On the Wings of Hope : Prose

I am keeping fighting with my brothers, keeping struggling against them … and have no the slightest idea of how to stop it all … cannot stop it … not anymore.

Sometimes they made it. Sometimes they broke – miraculously -  through all information covering – and broadcasted on the broadest possible range of frequencies – mainly speech and sometimes even video … for ten minutes only. Then they were blocked once again … however no one has ever found the true source of signals – not in his life.

Sometimes it was invocatory speech to see that already deformed nature of the majority of people, sometimes it was the statistics of human deaths during previous years – numbers and lines of texts, unfamiliar for those profane. Sometimes it was video records from places of military operations and speeches of how people have been drugged into this war by their government – for the sake of interests of the government itself and that cursed “hierarchical minority”. Sometimes it were such verses which he has found yesterday – by the divine will alone still being kept in the Net.

Sometimes … three-four times a year – no more and no less. And for all the rest time there were those Mass Media Interactive corporations.

There will be a holiday of sexual minorities tomorrow … in ten days after it – a holiday of military … there we will once again see heart-touching frames of how our brave soldiers defeat treacherous enemy and how he, this enemy, continue to retreat under their unstoppable pressure – has been retreating for five years already …

Then there will be a holiday of the man, and a holiday of the woman … the new woman and the new man. Then the day of overall scorn to those in the Underground – sort of official “phew” of the powerless government to the members of Underground Resistance Force. Then there will be a day of prostitutes – not that much different in its nature from the day of the woman … there will be so much.

So many holidays … so little joy. So much pleasure. And once again all in a circle the next year. But for now this was completely unimportant. It was time to go back, he had at most about five minutes before the entry into a zone of the patrolled quadrant. The patrol has been completed … his home awaits.

He has turned his flycar, turned on autopilot mode. Now it will travel to LSSP base by itself, automatically regulating its height and evading counter streams of similar happy owners of this transport, and will land on one of free platforms on the base. Nothing more is required. The technics will do everything for you … almost everything.

Then he will make his report on the performed patrol – everything is normal, no suspicious activities have been revealed, no incidents have occurred. Everyone is happy and content … everything is just fine. A paradise on the earth in the borders of his patrolled quadrant … hellish paradise.

He has leant back on a seat and closed his eyes. He had to rest for a while. A difficult day awaits him tomorrow.

03.10.2010

Wrath of war

A whistle of a flying shell. Air, dissected by an iron pig. Explosion. Explosion – just behind the next hill.

Missed. Missed again.

Alive. I am alive ! Still alive.

Have missed the mark, slightly – but have missed. Lucky enough ?

And how many times again must he be lucky enough during all these days, to remain alive ? How many ?

However, it could be worse – much worse. Worse than when his lung was shot and he has been gasping since then, sucking air into lungs with some sobs, and releasing it outside – still hot, warmed by his organism air … air of war and destructions. Even worse than when explosion of a grenade has deprived him of his three hand’s fingers … instead of them – bloody-stained lumps.

A nevertheless he is still alive, living in this mad war. Alive among hundreds and hundreds of other mad ones.

Will he last for long ?

A machine gun fired nearby. Into entrenchments ! – where the killing iron will not reach him. To the ground – the ground of native land … the country, which was hardly resisting enemy’s onslaught. The enemy … How, when these people, just the same as he is, when have they become his enemies ? Why enemies ? What a monstrous absurd and error must have occurred that they suddenly became enemies ? Another madness ?

Anyway, they are enemies now. Worse than that – the hungry beasts, feasting on corpses of killed and wounded, rejoicing with each death of hated enemy … next cut thread of human’s life … human … No, they are not like humans now … not anymore. Each of them – is not a human anymore. They were like them, in their former lives – but not anymore. No.

Since this madness of war has begun.