awaiting for the dear guest, everyone whiles away the time in different ways, but the main ways are two: talks and champagne.
“It is said, Omenov foretold Napoleonic War, but nobody wanted to heed to him those days”.
“Yes, yes, and rumors are about, Omenov warned our father Tsar about the imminent attempt upon the august life”.
“Let it be known, gentlemen, about the crop-failure and the famine riot in Mogilev province Omenov knew beforehand too”.
“Stop it! ‘It is said’ and ‘rumors are about’! In my own person I was present at the spiritual séance of Omenov with… with Jenghiz Khan!”
“Have you seen Omenov himself?!”
“Well… in fact, I didn’t see him, for anybody cannot see him. But I heard him. At the séance. True, it was dark in the drawing-room”.
“So we won’t able to see him? But Count Sumarokov called us, promising Omenov himself will be present…”
Suddenly a stir and motion run through the awaiting people. Someone cries out: “Here they are!” and the territory of the estate a cortege enters. The cortege consists of…--attention, please!--…a carriage drawn by six big motor bikes. This wonder rushes through the territory, frightening or throwing aside the agape idlers, and begins to turn in order not to enter the mansion itself. But the turn proves to be so rapid that the carriage overturns along with the bikers and passengers. General shouts; ladies faint en mass; noise; uproar. The drunken bikers curse using foul language. Someone has fallen in the pond. Count and Countess Sumarokov run around the guests, scream and gesticulate, increasing the panic--in short, horror.
Now, in the middle of this alarm, a door of the overturned carriage opens, and Omenov himself gets out, and jumps down on the grass. “Gentlemen…” Omenov tries to out-voice the much cry, but nobody listens to him. “Comrades… Brothers and sisters… Citizens…” he tries to attract attention to himself but in vain. “Hello, f**k, here I am!” But it was quite useless. The mass hysteria goes on. Then he says to himself: “What idiots. Mere goats. I’ve come to tell them about how our band, my friends and I, having tried too hard with the ‘trash’ of coke and mescaline one night, flew so far that found ourselves in their lousy 19th century instead of our 21st. But it looks like I have to put off my story. Nevertheless, the party proves to be cool. Luckily, at school I was good at history”.
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