Прохор Озорнин - On the Wings of Hope - Prose

Much like this very gas is being used now, leaving a circle of death through many miles around. And this was just one of the tools of murder along with a set of others, beginning from bullets, filled with explosive materials and finishing with “stakkers” – bombs with weight of up to several hundred tons, that were actively used for suppression of “areas of active enemy resistance”, leaving only a burning territory with no signs of life after droppings…

Total madness. The madness of war. The madness of those started the war. A witness of what other horrors will he become for the duration of the war? And is there is the slimmest chance for it to stop? When will it come to an end – when all life and lifeless forces of enemy… enemies are destroyed? When all remnants of life, which are still remaining, will finally be totally deformed? When?

But this must come to an end at last! Madness should be ended.

A shell, scratched the armoring of his suite – series of rifle's bullets, which have left hems on his “survival suit”. A soldier of the enemy, who jumped from around a corner all of a sudden. A soldier of the enemy… another madness. No, they are not enemies, they shouldn't be as such! Why enemies, why foes, why are they compelled to kill each other?

Why now he must sharply move towards the incoming shots with a perfected grace… prepare his gun for a strike… wait for this damned and dreadful mechanics to make an approval signal… smoothly press a trigger cock… observe, how a face on his enemy changes from a wild grin to a human shape for an instant, and how he heavily falls to the ground, without even a last single sound. He used to be a man once… now, in this war – whether he has been him still? And whether is he still a man? Robots, brought and trained for murders, are men in this war have become exactly them?

Drops of water transferred to him by that iron-plastic armor, which he was compelled to dress – he'll definitely need those few drops. A long run awaits him – a run for tens and thousands of kilometers, a run away from his native city, which has been raised by enemies, a city in which he was born and has been living… till the recent events.

A run through the fields of grief. A very long one…

***

A drop of sweat showed on a face. Sharp and faltering breath.

He woke up, yet horrific images were still trying to pursue him. Terrible pictures of war – pictures of terrible war. Dreadful pictures, for any war, brings with itself fear and pain, grief and regret.

He began to gradually come to his senses. Sighted deeply and exhaled. Sighted once more and exhaled again – breath was normalizing. He was coming to senses, yet the memory of horrors didn't desire to leave. Maybe he should remember – remember the consequences of war, realize them? As each and every man has to realize them – so that wars can be no more? So that a peace with a capital letter can reign in a world – a world of kind and open human hearts, full of wisdom and understanding, filled with love and beauty? Yes, war has no right to exist – as well as death and destruction, the bitterness of losses and hatred to artificially made enemies, brought by it.

Let there be peace – a peace throughout the entire world, no matter how banal it does sound. Even if it sounds banal – it's still a worthy direction and aspiration, and a work of each man over himself will give birth to essential steps – essential steps in this way. A way of peace.

29.12.2004

In one small fishing village, there lived one unusual fisherman.

Nobody even knew his real name, yet strange rumors about him were shared among the locals. Some of them said that a great wise man from the East was hiding behind this mask of the ordinary angler. Others claimed that even a single sailing trip into the sea together with him has forever changed their life. Finally, there were those who just called him as the old codger who has gone haywire, and all other rumors – as fictions of ignoramuses.

Once upon a time the traveler, who was passing through this region, became interested in stories about this fisherman and decided to see him eye to eye. The angler was absolutely ordinary by sight, having become fully permeated with the smell due to constant fishing.

“I overheard some people who consider you as a teacher of wisdom, and some – as a charlatan,” the traveler told to the fisherman.

“Life can teach everyone, but not everyone is ready to become one of its disciples,” answered the fisherman.

“Then what can you teach me?”

“If you wish to learn how to catch fish, then tomorrow by sunrise I will be going into the sea.”

Next morning both the fisherman and the traveler sailed together into a sea in a boat, alternately replacing each other behind oars.

“One who wakes before sunrise – enters fishing paradise,” the fisherman suddenly broke the long-lasting silence.

“He who wakes at six o’clock – is a sleepy, foolish dork!” bitterly grinned the traveler.

“Sometimes what you look for can be very far from you. And sometimes so very near,” continued the fisherman. “Stop right here.”

“There shouldn't be any fish here,” the traveler answered him perplexedly. “We didn’t sail far away from the coast.”

“Having not sailed away from an old coast, you cannot see a new one,” meanwhile continued the interlocutor, having ignored this remark and preparing his fishing nets.

“I have already heard all of this before!” sarcastically answered the traveler. “But it’s definitely a bad idea to try fishing at this spot!”

“Not everything that glitters is gold. Not everything that floats is fish,” indifferently continued the fisherman, exempting fishing nets from the plastic garbage that was caught inside it.

“Oh, well,” the traveler noticed sadly. “This is truly banal.”

“You can’t pull a fish out of a pong without labor,” continuing to completely ignore any remarks coming from the traveler, the fisherman uttered his yet next wisdom, dropping cleaned from garbage fishing nets into the waters.

“Wow, you have just opened me the truth of where crayfish are dwelling!” venomously noticed the traveler. “It seems to me that you are indeed that type of odd fellow as others described you.”

“If you feed a man with fish, he will be sated for one day. But if you teach him how to catch fish…”

“That’s enough!” cried the traveler. “I am tired of this nonsense! These are absolute and well-known banalities, whether no one ever told this to you?!”

“Never-ever you say ‘never’,” came a reply. “What day is it today? Is it Wednesday, can you say?” decided to inquiry the fisherman.

“It’s Friday!” replied the angry traveler, spitting out into waters.

“Good for food,” the fisherman hemmed with satisfaction and took out the third oar somewhere from the bottom of a boat.

“Perhaps we had a better sail away from here, aye?” the traveler frowningly looked at the fisherman. “I have already heard plenty of your idiotic banalities and got fed up with them!”

“If you feed a man with fish…”

“You have just said exactly that, you old fool!” the traveler became enraged. “What, do you have memory problems?! Who in the hell suggested me to agree to this trip in particular and even to meet with you in general…”

“…The man won’t even think of thanking you for that. He won’t like either the appearance of the fish, or its color, or its smack, or the way its scales glint in the sun. Instead of gratitude he will scorn you and talk scandal into your account even though you thought of nothing else but saving him from a hunger. And if you feed fish with a man…”