On the Wings of Hope : Prose

That’s the problem, the greatest problem of mankind history – that the man is too suggestible, too controllable, for he is too weak to be his own master. The problem is that there are always those who can readily take advantage of it and use it for their own sake. And it will always be so – just until you become the masters of your own life.

Remember it – remember that well. Your future depends on it.

* * *

Spacious apartments. A heavy oak table near a wall sideways from a window … the working ancient wall clocks which are beating out their mysterious rhythm … an icon of the Savior in a gilt frame on one of the walls … and more, and more, and more …

Bom … bom … bom … - clocks beat slowly and methodically. And once again – bom … bom … bom …

-    Mister President, we suspect that you should familiarize yourself with these materials. It’s important for the stability of our power.

-    Show it then.

A soft flash – and the video display starts working. Lines and words, words and discussions, discussions and thoughts. After only fifteen minutes the demonstration of “materials” comes to an end. Ten seconds of silence …

-    What sort of clown is that ? Yet one more fighter for freedom and all. I’m stuffed up with that nonsense. Remove him.

Five seconds of silence …

-    Are you sure, mister President ?

-    Just remove him. And … well … take care of his family, of course. Do not refuse them in indemnification for his “accidental” death. And don’t let ones like him into our channels – or you can forget about your jobs. That is my last word. Is everything clear ? Nice. So  - what’s the next thing on our today’s agenda ?

Heavy oak table near a wall sideways from a window … an icon of Savior in a gilt frame … ancient wall clocks, beating out some mysterious rhythm …

Bom … bom … bom …

And once again – bom … bom … bom…

21.10.2010

Lesson of war

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 gnash of tanks.

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 change 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 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.