Prose: Chosen

They desired to “fix” us all. Men, women, even children. To bring down to our knees and kill our spirit. Transform our genome. Break our will.

Hope dies last.

That night Oleg had a nightmare. Frightening in its unambiguous resemblance to his own personal realities, and therefore even more unpleasant.

This is the voice of the doomed. The call of those dying alive with no right for a cure.

Once upon a time, the rich merchant, who was coming back to his hometown with a wagon train after successful trading met a homeless wanderer, who was sitting by the fir

Once upon a time, the Fool was traveling by a long journey of life, carrying on his hunched back a backpack which was filled with Nonsense.

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

Galactic cycle 05465. Star system 53768.54.1.444.

Kirill was pursued by some ill fate. Or maybe a healthy and kind one.

“Ave! Did you check yesterday thought-mail?