About the Author

Mladen was born in Sarajevo, where he finished elementary

school. At the beginning of the Bosnian war he moves to
Belgrade Serbia where he graduated from the high school. Later
he moved back to his home town where he still lives and writes.

To my little nephew Milan, from his uncle

Mladen Tomic

STRANGE AND USUAL

THINGS

Copyright Mladen Tomic (2015)

The right of Mladen Tomic to be identified as author of this work
has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the
publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims
for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British
Library.

ISBN 978 1 78455 804 8

www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2015)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ

Printed and bound in Great Britain

Contents

Search Attempts

11

A Lonely Island

17

Another Unusual Story

22

The Treasure and The Begging

27

Parallel Hours

32

Photosynthesis

37

The Drive

42

The Visit

47

There Are Two Ends to a Stick

51

Work

58

Search Attempts

He was walking through the dried swamp looking for

a job and a place to stay. He was wandering from one
place to another. He couldnt find his peace anywhere.
He kept looking for new adventures. On the edge of
the swamp, which was dried up a year and a half ago
exactly, there was a house made from handmade
bricks whose colour was a cross between brown and
orange. The house with small windows and a straw
roof, which looked like a hat on a head of a living
creature, was a bit funny sight. Famished and tired, he
could barely stand on his feet. He came to the
pinewood door which had that old honey patina. He
found the similarity between his own prematurely bald
head with a straw hat and the house roof amusing. He
was extremely thin, tall and always with a pipe in his
mouth, even when he was sleeping. Also, he was illtempered, just and a choleric. He would quickly lash
out over nothing, but he would also end a brawl like
nothing happened. Even though the house looked

abandoned, he knocked anyway. It turned out he was

wrong. Someone did live in the house, and not just
someone, but entire family. He knocked, and the door
was opened for him.
The host was standing at the door, comfortably
plump, in his fifties, dressed just like him, minus the
hat. He was wearing a linen shirt, old corduroy pants
and a house robe, all in shades of brown. Although
some twenty years older, he wasnt bald, but he did
have huge sideburns. Short and stocky he was a goodnatured man, with neatly cut hair falling in bangs on
his prominent forehead. He managed to say his name
and then he lost consciousness. Petar, he said and
fell headfirst on the wooden floor right in front of the
host. His last name was Ilic, just like the composers.
Despite not being connected to Russia even remotely,
his mother gave him that name with high expectations
that he might become famous and appreciated. He was
Jack of all trades ever since he ran away from home at
the age of sixteen, with a colourful linen bag in his
hands and a piece of barley bread in it. This
adventurist walked through life baldly, with two clear
aims in front of him: he will either become a great
man or go back to being a joke. Still, he knew he
wanted to accomplish something great, although he
wasnt quite sure what it was. The host, finding
himself in an awkward situation, lifted the uninvited
guest with great difficulty and brought him inside the
house. When he regained consciousness, he offered
him some food and rum to refresh. Then, he found out
that he was in the house of a Mr. Ranko, which was
his family name. Baring in mind that the gentleman
just saved his life, in his mind he became something