Our dear, poor sculptor. Yesterday he believed his dream come true; he was standing on the treshold of heaven; he was feeling proud and shy: proud of his masterpiece and shy before his masterpiece, who was standing nearly naked in front of him.

Our poor Pigmalion had spent hundreds of hours studying practical engineering. He skipped sleep and rest to obtain artistic inspiration... Only to be pursued by a biorobot around his mansion, seeking to steal his life.

He suddenlty felt something was wrong the very moment Galatea opened her eyes. They were full of love and anticipation, yet a love so crazy, the kind of passion that borders madness. She said "Hello, world", and it sounded like a menacing slogan, not only greeting. Her predictedly soft and cute vocaloid voice made a weird mixture with this intonation.

The sculptor was hypnotized by the girl's charming, aggressive eyes and felt her cold soft skin the next second. This embrace might have put him to an end, if he hadn't insinctively stepped back.

Now Pigmalion is hiding under the kitchen table and praying to Venus that the path-tracking mechanism of the statue's mind would collapse. And somewhere under the blanket of fear lie the remnants of his love.

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Hope You enjoy this piece, fellow Prosers and @TheWolfeDen

I do not mean to offend anybody in this article. My purpose is to cover a topic of the challenge with facts and examples from modern day Russia.

Paragraph One. The Letter Z.

As the public media in Russia has been speculating over the last character of the Latin alphabet as "the brave and rightous symbol", I decided to dig deeper into the possible reasons of its choice. Some journalists at the beginning of the war were arguing on it being either the ancient Scandinavian runes, or the alternative for 'Ц' (as in "tsar/царь"); I, however, see a much simpler sense - the letter Z is for Zombies. The society that sees its idea in fighting without thinking for one's own life may agree to call themselves zombie with no regret.

Paragraph Two. Solovyov's Atomic Bomb Fetish.

Vladimir Rudlofovič himself is a topic for huge reseach in psychiatry and psychology, but one particular specific of his speech troubles me the most: he has, perhaps, one of the rarest sexual fetishes on earth - a nuclear weapons fetish. There is hardly a program on russian television in his presence where the celebrated propagandist does not mention the possibility, no, the necessity, of a nuclear war against European capitals. He cries for it, loud and proud. This can be regarded as some kind of necrophilia - the love of death ...the source of African zombie cults.

Paragraph Three. Russian Pravoslav Church.

I intentionally used the Slavic term for orthodox faith here, because both the Greek and the Slavic words mean "the right glorification". And for the Moscow church, the "right" means that one who glorifies the authorities, whatever they are and do. It was so for most medieval Chiristian countries in times on inquisition, by the way. Since any religion has its specific view on life and death, I would say that the Russian Orthodox church's idea is to make people die and become zombies to "serve" the homeland in this state of flesh.

Paragraph Four. Education. They have been rewriting history in Russia during the country's whole history (I know it sounds odd). Now they are doing it more and more. Kids are taught to be thankful to the "brave warriors" who often were jailed criminals before recruited to the army - and the battlefields. Think of the recently deceased Prigozhin's private paramilitary organization, and you will get what I'm talking about.

It is just a coincidence but the number 4 means death in some parts of South Asia. The four paragraphs of my short analysis show the state of affairs in the russian federation.

All in all, do not be zombies. Think with your own brain.

My secondary school used to organise a charity fair every year, in late winter or early spring. When I recall those times among my Ukrainian friends, they nod in understanding; some of them laugh, some avert their sight and blush heavily, but nobody ignores those memories of school. And I'll tell you why.

Assume you have eaten two or three hamburgers, a kilo of sweets, a pizza and drunk some good five glasses of coda water, and then - you have dance. Another twenty minutes that you have free, you grab some default person's hands and whirl in the hall of the ground floor, stepping on somebody's feet and having your feet stepped on, too.

Most students stubbornly ignored those who were selling drawings and paintings. I have to admit that most of that was not very high art, but I couldn't help feeling pity for the sellers, so I bought it all. That was a bunch of almost identical images of a catgirl (know what you think, but she did not ever look quite cute). I do not remember where they were finally gone, but I kept them for some weeks as a memory of my charity.

The song doesn't really have much to do with the topic, but it suits the emotions of the long-gone school fair from before 2020.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KrJJzew3bWs

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EZs9JJPw2S8

I have never seen myself. Yes, never ever! I can barely think about my shape or size; the only objective facts I can rely on are: my width and height must be a yard or so, I am plain and not very thick; I must be quite heavy though.

But the story is not about me, mainly. It is about people, while I sure cannot be called a human being. It seems sometimes, the visitors of the gallery deserve to be spoken about far more that the exhibits. Here are the reasons why:

- they never become boring, though they may be rude, stupid, badly dressed, etc. etc.

- they tend to talk about us, artworks; that is the only source of information for us on what we are, actually;

- they often use perfumes;

- they have children who giggle and joke, and mess around; we don't.

The workers of the museum are another kind of beings - I would describe them as something in-between the visitors and us. That is because they spend so much time here. However, they can move and look into the mirrors at the ends of the gallery.

Oh, how I wish I could look straight into that image-reflecting glass, too! People can decide for themselves whether they are handsome or ugly, common or weird... And alas, they are the only creatures who can judge us in this manner, for we cannot...

It's pain not to know what you look like.

A pigeon's corpse

Run over by a car.

Feathers.

A sign of decay.

The evanescensce of life.

Cats around.

The first thing I figured out was that everything around was changing constantly. It looked like a regular hospital corridor, yet with bending walls, lamps of many different colors that blinked like broken pedestrian lights... and the absence of exit or entrance doors.

The last of the above circumstances made me feel awkward and ask myself how I got there. A thought ran through my mind: "what if those soft walls can open?" I touched the wall - and soon regretted it.

The corridor formed what looked like an outbranch. I stepped in, and it was the moment I realized that the floor there was also unstable... I fell... Long, long falling.

At the bottom of the soft-walled pit, there was some kind of grass (luckily, it was not nettle!). Perhaps, the lighting had changed while I was falling, because now I saw everything in cold blue-green shades.

A couple of flies flew past me. Apart from the initial feeling of surprise, I think it was the first time I saw living creatures in this strange world.

I stood up carefully and looked around. The bottom area seemed to have stretched and got bigger. I noticed a ladder haging from the ceiling. Yes, an opportunity!

Of course, I was climbing it very cautiously, thinking of a plan. Firstly, I needed to know what food or drinks I could find; secondly, if there were any hostile creatures; finally, most importantly: how to get back?

I got to eat in that world only once, and had better not. It was some kind of berries in an empty hall conquered by bushery. I ate one, and it was sweet. Some minutes after, I consumed the whole bush, only to find out that there were lots of big greasy worms on the lower leaves. I did my best not to vomit.

The last room was the most peculiar. When I stepped, or rather, fell into it, I saw it had both sides ceilings. Let me explain: the floor (or the side I was standing on) was the same as the ceiling with buzzing neon office lamps attached to it.

The final seconds of my being there were pure idiocy; for I suddenly escaping gravity of the "floor" and strong pulling force of the "ceiling". I bumped my head really hard against one of the lamps... and then I woke up in my bed.

You may take my story for a dream, but I actually found small pieces of glass thrown around my room - a kind used in lamps.

The police representative was walking past the old town cemetery, trying to rate the locals in his mind. It is certain that he did not enjoy rural people, old people specially, nor did he want them to know his pseudo-identification was a disguise.

A distant waterfall could be heard in this small settlement beneath the mountains. Perhaps it would often provoke hostile floods a hundred years ago, but now the river was almost stagnating. It was similar to this graveyard, long abandoned. The church had long ceased to be a place for public to meet.

"It has been four days since they remitted me here, and yet no clues! Who borrowed my investigating talent and never gave it back, I wonder? Is this week my bad week, as horoscopes tell?"

A dark figure revealed itself behind the corner. The detective guessed immediately that it had followed him for some time. "Now, what to you want, shadow monster ?" he said ironically, turning to the silhouette.

"I am here to prevent your life's loss..."

"Could you please be more specific?"

"You are working on that project. How long have you been with them?"

The shadow took off her black hat. She was a young woman with long brown hair resembling a horse's mane. The detective decided to take charge, reveresing their roles.

"Excuse me, miss, you already know more than you should. My duties expand far beyond that business, but who are YOU?"

"Look."

Upon that, the girl jumped up... and stayed hovering in the air, as if it should be.

"I don't consider your ability quite amusing", he answered. "Apart from that, I love oddities."

The woman's angry look grew into a glower. In the matter of seconds, she flew away.

Discourses are known to be stressful and sometimes provocative. This has earned them a strong atmosphere of conflict. However, I have another view on the subject: good dicussions bound people rather than distract them from each other.

To begin with, we basically get information by asking people around us. Then, if the answer proves to be opposed to оur previous experience, knowledge etc., we tell them what we think is right. This is the way any discussion begins.

In addition, arguments with strong opponents make a human's character strong. They help us find the most convincing proofs to our ideas. There is a poem called "Ode to my enemies" by Lina Kostenko, saying: "If I have any muscles of the soul, it is all thanks to you, my foes". Those words do not necessary refer to real enemies, but can sure be applied to any important discussion.

Finally and most importantly, a discussion with a completely different person is a chance to surf into a new world of human minds and find some unexpected truth about yourself. I know people whom I did not understand before I got to talk to them. When we discuss something, the views or beliefs that usually look weird or rediculous may become clear.

In conclusion, it is indeed essential to take parts in disputes, as they help human beings to form bonds between various thoughts, ideas and viewpoints. Discuss this work of mine, too!