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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 16 | volume III | August-September, 2000



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 16August-September, 2000
Prose

Killing a Wild Rabbit

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p. 1
Trajče Krsteski

    The day began badly for them.
    And right from the start, before daybreak, that morning went badly for the rabbit.
    First they had a flat tyre, and the rabbit, woken by the hunting dogs, was shot in its left thigh. But let's take things in order.
    Before daybreak, the three men, Beard, Moustache and Car-Owner, went out for mushrooms. As always in such cases, they first debated which direction to take, but in the end they agreed on the Krusevo mountains. Once they'd left the town, they picked up a villager who flagged them down doubtfully from the edge of the road. In answer to their questions, he told them that near his village, the village of R., right on the hill, which vas not very big, there were lots of mushrooms to be found. First they suspected him of tricking them into taking him to the village, but the villager had a good-natured face and spoke calmly, smoking a cigarette of strong tobacco, which he rolled himself and which stung their eyes instantly. Maybe because of that, and because of their earlier hesitation, they listened to him, and at the first crossroads, when the milky white light announced the morning, they changed the direction they had in mind. They pulled up in the middle of the village of R., in front of the grocer's, the villager got out, first offering to pay for the ride, and they smiled generously as they refused the proffered money, and at the same time he gave them the necessary instructions about where exactly to look for the mushrooms. He told them,
    “There, you see this road?”
    They told him they did. They stared at the pot-holed asphalt lane. The engine of the halted vehicle hummed monotonously, and fresh morning air came in through the open door, where the villager was half in, half out.
    “Yes, that's it,” said the villager. “The asphalt ends beyond the village and it becomes tarmac. You go a good two kilometers along the tarmac, and all that time you'll see the telegraph poles along the road.”
    “We didn't come to look at poles,” said Beard. “Well, you're right,” said the peasant. “When the poles leave the load and turn left, through the field, you turn right beside a meadow, along a lane that's a bit worse, but for this marvel” (he slapped the body of the car) “it's nothing. You'll come across a fence on






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