Писатель Илья Розенфельд

The stain wouldn’t budge, and the pupils no longer resembled a serpent's. The magic was beginning to fade. Introduction An angel and a demon who became all too human—this image from Good Omens set me thinking: what comes next? What if their angelic and demonic essences are merely temporary shells, "pupae" from which a true human soul must emerge? In this sequel, I explore the evolution of the spirit. Once the Apocalypse is averted, the masks begin to slip, and old directives start to bleed through erased memories. This is my dialogue with Gaiman about the end of the road. An attempt to imagine a world where supernatural powers fade, and a finite lifespan becomes not a curse, but the ultimate reward for the right to be human. Part II. Sequel: "The Last Fall in Soho" Act 1. Symptoms of Humanity The London morning in Soho smelled not of eternity , but of frying bacon and diesel exhaust—and Aziraphale had always secretly rather enjoyed that. But today, somethin...

 Next stop: Life and Death . The tabooest topic. We’re afraid of Death, even though it’s Death that gives Life its meaning. Without a deadline, no project (including life) would ever get finished. Let’s pull the Grim Reaper’s hood off and see who’s hiding under there. Spoiler: not a skeleton—an exhausted bureaucrat. The Legend of Life and Death (The Bureaucracy of Eternity) Doctors say: “Life is a sexually transmitted disease with a 100% fatality rate.” True. We’re all patients in a hospice called “Earth.” Yet we act like we’re going to live forever. We take out thirty-year mortgages, buy anti-wrinkle cream, and grind out abs—though the worms couldn’t care less whether we’ve got a six-pack or not. Death isn’t a villain. Death is a cleaner. Picture a party that goes on forever. The guests are drunk, the dishes are smashed, the music is blaring, everyone’s puking, and nobody leaves. Death is a kind woman with a mop who turns the music off, cracks the windows, and says, ...

Act 1. Vienna , 1913 Autumn that year was rainy. A small, smoke-filled bar in the center of Vienna smelled of dampness, expensive tobacco, and anxious anticipation. Arthur sat at a corner table. He looked about fifty: an impeccable tweed suit, gray at the temples, calm hands resting on the tabletop. He wasn't drinking. He was observing. Arthur knew the old world was living out its final months. Swords had grown dull, cannons obsolete. The coming century required new management. His gaze slid over the patrons. At the bar, a heavy, corpulent man resembling a prosperous banker was haggling with a waiter. He was dressed to the nines but was greedily finishing off the free nuts. — You shortchanged me by a crown, — he mumbled, wiping greasy lips with a napkin. — Wastefulness will lead this empire to ruin faster than bullets. Arthur nodded to his own thoughts. This was Marcus . A man capable of creating a deficit with a single stroke of a pen. A little further away, by the window,...

In the app, he was called simply "Ch." The car was a black sedan, so polished that it reflected not the street, but the sins of passersby. The interior smelled of ozone and expensive leather . No smell of dampness or mire. The Corporation went through a rebranding back in the 90s. Ch. hated conversations. Not because he was gloomy, as the myths claimed. But because the " Olympus-Taxi " algorithm lowered the rating for "excessive engagement." The rules were strict: Do not look the passenger in the eye (only in the rearview mirror). Do not take tips (payment is deducted automatically: not in money, but in the client's most vivid memory. Reach the destination — and forget your mother's face. Such is the price of fuel). Deliver from Point A (Morgue) to Point B (Distribution) silently. If the rating dropped below 4.5, the driver was stripped of immortality and sent down, to the clients. This was called " Urshan...

The bell above the door chimed dryly, not melodically, as if someone had coughed in an empty room. The Tailor did not raise his head. He was stitching a buttonhole on a cuff — a task requiring a steady hand and complete detachment from the outside world. The client stood at the threshold, shifting from foot to foot, breathing heavily, wheezing in the air saturated with the smell of hot iron and wool dust. “Are you open?” asked a voice, brittle and creaky, like old parquet flooring . The Tailor set aside his needle, removed his glasses, and only then looked at the newcomer. Standing before him was a decrepit old man, a ruin. Gray parchment skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones; his eyes held the murky moisture of fear and pain. He held onto the doorframe as if without this support he would crumble into pieces at any moment. “That depends on why you have come,” the Tailor replied. His voice was even, devoid of professional pleasantries. “I need a suit,” the old man took...

Epigraph "Everyone waits for the white stripe to appear, but they forget the main road paradox : you cannot drive on the markings — they are too slippery. To move forward, we vitally need traction with the black asphalt ." The hum of the engine punched through his chest. It wasn't a sound — it was a vibration that made his teeth ache. Mark gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Around him was impenetrable darkness, and only the headlights snatched a patch of wet, rough, black asphalt from the night. The road was terrible. Potholes, cracks, sharp turns. The car shook, thrown from side to side. Every meter was a battle. "Slow down!" shouted the Passenger. Mark squinted sideways. A man in a white coat sat in the passenger seat. Strange, Mark didn't remember when he had gotten into the car. And why did the cabin smell so strongly of rubbing alcohol and ozone ? "I can't slow down!" Mark wheezed, wrenching the ste...

As long as he could remember, he had suffered from pain. He did not know his father—a drug addict who conceived him high—and so life was something incomplete, flawed, for him from the very beginning. His mother could not bear either her own suffering or her son's, and at the age of five, she admitted him to the hospital.  That first time the little boy found himself within the state walls, he heard a phrase from a doctor that initially seemed strange to him: "If you wake up and nothing hurts, it means you're dead." After some time, his mother took him back. But soon he was admitted to the hospital again, and that day was the last time he saw his mother. Since then, he remained there, and the hospital became his world. He matured quickly, ahead of his years. In the hospital corridors, amidst the smell of iodine and quiet moans, he saw his life in a different light. He watched his ward neighbors—those who died with dignity and silence, and those who cursed the heavens...

They lived long. Longer than the biblical patriarchs. Many of them didn't even remember when they were born. On their planet, Hastalavista, there existed day and night, but everything was reversed: first came light, then darkness. Time flowed backward. The year didn't end with winter, but rather began with it. The count of days in a month didn't start from the 1st, but from the 30th or 31st, and the days in a year - from the 365th to the 1st. The calendar began at the end, the beginning of which few remembered. It wasn't plants that grew from seeds, but seeds from plants and their fruits. And it wasn't hens that laid eggs, but rather they themselves hatched from eggs. Men gave birth to children, and women provided for their families. The inhabitants of Hastalavista were born into the world already adults, possessing all the necessary knowledge and skills. If an earthling were to land on this planet, all of this would seem strange to him. But to the inhabitants...

Death was born incorporeal, a kind of soul without a shell - by the Creator's design, or perhaps his mistake. And like a fallen angel, this soul had to kill to acquire temporary shelters - bodies. The choice was limitless: it could be anyone and anytime. Like a woman who changes outfits several times a day. However, it's not a fact that Death was a woman. And certainly not a banal old woman with a scythe. Imagine: under the guise of a young beauty, she takes the life of a rich man at the moment of his highest bliss. A beautiful death! The girl did her job, maybe even enjoyed it. And if not, well, the job is done. Onward, to a new body, a new image. One shouldn't blame Death for mass deaths due to wars, epidemics, or disasters. That's the Creator's domain. Death is merely his servant, occupied with trifles. Although sometimes he went beyond the scope. Perhaps, taking revenge on the Creator for his unfortunate birth. When the Creator slept, Death, with the assis...