Прохор Озорнин - On the Wings of Hope - Prose

26.01.2013

“Hi, There!” joyfully cried Here, embracing his brother. “Where have you been hiding for so long recently? All of us missed you greatly!”

“I was… there,” evasively answered There. “Had many business deals during the past times so there was no time for idle chatter and useless meetings. I am a very busy businessperson right now, as you can clearly see.”

“You have been like that from the very cradle, brother!” smiled Here and patted brother's shoulder. “Tell me, did people once again give you no time for meditation to such a degree that you had no other choice but to go into hiding?”

“Oh, that's not the word,” grieved There. “Almost tore me apart! There is neither rest nor release from them for who knows how many thousands of years. I have almost become some sort of human “star”, can you imagine? Almost each of them strives to find me, as though I have gathered in my lair a horde of treasures for him personally and is willing to gladly and joyfully share it with each and every speaking, and asking, and demanding, and threatening newcomer. I may be willing to share something good and kind with some of them who are worthy – but not with some sort of hordes!”

“That's all because they have no idea of what they are doing… or where they are searching!” Here burst out laughing freely.

“A very precise note!” confirmed There. “Probably for that very reason you, my brother, became such a lonely and I am such a popular one. Almost no one wishes to stay and search Here and almost everyone dreams of making it There. As if I, a single There, would suffice for them all!”

“It's good where they don't walk. For where they do – something goes wrong as always.”

“And how do you think, Here, why is that always the case with humans?”

“No idea here, There. Possibly because they ceased to feel with their souls and learned to feel only with a body instead?”

“And how many of them still imagine that you, Here, is not-so-perfect, not-that-right, and There on the horizon, in some unreachable cloudless distances, which they look for where they are not present, everything is simply awesome! And it can happen, Here, that somewhere in one of my multiple There's the horse didn't even start rolling, not to mention of riding! And they certainly can't help riding in their glorious quest of finding some irresistible There.”

“My wondrous brother, my kind There, I won't give you them anywhere!” smiled Here. “You will be of much help here… to all of us. For, you know… maybe something, which they have been searching diligently for so long there – it's is already here, right before their itching noses.”

“I really hope that they will once learn to respect and love you, Here,” replied There. “For even the finest of There's appear here once in a while!”

03.03.2016

A roar of ranks of iron-armored monsters. A whistle, scratch and gnash, tearing air apart. Agonal screams of people – men-derelicts. Ones, who made themselves as such with own hands. Explosions, roaring in a far distance. Bearing death iron, cutting air apart. A crunch of human flesh under wheels of tanks, who are plowing this field of death and regret. Rage and hatred. Agony and horror. Pain and destruction…

This war has finally been waged – despite all efforts of the Congress of Post-Nuclear Security. Despite appeals to both heart and reason, despite possible obvious consequences of war, maybe even more destructive than the Last War of Grief itself. What a strange voice did those politicians hear when they have finally made a decision to begin military operations? A voice of thirst of money and power? A voice of their lowest nature, which has not been overcome still?

Silence… And once again – an air, being sliced with a gnashing of tanks.

The whistle of a shell. A cloud of gray-green gas, which filled out a place of its falling and quickly began spreading around. Five hundred meters. Too close. The plague is spreading, thankfully, not too fast, so he still has a chance to get out of here. If only by running. Yes, running.

A lethal weapon, which was put on his back. Mobilized possibilities of a Tessa-suit, granting him the ability not to lose any superfluous drop of invaluable water and protecting from radiation waves in this field of sand and metal. Optical, infra-red and lots of other sensors, with which his current “survival suit” has been literally larded, have been turned on and are functioning – working to warn of the danger, created by the very same people.

A fast-fast running. A growing gray-green cloud behind the back…Poison. A dreadful plague, invented by scientific minds – ones, who have received loads of money while working on this project. Just several seconds of this gas's inhalation – and man's genotype will be transformed beyond recognition. Actually, since the time one, who had true misfortune to be there, where this ordinary-looking pig with bones and a skull, engraved on it like flags of ancient pirates, has fallen, ceased to be a man any more. A live rotting, gradually leaving only a strong calcium skeleton, awakened instincts of the beast, forcing a victim to transform to not even just an animal, but much worse – into a monster, feasting on corpses… finishing off wounded men for the sake of own livelihood…

Terrible fate. It's so much better to die from a bullet of some soldier than to become a victim of this weapon – a weapon, invented by humans themselves.

An even better option is, well, not to die at present – no, not to continue this madness. Not to keep killing and to be, certainly, sometimes be killed, but to work and live a peaceful life instead… to even be that very plowman, or a teacher, a writer, a musician, or… damn dreams! Is he allowed now to practice all these human gifts and possibilities? Or can his enemy do the very same? What else can they do except for to throw up on a shoulder this UPEPD – universal plasma-generator of expanded capabilities of destruction, able to burn to death crowds of enemies even in newest metta-survival suits – and time and again to go to fight.

Hopeless fight. Cruel battle. Terrible war of destruction and murder for nothing. A battle where no winners ever exist, only those who have lost – who have already lost, when the possibility of this fight became true. This ruthless war…

This war will probably become even more terrible than that well-known War of Grief, memory of which still remained only on shabby pages of old books and has been living in human hearts – a war, which has taken away ninety nine percent of planet's population and turned a planet into a deserted landscape, only instead of sand – a burned products of nuclear synthesis. A war, after which few survivals needed three more thousand years to alter the planet and make it habitable once again so that they can start living and stop surviving at last. And to be precise and state the truth, when mankind's history has been erased and started to be written from a new page, one, that even after three more thousands years couldn't be deleted and forgotten, having left a mournful and painful hem in a memory… a page, on which several large, stamping and ruthless letters were imprinted – “Atomic war”.

Atomic warfare… a weapon of their ancestors, which have destroyed life on a planet… a mad invention of human scientists. A horror, released into their world.

A nuclear bomb. He spoke this word and tried to feel its taste – dead cold inhuman one… a terrible word. A word that frightened him in own childhood when parents had said so, one that made him shiver, being founded in ancient manuscripts of former men, still preserved by some sort of miracle after past events. How is that ever possible, that is has been created? Why? What for? What's the reason? And to be used as well…