Страна : Россия
Женя Ферченко родилась в маленьком посёлке на Украине в семье учителей. В возрасте 9-ти лет она уехала на лето в Неаполь по программе «дети Чернобыля» в Итальянскую семью.
По её возвращению Советский Союз развалился и вместо пиццы на пляже ей пришлось стоять на морозе в огромной очереди за продуктами по талонам. Тогда она и решила эмигрировать как только представится возможность.
Уехать получилось через 8 лет по обмену студентами с немецким ВУЗом. Там Женя закончила магистратуру по финансовому праву, после чего поехала доучиваться в аспирантуру в Барселоне. Но диссертации на тему “Финансовые аспекты международного терроризма” так и не суждено было быть написанной, так как девушка получила предложение из Лондона, где и проработала более 10-ти лет. Женя всегда много писала, только до недавнего времени это были очень скучные тексты.
Сейчас Женя проживает в Москве со своим голландским мужем и маленьким сынишкой, где записала и выпустила одноименный музыкальный сингл Snow Job https://bit.ly/2lR5UrR
Country : Russia
Ferchenko was born in Ukraine to a family of schoolteachers. At the age of nine she went to spend a summer in Italy with a local family as a part of the “Kids of Chernobyl” program.
After she got back in November 1990 the country she left Soviet Union did not exist any more. So one day she had pizza on the beach and next day she was queuing up in a freezing cold to get some groceries from a track. The contrast was to big she decided there and then to leave the country as soon as she could. The opportunity arose eight years later for her to jump on the exchange program with a German university. Ferchenko majored in international financial law and earned her master’s degree in 2003. Soon after she moved to Barcelona to work on her Ph.D thesis on financial aspects of international terrorism but gave it up to join Barclays in London. She spent over 10 years writing reports, updates and research pieces until she could unleash her creativity and start writing for pleasure.
Today Jenni lives in Moscow, Russia with her Dutch husband and a baby-boy. She has also written and recorded an original Snow Job song to accompany the release of her novel book (available across the media platforms) https://bit.ly/2lR5UrR
Отрывок из прозы “Snow Job: The Great Game”
There is nothing which you might not hear. Why I should wish to
tell you, and only you, this experience of mine, I really cannot say;
perhaps it really is because I love you very much. This unhappy
woman is persuaded that she is the most hopeless, fallen creature
in the world. Oh, do not condemn her! Do not cast stones at her!
She has suffered too much already in the consciousness of her own
undeserved shame. And she is not guilty—oh God! Every moment she
bemoans and bewails herself, and cries out that she does not admit
any guilt, that she is the victim of circumstances—the victim of a
wicked libertine. But whatever she may say, remember that she does
not believe it herself—remember that she will believe nothing but that
she is a guilty creature …
The chilly air bites my cheeks and hands. I feebly lean
on the porch and my iPhone accidentally drops out of my
hands and onto a stone tile. Splat!
They are going to kill him. He is going to kill him …
and then he’ll kill me …
My soul bleeds and the blood steadily, silently, disturbingly,
slowly swallows me whole.
The tall, ethereal birch stands out in the otherwise
withered, colorless vineyard. A light wind plays with the
fringe of its outstretched tassels and tiny snowflakes flash
and burn in the golden fire of the low, dazzling sun,
heralding the start of the winter.
They cover the cold, dirty land in a silver mantle,
purifying all the sins of summer and autumn … the
managed chaos we are thrown into – a great source of power
for people like Akbar … those who, without a blink of an
eye, would do anything, even commit the most ruthless act
of violence, just to protect their business interests.
Do you know why I left him? To prove what is not true—that
he is base. Perhaps you cannot understand all this. Try to realize
that in the perpetual admission of guilt he probably finds some
dreadful unnatural satisfaction—as though he were revenging
himself upon someone. Now and then I was able to persuade him
almost to see light around him again; but he would soon fall, once
more, into his old tormenting delusions.
Now it is all a fresh canvas … the whiteout … protecting
the new growth already under way, making space for a
Indulgently, I rejoice at the sun. A new day has begun.
I am breathing its freshness. There is nowhere to run.
Everything I need is right here … in my heart … in my
bleeding heart … Even if it stops beating, no one can ever
take away the feeling … of my head in your hands.
One always wants the beauty of living … but something
always gets in the way. Nothing prevents the beauty of
death though … but only a few use this opportunity.
If I should die today, I shall taste that beauty.
Everything slows down in the drowsy quietness. I smile
at the daybreak lazily starting, at the snow on the twigs, at
the happiness of my soul only he could read … even before
I could do it myself.
If I cannot save him, I can at least tell the story …
The dark walls of the executive shower cabin loom over me
like the walls of a coffin, dragging me into its blackness. The
snow from last night is still singing in my veins as I feebly wipe
myself of the sweat with wet paper towels and zip the pencil
skirt behind me.
Why did he say I could skip the morning meeting today?
Throughout these last two years he would never let me do
anything like that. ‘No matter how drunk, stoned, sick or
tired you are, at six thirty you must be in the boardroom
and take notes on the overnight updates.’
But what about that kiss? It was so … caring … like he
meant it … like he’d never kissed me before … maybe he’s
finally realized he does love me? My managing director …
the jackpot! It’s a dream come true.
The veins above my eyes pulsate harder and harder, the
sweat is coming out of my pores all over my body, and I
cannot control it anymore. I vomit into the sink, trying not
to get my hair or silk blouse dirty.
I promptly run the tap to wash off the green and yellow
gunk and clean and dry everything. The dizziness is killing
me … but I can’t let myself succumb to it. Strong black tea
with sugar would make me feel better and disguise that
sour alkaline taste in my mouth … like the tea my mom
used to make for me …
Damn, it’s late. People will be returning to their desks
from the morning meeting any time now. If I arrive later
than them, they will treat me to the walk of shame applause.
I have to rush.
A new wave from my stomach suddenly comes up and I
throw up again and again … white bubbles this time. I barely
have enough strength to turn on the tap before crashing on
the wooden bench … like the one in my mom’s yard back
home … the blossoming rose and dahlia … the sweet, winey
smell of the boughs and grapevines. My mom strokes my
long hair, reading Crime and Punishment out loud: “ … You are
sometimes extraordinarily, passionately in love with suffering …”
No. I don’t want your tea. I hate it, especially with sugar!
I have a prestigious job. I am an investment banker. The
scoundrel. The firm believes in me. I can’t jeopardize its
integrity. I have to go to the morning meeting …
I quickly get up and put my frizzy blonde hair into a sexy
ponytail and hurriedly wash my hands, just like Alex did a
few moments ago, and carefully close the big mahogany
door so it does not slam.
Only a few steps away there is a bright Victorian-style
hall with a shiny elevator, which daily reflects ‘the hottest
ass on the trading floor’ right back at me from all sides. It
takes me down to the giant open space.
The familiar smell of money is everywhere.
I put on my tried-and-tested professional smile and
pass by the senior management’s glass offices, where the
smell is the most intense, but all the offices are empty this