On the Wings of Hope : Prose

Fyodor  :- The altitude does differ, though. Away from fire shadows flow.

V.V.P. :- Without fire life is dark.

Fyodor :- So let’s give watcher at least spark. A river of times is flowing in spring for them to awaken in eye’s blink.

V.V.P. :- Awakened warriors we’ve got! What’s their numbers?

Fyodor :- Quite a lot?

V.V.P. :- I guess there could be more of them?

Fyodor :- Someone preferred to go in lam.

V.V.P. :- We’ll fight alongside ones, who’ve come.

Fyodor :- And make the viewer silent-stunned.

V.V.P. :- Let’s go, oh camera, go live! Ivan is going on the strife!

Fyodor :- Ivan in going in the sky just like a fighter on the fly …

V.V.P. :- He's fighting now with prejudice!

Fyodor :- But have no feathers, just us, guys.

V.V.P. :- And add the wings to absence list - but still he’s sky apologist.

Fyodor :- He’ll gain those in Thin World rather and bath himself then in the ether?

V.V.P. :- It’s hard to be like Angel, guy, your soul must be on the fly.

Fyodor :- True wings are granted by the God?

V.V.P. :- Ivan, show us the funny plot!

Camera together with Ivan (or maybe Ivan together with a camera?) rush away from film-making studio, winding on corridors for a long time, evading on its way from scurrying here and there employees, who are at the sight of camera (or maybe Ivan instead?) quite unambiguously smile and concede roads; then, finally, flies by at the opening door on a fresh air. It’s clearly visible how a camera then turns by a semicircle, speeds up and starts winding through capital’s streets, having risen by level of the third or fourth floor of houses in order to evade side effects of possible collisions with even less ambiguously smiling lower-walking passers-by. After about three minutes before televiewers a scene of recently build up shopping center opens up, and camera, having accurately entered in formed at opening of entrance doors armholes, finally freezes as though in indecision state.

A picture of truly epic scale reveals before the audience : entire hall, as far as the look suffices, is full of people making a din and scurrying-about here and there, on backs of which pairs of wings of white, black, pink, green, orange, gray, gray-brown-crimson-in-a-speck colors are fixed. Lots of girls do coquettishly try on themselves the next pair of wings, gracefully flaunting in front of mirrors; as if in revenge some young men try to pinch them from time to time for these very most newly acquired wings; here and there exclamations of type “And do these white ones fit me well?”, “And those pinkish I’ll present to my girlfriend!”, “In them you look more like a devil!”,”I welcome thee, Emo-Angel!”, “Gimme two!” and the like. The picture intrigues and bewitches one greatly.

Fyodor :- What are they doing there, my!

V.V.P. :- The wings of Angels do they buy!

Fyodor :- Like them they want to look at least, and have engaged in fair’s feast?

V.V.P. :- Everyone desired so when Ivan was on the go!

Fyodor :- They search for wings as if guru?

V.V.P. :- And cry aloud “Gimme two!”

Fyodor :- There are wings of color black?!

V.V.P. :- For those whose soul’s on wrong track.

Fyodor :- And even those of color pink …

V.V.P. :- It’s quite an honor, don’t you think?