Писатель Илья Розенфельд

The regime is going pear-shaped: President Top Banana and his Second Banana in the inner sanctum. The ceiling fan in the Top Banana’s office was barely moving, thick with the smell of overripe ambition and fermenting fear. The President — a bruised, spotty specimen in a fraying uniform — looked like he was about to go bananas. He knew the score: his regime was going pear-shaped, and the streets were whispering that he’d soon slip on a banana peel. “Sir, the board is restless,” whispered his Second Banana, a firm, lime-green sycophant. “They say you’ve become a lemon. A bad investment.” “Quiet!” the President barked, though his peel was shriveling. “We still have the cash cow. We still have the support of The Out There.” But The Out There didn't provide support; they provided floor space. At the docks, the atmosphere was nutty as a fruitcake.  The Big Cheeses arrive: The syndicate from the Concrete Jungle marking their territory. A massive freighter had just birthed a squad ...

Arthur always knew that life is a book . This simple metaphor became not a consolation for him, but a guide to action. He was not merely a character, but the Author , and he treated his role with the utmost seriousness. Every day of his was a carefully calibrated page. He didn't just eat breakfast—he created the exposition for the new day. He didn't fall in love—he inscribed into the narrative a chapter about a great passion, avoiding cheap melodrama. His career was not a series of accidents, but a masterfully constructed rising action culminating in his own business. He despised plot holes —senseless quarrels, empty promises, wasted hours. His dialogues were honed, his actions motivated. He strove to write not just a good life, but a bestseller. A masterpiece that, after death, would take a worthy place on the shelves of the World Library . The thought of this library was his guiding star. He imagined endless shelves where every volume was someone's destiny. And he was ...

Corporations flooded the market with humanoid AI robots, making them widely accessible. The goal was simple: not only the wealthy but even the poorest layers of society should be able to afford to own and maintain them. Yet behind the façade of universal equality hid a rigid class segregation. The functionality and appearance of robots for the haves and the have-nots differed drastically. Elite-class robots were high-tech androids capable of handling any task: from managing household chores and educating children to developing business strategies and piloting transport. Their software was constantly updated, and their appearance could be customized to match any — including sexual — preferences of the owner. Robots for the poor, on the other hand, resembled squeaky tin boxes with mechanical arms. With non-upgradable software and a basic set of functions — hauling loads, chopping wood, cleaning trash — they merely lightened the burden of their human owners’ physical labor. They couldn’...

Second story Even in kindergarten, I showed great promise, smoothly purring all the popular hits of that time. Despite not knowing any foreign languages, I pronounced the words of European chart-toppers precisely in tune with the melody. I possessed perfect pitch and a rare voice.   During holidays, especially on Christmas and New Year's Eve, as was customary, my parents would put me on a stool in a bar, and I sang for the adults. I imagined myself as all the stars whose songs were part of my repertoire back then. They applauded me. Those were my first applause. And my first fees came in the form of candies, chocolates, and toys.   In the early school years, at my mother's insistence, I started developing my voice and took vocal lessons from the best experts at our conservatory. I was invited to numerous auditions.   In middle and high school, I sang first in the school choir and later in the school ensemble, winning, as its soloist, at all district, city and state compet...

First story Every day I reevaluate my life: achievements, failures. I review events. I try to approach life philosophically, analyze the past, predict the future. And everything seems nothing special. Sometimes it feels insufficient. What else to fill my days with? I pour myself another cup of coffee and go to the window. The wind rustles the poplar leaves. Pigeons perch on the wires. Not a single crow in sight!   A fly darts across the windowpane. It's flawless. I wish I had wings like these!   I sip my coffee, observing people on the street. Everyone is in a hurry to get somewhere. None of them even suspects that I'm watching them.   There goes the heavily sweating overweight man rushing to cross the road. The light will turn red soon, and cars will traverse the pedestrian crossing. Hurry up, chubby!   Not far away, at the bus stop, a young woman sits with a stroller. The baby inside, snoozing quietly. It's not easy for him to adapt to the new e...