Писатель Илья Розенфельд

Epigraph "Everyone waits for the white stripe to appear, but they forget the main road paradox : you cannot drive on the markings — they are too slippery. To move forward, we vitally need traction with the black asphalt ." The hum of the engine punched through his chest. It wasn't a sound — it was a vibration that made his teeth ache. Mark gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Around him was impenetrable darkness, and only the headlights snatched a patch of wet, rough, black asphalt from the night. The road was terrible. Potholes, cracks, sharp turns. The car shook, thrown from side to side. Every meter was a battle. "Slow down!" shouted the Passenger. Mark squinted sideways. A man in a white coat sat in the passenger seat. Strange, Mark didn't remember when he had gotten into the car. And why did the cabin smell so strongly of rubbing alcohol and ozone ? "I can't slow down!" Mark wheezed, wrenching the ste...

Arthur always knew that life is a book . This simple metaphor became not a consolation for him, but a guide to action. He was not merely a character, but the Author , and he treated his role with the utmost seriousness. Every day of his was a carefully calibrated page. He didn't just eat breakfast—he created the exposition for the new day. He didn't fall in love—he inscribed into the narrative a chapter about a great passion, avoiding cheap melodrama. His career was not a series of accidents, but a masterfully constructed rising action culminating in his own business. He despised plot holes —senseless quarrels, empty promises, wasted hours. His dialogues were honed, his actions motivated. He strove to write not just a good life, but a bestseller. A masterpiece that, after death, would take a worthy place on the shelves of the World Library . The thought of this library was his guiding star. He imagined endless shelves where every volume was someone's destiny. And he was ...

When his father died, it was a Friday. They hadn't seen each other in a long time. And Friday became a symbol of loss for him. For the first time in his life, he felt how time could deliver blows. Each new Friday seemed to reset his grief, a stark reminder that he hadn't had the chance to say goodbye to his father. Gradually, this feeling grew into hatred. Not towards people, not towards circumstances, but towards a day of the week. He decided: Friday must be annihilated. At first, it was minor things – destroying calendars, tearing out pages marked Friday. Then his methods became more radical. He sought out and destroyed books where Friday was mentioned, bought up and burned postcards and albums featuring Friday holidays. Radio programs and TV shows airing on Friday ignited his fury. He filed complaints, lobbied for laws, even enlisted lawyers to have Friday removed from the calendar. "Friday is a mistake!" he insisted, addressing officials. But it wasn't...

The terms were simple—and disturbingly clear. He signed the contract without asking too many questions, despite how strange the offer sounded. Seven days. Seven sums. He would start with $25,000 and double the amount each day until he reached $1.6 million. The money had to be spent the same day. Everything he bought would become his only if he spent the entire sum on the seventh day. If he failed—he’d lose it all. The terms were clear, almost biblical. Seven days to create a new life. On the first day, he bought a new smartphone, an expensive watch, a couple of designer suits, and paid for a premium gym membership for a year. The money flew fast, leaving behind a faint thrill. It was easier than he’d expected. He woke up thinking: “Well, yesterday was easy. Today—just a little more.” He went to a dealership and bought himself a sports car. Red, glossy, smelling of new leather and success. The rest went to new furniture for his apartment and dinner at the city’s most expe...

They lived long. Longer than the biblical patriarchs. Many of them didn't even remember when they were born. On their planet, Hastalavista, there existed day and night, but everything was reversed: first came light, then darkness. Time flowed backward. The year didn't end with winter, but rather began with it. The count of days in a month didn't start from the 1st, but from the 30th or 31st, and the days in a year - from the 365th to the 1st. The calendar began at the end, the beginning of which few remembered. It wasn't plants that grew from seeds, but seeds from plants and their fruits. And it wasn't hens that laid eggs, but rather they themselves hatched from eggs. Men gave birth to children, and women provided for their families. The inhabitants of Hastalavista were born into the world already adults, possessing all the necessary knowledge and skills. If an earthling were to land on this planet, all of this would seem strange to him. But to the inhabitants...