Fairytale plot E-Book

A. Cupidoxin

• Herausgeber: novum pro Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 1086

Beschreibung

We often hear about the noble prince who rescues the poor king's daughter from the clutches of her pestilent stepmother, of course after he has passed all kinds of tests. Kingdoms, beautiful princesses, subjects: the main prize for demanding adventures, so that young minds should fall asleep peacefully and emulate their heroes. These old-fashioned clichés are now being done away with! And what else is there? The fact that today anyone can become "king" and even try to do so often results in a trail of destruction, in line with modern moralism. The fairy tales collected in this volume deal with these and similar problems.

Leseprobe

Fairytale plot

Cupidoxin

Politispective

The tribal leader, tall and strong,

bows with violence and possessions

over his own, powerless and weak;

someone comes with a larger gift,

slays him, his power lies fallow.

Blue blood on a throne rules self-sufficiently

by water, air and land,

his people devoted, the fleets ready for command;

He graciously grasps the ringed hand:

So which of the two is clever?

The freely chosen one thinks himself wise,

of the will of the people commanding voice

belong to his heart and fervent loyalty;

Hecunningly knows how to steer so that no one is angry.

and regret his re-election.

Where is the journey going?

Here and now has always been considered eternal and true,

If the chaosincreases, many people become anxious;

It seems as necessary as it is clear,

that the human child reaches maturity.

Peasant legend

There was talk of an honest farmer who had passed on the customs and traditions of his family to our time in worthy hands. Even if his great-grandchildren earn their daily bread elsewhere today, the blood of diligence throbs in their veins; it was their ancestor who laid the foundations for a long, honorable family tradition. However, he had a rival who saw his profession more as a means to an end, to make his life as independent as possible.

Every time tax day came around, he was annoyed by the fact that he had to eke out a living as a serf and the prince took from his earnings what he felt he was not entitled to. This time, however, he had a plan to keep what he had earned. He made a pact with a hardened band of robbers who were hiding near his property. He said to them: "Don't you want to be free too and finally put aside your fear of the gallows? Then listen to what I propose to you: tomorrow the prince will come with his collectors to take away what I have worked hard for, and they will leave me so little that I cannot understand how other farmers can still retain a sense of justice and respect. They are true criminals! If you help me to take action against them, I will let you have half of my earnings from last year; if you are not wasteful with it, it will last for almost a year, you could live like the prince and never have to fear anything from his henchmen again." The robbers accepted the offer.

As the procession of riders and wagons moved across the field, the robbers lay in wait in the forest surrounding the farm.

They attacked the prince's followers like wild prehistoric men, sparing no living soul. Poorly concealing his fear, the prince was presented to the rebellious peasant while the robbers loaded the agreed wages onto the pack animals and rode off. Full of pride, the farmer said to the bound prince: "So in the end it turned out that you are as conquerable as any simple feudal lord." He left him his farm, the tools, the animals and the fields and said that he could easily make a living if he dealt wisely with what he was given. He himself moved into the prince's castle, told the servants that he had put an end to the tyrant, and lived in luxury from then on. But the prince died in the fields after a short time near a plowshare; what do you think: Was it his wounded pride? Or his inability to cope with the demands of rough, rural life?

The balance of power had shifted. From now on, a miller's son could set out to become king; it was enough to scowl at the nobles among the subjects and their knees immediately trembled. Piece by piece, serfdom was thus abolished; respect for the faith also faltered when it became clear how shamelessly the former rulers had used it to keep their slaves in a life of constant fear and dependence. World history was now about rich to holy idlers, hard-working honest men and those who had had enough of both, with the latter gaining the most.

Just as the different natures of the two farmers continued in their families, so did their rivalry in the changing world.

A great-grandson of the obedient one has gone from mechanic to parliamentarian (i.e. a king elected by the people, as we still know it today). A success, of course, whose foundation he should have owed to his ancestor's rival.

He pledged his soul to the messianic faith, so those who indulged in this tradition also voted for him. But the rules of this new world claimed that every opinion about what one may and may not do had the right to life, and so there were those who, while the messianic parliamentarian now ruled, researched how to artificially bring children into the world who were free of hereditary diseases. The great-grandson of the rebellious farmer grew up in an environment in which he was urged to learn the old faith and at the same time heard about how the so-called researchers were also creators of great knowledge, but had to subordinate their status and right to a say to the ideas currently in power. This seemed nonsensical to him.

As he was out of work, he set about recruiting like-minded and like-destined people for a power coup. It was not difficult to find the destitute in the streets and persuade them to join in, because as they had nothing left to lose, they could look danger in the face with a smile. The unemployed man first came across the carpenter working on a piece of metal. He asked him in astonishment: "What are you working on that piece of metal that is turned away from your craft?" The young carpenter spoke sadly: "Oh, not long ago I was earning my daily bread as a temporary worker for the old carpenter; when he no longer needed me, I was sent to the metalworkers by the people's educators, and now I'm supposed to learn what I don't want to and can't do."

"Come with me," the unemployed man encouraged him, "together we'll defy the blindness of their supposed care." The carpenter joined him. Soon afterwards, they came across the assembly line worker. He was sitting in the dirt, tending to a group of beautiful potted plants. The unemployed man asked him, "How do you manage to grow such delightful flowers as a machine-like worker?" The assembly line worker replied: "The mindless work threatened to wear me down, so I turned my attention to the primal forces of our closeness to nature."

"Come with us," the unemployed man suggested, "you won't be happy here after all. Everyone should be able to do what they want and can do at any time without ending up in the gutter." The assembly line worker happily joined the two. Next they met the painter and plasterer. He sat quietly and sadly in front of his easel, conjuring up the most beautiful figures and landscapes with all his colors. The unemployed man was flabbergasted and asked: "How can someone with your talent pursue such an ordinary profession?" Exasperated, the painter replied: "These are subjects that don't interest me, but I have to be good at them; these are professions that are currently more in demand on the market than others; these are ideas that no one is interested in because the competition between companies leaves no room for my painterly creations."

The unemployed man comforted him by suggesting: "Join us. I'm convinced that every idea has the right to be heard." The painter didn't need to be asked twice.

In the most dilapidated district at the end of the city, the four allies witnessed a prison riot. In the general commotion, they saw a prisoner about to smash a bottle on the skull of a guard who had been grabbed by the collar. The unemployed man bravely stepped forward and asked him: "What makes you so violent towards the authorities?" The prisoner answered confidently: "Because I once caused the death of my master out of conviction about his deceitfulness, I was imprisoned for eight years. Although I knew what I was doing even then, they believed that the hardships of my imprisonment would convince me otherwise. They actually wanted to order a mature mind down to an underage child!" Impressed, the unemployed man said: "You complete the circle of our covenant. Come with us and you'll find plenty of places where you can take your revenge."

Then the five of them moved on. At the train station, a ragged beggar asked the unemployed man for a donation. He gruffly refused and quickly walked away. Little did he know that the beggar, outraged by the rude treatment, would wish the refuser dead. And it was the wish of his former friend from school days. Since then, he had felt this strange movement in his stomach, as if someone was stirring it.

Before our five rebels reached the parliament building, which loomed on the summit of the great mountain under gloomy clouds, their path led them through the panic forest. There they were startled by the newborns who, as soon as they saw the light of day, slipped fearfully back into the womb. The mothers, however, who were among the most virtuous in every settlement, could not bear the new life inside them for long, and so they were increasingly overcome by all human vices. Then a midwife warned our five travelers emphatically: "Flee from this area! No one wants to witness innocent mothers giving birth to guilty offspring with all the signs of feigned joy! There is nothing to honor in this! Oh, this procreative century - it loves the moment and refuses to take responsibility for the following. You know who we have to thank for that ...!"

Our friends walked faster to reach the parliament building before nightfall, but they were tired. They set up camp under a large tree and slept until dawn. When they set out, the painter was preoccupied by the strange dream that had befallen him the previous night. He floated through the forest as a ghost, his only ambition being to hoard earthly riches, however and wherever he could find them. Nevertheless, he didn't let on as the courageous pack inexorably approached their destination. There they stood. A deep ravine separated the pretty parliament from the five rebels who wanted to occupy it at all costs. But how were they supposed to get across? It occurred to the unemployed man that, with the help of the carpenter, they could build a safe bridge from the surrounding woodland. And so it happened. After long, arduous work, they managed to bridge the abyss and were able to cross safely. But the next difficulty was not long in coming. Three impassable gullies opened up in front of them, overgrown with all kinds of shrubs and creepers. Now it was up to the amateur gardener to guide his companions safely through the narrow passages between the steep walls. They were within reach of their goal. As luck would have it, restoration work was being carried out in the vestibule of the parliament, which gave the painter the idea of overpowering the previous painter and mingling with the workers in his name as the new master. He provided his friends with appropriate clothing so that no one would suspect them when they went in and out of parliament. Within a very short space of time, he had decorated the vestibule so stylishly that everyone entering and leaving the building was spellbound by the frescoes. As a reward, the painters were personally invited to the round hall by the chairman of parliament to show his gratitude; however, the painter had already said goodbye to his assistants and only accepted the invitation with his four colleagues. You should have seen the chairman's face when the five warriors stripped off their paint-stained clothes and surrounded him like hunting prey. "We have come to overturn your rule," said the unemployed man and stepped forward. It was as if the power of their ancestors had ignited in their eyes. "Pah!" the chairman groaned contemptuously. "As long as I am elected by the people, everything I do is right. You can send your complaints in writing to the parliamentary council ..." Even before the sentence slipped from his lips, the prisoner grabbed him by the collar, heaved him around the room a few times before pushing him forward between the backrest and the edge of the nearest chair with his knee. "Don't you know that power is not on the throne, but behind it?" groaned the high member of parliament, and the security forces rushed in and took the five rebels into custody separately. Before two beefy guys took the unemployed man away, his arch-enemy had him brought to him. He asked him bitterly: "You are the leader of this gang. I recognized their characteristics from their different outfits. Green dungarees (the gardener), light brown dungarees (the carpenter), white trousers (the painter) and the convict uniform. What is your profession that it elevates you above them?"

The interviewee stood up straight: "I have never learned a profession. My powers are hidden; it is unthinkable that anyone should be able to shape them according to current rules. The fact that my companions listened to me may have been due to the fact that for them I represent the end result of their annoyance, which annoyed everyone in their own way. And at the same time, no learned craft can confuse me and keep me dependent; I am therefore both the beginning and the end of every popular uprising."

"So may you have reached your end!" The speaker of parliament signaled and the unemployed man was led to his cell. There were many cunning members of the government in the parliamentary prison who made every effort to break the resistance of the five rebels. And they succeeded. But only with the gardener, the painter and the carpenter. They were promised the blue sky, given secure jobs, the painter was even entrusted with government contracts as a parliamentary restorer and earned an excessive amount of money; they soon forgot why they had once left. The convict, in prison for the second time, was used to the environment and the pressure; nothing and no one could break his will. "Leaving dumber than I came in - that's your ugly intention! The idea will triumph!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. But no one listened to him. He spent the rest of his life behind bars; old and wrinkled on the outside, hard and strong-willed on the inside.

Years passed. In the meantime, the unemployed man had been released from prison; the common people scolded him wherever they saw him, and the government had done much to deter people from similar rebellious behavior. Without aim or hope, he set off for freedom, which for him was not really freedom. His path led him once again through the streets of his homeland. This time he decided, to strive for nothing better than to marry his poverty with that of others, helping where he could help, and without demanding reimbursement. "If this member of parliament splits the original ideas of the faith he claims to defend into rich and poor with such impudence, then I'd rather start off right and remain a real poor man. I'm curious to see which of us will go to heaven. Or whether I'll create a new heaven as a result. My lineage ends with me and says: My tragedy makes sense! The idea will triumph!"

He still felt that strange stirring in his stomach when he hadn't allowed the unrecognized schoolmate to donate.

The country was still shaken. There were different kinds of people: Those who worked and wanted to work were either happy or driven by necessity, in either case they never opened their mouths - they made up the majority. Those who didn't work either couldn't find any, in which case, if they were caught in time, they were quite enthusiastic about new ideas; or they didn't want to work, in which case they were cut from the same cloth as our hero. They were the fewest.

On his wanderings, his steps led him to the panic forest after a long time. There were still newborns who, as soon as their eyes opened to see the cruelties of the world, crawled back into the womb, shaken with fear. In the old, grey woman sitting next to a cradle and sadly moving it back and forth, the unemployed man thought he recognized the obstetrician who had once warned him of the curse of original sin. When she, too, remembered the old transit traveler piece by piece, she stopped rocking and said: "Things have gotten worse since you were last here. Despite the progress of our explorers, we are digging almost as many graves as we are expecting newborns. These are the details that parliament keeps us in the dark about: Is the soul constant? If you die young, are you and will you remain young in the afterlife? It is not the task of our researchers to deal with such questions, but rather that there is no longer any reason to ask them. But that is precisely what parliament does not want. They want us to be born sick; they want us to bring up our children with outdated patterns; they want us to argue and destroy each other. Look how old I am already, and yet I am burdened with more questions than answers that let me die peacefully."

Sadly, the unemployed man continued on his way. As he came to a bend in the road, a large tree fell on him almost silently and ended his life. His last thoughts revolved around the words of the obstetrician. He thought about how original sin, in connection with the so-called age of criminal responsibility, which only came into effect from an advanced age, must bring the worldless newborns to heaven. He was certain that Judgement Day was not far away, but anyone who died young on Judgement Day, i.e. not of age to be punished, would have to count as a survivor while the world rattled in the chaos of the new order. Heaven, then, for the original sinful children who were to grow up there; how much did the blood of their ancestors have a say in this? No one knows whether he was right in his assumption.

The dissatisfied Lukas

Luke was a real couch potato who caused his father a lot of grief. When the sun was shining gloriously over the land, he would sit in his room and watch television. Once, when his schoolmates were enjoying the hot midday sun, his father came in and said: "I can't believe you're here. Nobody in their right mind sits in a dull room in this beautiful weather when they have no other obligations. So please, go outside!"

His father did not know that Lukas had an extraordinary gift. He had the ability to leave his body behind and see the world with his soul. Right now he was going on another one of his adventures. When his father realized that all his urging and pleading was useless, he slammed the door shut violently; but by this time, Lukas had already climbed into the body of a wasp, which was feasting on a dead fly on the windowsill. It rolled and crawled over the motionless insect, first having to come to terms with the new demands. Then, when she had her prey under control, she flew off into the forest. She actually wanted to be as far away from other animals as possible, but she had to fly over the pond that stretched out below her. Suddenly she realized that her flight was getting lighter; a mean frog had taken her prey. "Oak, oak," said the old frog, "I'm still hungry. Won't you stab me to death inside if I gulp you down?"

The wasp replied: "You can bet I will. But if you allow me to take your place temporarily, I'll keep my sting still." The frog agreed, darting its tongue at the wasp, but before it could meet its end in its belly, the soul left its body and moved into the frog's.

He lingered by the pond for a while, then went off to explore. He hopped away, snapping at every little insect that buzzed in front of him. "Being a frog is boring," he said to himself and thought about what he could do next. Then, all of a sudden, a huge shadow covered him so that he hardly dared to look up because he could easily imagine who it was. As the shadow grew larger, there was no more room to hide, so he prepared for the next soul transplant until the narrow beak finally snapped shut at his sides and from then on he soared through the air as a stork.

"I prefer it this way," he said with a feeling of invincibility. He flew low so that he could get a good view of the land, but above the treetops it became denser and denser; he thought nothing of it as he sailed down, but unfortunately for him, his legs got caught on a barbed wire fence. He flapped with all his might, trying like mad to free himself from the bloody trap, but it was no use. He became even more entangled until all hope was finally buried. In his death throes, sounds reached his ears and he caught sight of a radio playing at the foot of the fence. He had no choice but to concentrate the last of his strength on the entertainment device ... and, poof, a previously lifeless thing was suddenly warmed by a soul. As the cheerful music droned on, a wolf came trotting along, lying in wait behind a bush not far from the radio, without any stealth. "He must have scented the blood," said the radio, "but damn it: why is he staring at me!"

The music played incessantly and it wondered whether it should switch to the sound carrier, because something was disturbing the waves of good humor. There were subliminally tormented voices calling for help, sending out curses to those who so boldly painted their lives beautifully while they suffered hardship. It was doubly cruel for him, because he heard the complaints in parallel to the broadcast program, and the presenter was by no means less falsely cheerful in these unbalanced times. But it was the wolf that worried him even more, because it had ventured a little way out of the bushes, probably feeling for the radio; only it would have been the same one that he would have mercilessly attacked if it hadn't played the sound carrier on the fly. "Moving rhythm, profound lyrics: This is honest music!", the radio recognized. "What's more, it's much older than what they're currently playing." As the wolf paused and didn't come any closer, it decided to play the sound carrier until it had the opportunity to transplant itself further; the wolf had piercing eyes that resisted every attack, it seemed to know what was going on with the radio. The soul was trapped in the transistors, was energetically connected to the batteries; its hope was that another animal would come along and rescue it, for the wolf's dying patience could be read from its gaze. Or she let the radio drone on until the batteries were exhausted.

The little cyborg

One day a small being will be born, half human, half robot. Listen, dear ones, this is the story of conditions and beings that have not yet occurred, but some of which already surround us today. So I see the future, that which has not yet happened, but about which it is often said that it is up to us to shape it. If that is the case, then the characters in my nascent story need not worry you at all. Little Micha is sitting in front of the television. One of those films is showing that paints a picture of the future that is far removed from nature, where people live together with robots so that they can serve them and make their daily work easier. Micha watches with enthusiasm as the robot servant begins to behave more and more like a human being, so that you could be forgiven for thinking that he really does have human feelings. Oh, I see his mother is coming in, she's telling him not to watch those stupid movies. She switches to another channel; colorful, ugly cartoon characters jump across the screen. Micha is unhappy. The next day at school, he talks about his mother's behavior. No one will understand her behavior, not even Doctor Wisbeard, the physics teacher. He is actually more than a physicist, his knowledge extends to new specialist areas which, whether this story turns out to be true or not, will be indispensable for mankind in the future. The children have a lot of fun in the school laboratory. Doctor Wisbeard will succeed in creating a robot that obeys human commands, just like Micha saw in the movie. For their homework, the young scientists have to write an essay on interacting combinations, i.e. the combination of human and robot-like characteristics in one and the same body. Micha gets the highest mark. The other children seem to have little interest in Doctor Wisbeard's lessons - they are probably being shirked by duty - even though he teaches them so passionately and regularly points out the upcoming importance of the subject. After school, he will ask Micha to stay for a moment, he has something to discuss with him. Yes, I can hear him clearly, he will say to him in despair: "I have worked long, laborious hours on my robot to make it look human. Oh, it's so sad that fate has blessed me and my wife with a son with a heart condition. This one will never be a sufficient replacement for him. My profession began with the attachment of foreign body parts to accident victims, but it soon became apparent that the characteristics of the deceased donors affected the bodily functions of the victims. That's how my son got the donor heart of a crazy violent criminal; he was shot when he fled after a robbery. Today I have moved on. You are interested and talented, Micha. I entrust you with all my knowledge, perhaps one day you will succeed in harmoniously reconciling the simplicity of a soulless metal man with the difficult, unfathomably deep spiritual states of man."

Micha smiles and says: "I'll be happy to throw myself into the knowledge that makes your subject so special. But there's no one I can talk to, no one who recognizes its overwhelming importance, most people just think it's nonsense. I don't know how else to learn other than in secret, and that takes the joy out of it. I would rather let myself be turned into a robot to escape all this ..." When Wisbeard hears this last sentence, he leans back in his chair, crosses his arms in front of his chest and thinks, his moustache, long as dragonfly wings, bouncing up and down.

"If you're really serious," he begins, "I can probably help you. As long as my research is universally disapproved of, its results will remain in the shadows of biased scientists who create knowledge as they see fit. Don't forget, your grandparents learned something different from your parents, your parents something different from you, and your children will in turn learn something new that you don't even suspect today. What do you think? Do you want to try the experiment on yourself to convince the know-it-alls of the creative power of misjudged do-gooders?"

Micha trembles with excitement: "Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes! After all, the whole of life is an experiment. So why not sacrifice yourself for a higher cause!"

And soon his big day arrives, uhhh, how much this hasty decision will hurt his mother! The transformation begins on a dark night. Micha is put into deep sleep, his deaf body is placed in a glass tube standardized to his size, whose odorless liquid, which reaches to the rim, begins to bubble from various tubes leading into it. Wisbeard knows exactly what he is doing. After painstaking hours of monitoring, improving and enhancing Micha's bodily functions, a being will emerge from the protective device, the likes of which the world has only ever seen in fantasy stories. "From now on, your name is Michatron," says Wisbeard proudly. With unpracticed movements, the cyborg boy explores the surroundings, which seem new to him, before eyeing his creator, who smiles and awaits his approach. "Come, come," he beckons him confidentially, "don't be afraid. From now on, a new life begins for you. What you once were is no more. What you are now - is power and a role model! At your request, I have transformed you into a being that is more machine than man. As long as I live, you will remain here in the laboratory, practicing your skills on games, exercising your muscles and ... forget how depressing it was to be human." Wisbeard can't help feeling paternal, wanting Michatron to be his second son. This will also be the ulterior motive behind his miraculous act of creation. So the fantastic double being will live in the underground school laboratory, while Micha's mother and everyone who knows him will be sadly informed that he has probably been abducted on his way home. Years later, Doctor Wisbeard will die and with him everyone who has a direct or indirect memory of little Micha. He, however, will outlive them completely, much longer still, and the doctor's technical assistants will devote themselves to the cause to which their grand master is dedicated from generation to generation. Oh horror! What do I see next! One day the school will be demolished, as the state coffers will spend the least on education in the future, they will forget that children need a lot of loving care; it will give way to automated attention, where the child is left no time to explore the wonders of the world with fresh curiosity. That will be the moment when two scientists in the ruins of the old school stumble upon the transparent schooner in which Michatron refreshes his powers. You should know that humanity's knowledge will have followed in Doctor Wisbeard's footsteps by that time, but research will flag for a short while because the rulers prefer to put their money into nonsensical things that are good as long as they guarantee their own prosperity. So I see it. There are two twin doctors, Psych and Phys, who find the records and saved files of Doctor Wisbeard's work and they decide to develop his findings further. The determined twins have difficulty earning a living; it is only when the government builds a research center on the site of the former school that they are given the chance to pursue their thirst for research undisturbed in the seclusion of the rebuilt laboratory, as Doctor Wisbeard did long before them. After all, they will be the first to come across the brilliant discovery in the abandoned ruins, so they have an idea of the economic advantage they have over their colleagues. But the medical duo are anything but unanimous. While Psych weighs up the consequences for himself and the world around him carefully and responsibly when conducting his experiments, his brother has no scruples; he is content to have an immoral government contract in his pocket and his zeal knows no bounds. By the time they begin their work on Wisbeard's legacy, many wars will have raged across the land. The world will have become a different place, I am told. And Michatron a symbol for them when Doctor Phys wants to replace his metallic limbs with melee and firearms. "Don't do it!" commands Dr. Psych. "We were colleagues for a long time, but if you decide to take on irresponsible government contracts, you will not only have to do without my support: I will stop you from doing it!" But Phys tricks him. When the righteous doctor gets his brother's word to stop the mischievous research, he pushes him into the modified device in which Michatron will be used to replenish his energies. When he sees how the unfortunate doctor is killed by the mechanical-electrical components, something very quiet stirs in him without being able to describe it. His mind has no fixed seat, it is compressed into the smallest cells of his body. Where others feel anger and horror, his eyes transmit the image information to a brain freed from judgment. That is why he will have asked Dr. Wisbeard to switch off the fatal emotional impulses in him. He cannot intervene to help with what he sees there. One night, as the research center lies silent, Michatron's last surviving technical orderly enters the laboratory. When he escapes during the demolition of the school building, he is hired years later as a cleaner at the research center. Although he is strictly forbidden to enter the laboratory, he cleverly bypasses the security code on the door. His heart overflows when he sees Michatron in his protective case, apparently unchanged. But when he sees the elongated right arm, the thickened metal hips and, in the light of the switched-on surveillance screens, the combative armor, he lowers his head sadly. "Doctor ... Doctor ... dead ... save!" hums from Michatron's computer throat, and the technician looks up hopefully. Not far away, he sees a refrigerated container in which he finds Doctor Psych's murdered corpse. After making some sense of the circumstances, he decides to integrate the dead doctor's spirit, which is still in his body, into Michatron's, to give him a new consciousness, so to speak. Once he has prepared everything for the connection, he activates the necessary switches, monitors the neurochemical processes and intervenes to regulate any deviations in the transmission. Soon he has done it. Michatron, equipped with a new human consciousness, steps in front of his old acquaintance. "Who are you?" he asks him in his toneless voice. The technician replies: "I found you here and had to protect you from the horrible abuse that threatened you. I am one of the old technicians who swore to Doctor Wisbeard that they would look after you for the rest of their lives. Your memory will still need a little time, as you now carry two souls within you, one of which is unknown to me. But if it had been bad, its bearer would certainly not have been murdered."

"You're right," Michatron replies. "My brother, Doctor Phys, is a monster. He must be stopped before he does any more damage. Fortunately, I know what he's up to. He wants to use Wisbeard's research to breed an army of super soldiers; I was the prototype. But he can't count on me now, I ..." I hear the human machine's voice falter; it seems as if its real self, little Micha, is entering the nerve center where Doctor Psych is now in command. Finally, he succeeds for a short time, you can hear the metallic, distorted voice of Micha talking, while Psych remains respectfully silent. "My sleep within myself has been long, but now it is time to awaken. I should have known this day would come. After all, I've seen enough movies. With two souls in one body, we are best prepared."

The technician warns Michatron: "I'll help you where I can, but I must warn you in particular, Micha: a lot has changed! Even during your years under Doctor Wisbeard's care, he took the precaution of avoiding exposing you to situations that could remind you of the difficulty of being human. Even if you are a perfect, organic robot, you must not forget how fickle and vulnerable humans are; very few are to blame for you rejoining them as their own kind." "Do you think I'm only interested in revenge?" Then Micha's voice fails, as if he is sinking back into the muteness of the body's cells. Psych takes the floor: "Don't worry, I'll take care of the boy. If we just act human enough, his mind will return permanently to where I am now. He is still half asleep, there is even a risk that he will fall asleep forever if he does not actively participate in being human. It is his body, but I am the driver."

So Michatron, who now carries two personalities, one awake and one drowsy, will go up to relearn humanity. He has one day in which to do as much as possible, otherwise the homicidal Doctor Phys will notice his absence and mercilessly search for Michatron. He will ascend first to a town whose house walls are blackened with soot, no birds fly in the sky, the people shuffling sadly to and fro are like meager scarecrows on a desolate heath. Doctor Psych knows the reason, Micha, who finds it extremely difficult to comprehend these things, still feels like a nightmare. Doctor Psych comes up with explanatory words: "What you see here is the town of Bombshower. It was the scene of old-fashioned warfare, from man-to-man battles to tank attacks and long-range bombing. The people have largely rebuilt their homes, but the fear of further destruction remains." Michatron's next destination is the city of Genome. His computerized eyes glide over working people who look like humans but go about their business in a most peculiar way - lifeless, cold ... mechanical. Michatron can move freely among them, no one sends him curious or suspicious glances. On the clean and well-maintained sidewalk, where passers-by move about as if controlled by others, he is jostled by someone in a corner, who looks at him impassively. Michatron imitates him. Then the bumper says with astonishment: "No, that's impossible! Micha! Micha! It's you, isn't it? Oh, what am I saying: It must be you! What is it? Don't you recognize your old classmate Claude?" Yes, it will be him, Claude from Doctor Wisbeard's lessons, whom he meets again in the hectic crowd after so many years. But Micha's mind is still slumbering deep in his remaining organic cell structure, even though he stores every environmental stimulus with the utmost precision and tries to force his way into the consciousness of the machine center with the strength of his soul. Doctor Psych takes over and explains to Claude what has happened to Micha and what they intend to do. Claude offers his help because he is not feeling any better. He has become the involuntary victim of the cloning process, i.e. the identical re-creation of a human being who not only looks exactly like the original, but also in his thoughts and feelings. It will be the same Claude who will have died years before; because he is driven by forbidden things, he will be held duly liable for this, but cancer will take him away from the punishing hands. The current, successfully cloned Claude is free of disease; his punishment, so to speak, is the brash, always healthy use of his labor for Genome, where there is apparently no human being born in the usual way. When the clones go to bed in their blocks for their obligatory night's rest, Michatron implants a digital alarm clock in him; it wakes him up prematurely from his obligatory sleep so that he can escape from Genome unnoticed. Now two more or less human bodies and three souls leave together. Before they reach the next town, they cross a parched, dust-dry field. Michatron's senses begin to buzz with excitement. Doctor Psych picks up the signals and understands what Micha is trying to tell him. He says more to Micha than to Claude: "Yes, you've recognized it correctly. Here, where the giant rock looks down on the valley, were once the fields that fed the land of Wellenough. The harvest was destroyed for all time by bacteria that were artificially created in laboratories. They were originally intended to combat world hunger by multiplying food in laboratories. But the conspiratorial neighboring countries had other plans for Wellenough's population ..." Claude realizes sadly: What was discussed at length by Doctor Wisbeard back when he was still his old self is now the bitter truth. "Somehow I've always known it," he grumbles, and then they enter the residential areas of Wellenough. Although the streets appear to be normally inhabited, no one is to be seen. Claude and Michatron walk through a ghost town as the latter's nerve cells and senses gradually take their old place. After several hours of hapless wandering without meeting a soul, they decide to leave the dead city. They see a strange movement in the sky. Objects, fences, roofs - and even screaming people! - whirl helplessly in and around the funnel of a whirlwind. Not far behind, they see another one, bigger, more destructive. As they slip into an underground cave in search of shelter, they think they have escaped the danger when they realize that another funnel storm is lurking behind them; they only just manage to escape into the dark abyss. Michatron's automatic spotlights illuminate the vaults as if it were daytime. There they encounter strange, shrunken little people with no eyes. They fearfully scent the strangers, but their spokesman steps forward boldly and speaks up: "Welcome to what remains of the beautiful Arodnap. I sense that you are strangers. If you want to get through to New Eden, I'll be happy to show you the way."

"Why don't you go yourselves?" Michatron suddenly asks, as if he hadn't forgotten how to speak for an hour. The blind speaker lowers his head and says: "We believe that it will be over one day! We will not let our home be taken away from us! We are told that nature is taking revenge on us because we have been careless with our environment. But that's not even half the truth. These cunning scientists are working day and night on new insidious weapons to implement their sinister plans, which no one knows for sure. We only know one thing: human life means nothing to them ...!" Under the cover of the underground passages, Michatron and Claude and their guide make their way unharmed under the Stormlands to the Polyforests. They learn from him that a scientific congress is being held in that land, in which the creep Doctor Phys is involved. Above ground again, they bid farewell to their senses-sharpened guide and flee from the dying remnants of the whistling thunderstorm under the high, covering umbrellas of the deciduous trees. Claude, as a whole, albeit recreated human being, is more in need of rest than Michatron, so he asks for a break. Sitting on a cut trunk, he sprays his skin with tick spray as a precaution, Michatron lowers his equipment to low energy and does what for him means rest and relaxation. As they sit there for a while, Claude notices repeated pricks on his skin. When he happens to look down, he is horrified to see that about half a dozen pear-sized ticks have attached themselves to his body. He screams for help and Michatron, as one would wish in such a case, is immediately on his feet, pointing his blunt forearm at Claude's shaking body, which emits odorless steam from its tiny holes and sends the ticks tumbling down defeated. "I should have known!" Michatron reproaches himself, but it will be Doctor Psych who speaks here. "These are experiments that my brother supervised. He wanted to use mutated micro-organisms to attack enemy countries, which also harbor one or two bombs in their bodies. At the same time, he turned them into immune carriers of any number of diseases in their original size, just by pinching their victim once." Claude hears this with horror. He urges Michatron to flee the polyforests as quickly as possible in order to force an antidote from Doctor Phys, in case the ticks really had transmitted a disease of some kind to him. They reach New Eden. Things are extremely peaceful here. The people are friendly, never raise their voices to each other; they resemble angelic beings in their behavior. It is hard to believe that, until recently, there seems to have been no region in the whole world where calm, understanding behavior is now in such stark contrast. Michatron, whose spirit is getting closer and closer to his conscious waiting place, feels life here with benevolence, while Claude constantly urges him that they are in a hurry. They come across a group of young people sitting together in front of a colorless, motionless monitor. Michatron then realizes that they are individually wired to the silent device via their eyes and ears. When Claude accidentally trips over the tangle of cables, he tears the connection unit off a student's head; she screams in despair. Doctor Psych lets Michatron speak as he feels him coming on more and more: "What are you shouting about? What kind of a joke is this? You must be machine people, like me, and have nothing better to do than have movies fed directly into your brains." The girl laughs and says: "Nonsense! We're at school. Our teacher at the front is providing us with the latest episodes from the glorious days of our ancestors." Michatron grabs the connection unit, resists the girl's obstructive grasp and connects it to his semi-organic senses. What his brain is being fed is unbelievable, but Doctor Psych wants to show Micha how dishonest New Eden is. He watches reports and documentaries, shot like feature films, about a time when Michatron was still the lonely boy of pure flesh and blood. He remembers. There is no trace of human violence, irrationality or compulsiveness in the videos. No wonder the pupils enjoy the lessons equally: What they need to know is fed into their brains unchecked, thus there is neither a free science nor the need for one in New Eden, because everyone learns the world has always been perfect - and remains so. When Michatron has had enough of the lies, he walks with heavy footsteps to the electronic teacher, plugs the cable of his memory storage into the device and transfers every single piece of information in his life into the teaching box, which immediately transmits it to the students' stimulators. The corners of their mouths drop almost simultaneously as they are shown what really happened, what is still happening - and what will happen! Some of the students manage to tear the stim helmet off their heads and storm off as if they were out of their minds. "Don't forget," Michatron warns the other students, "learning has nothing to do with entertainment! Happy are those who see learning as entertainment, but the subject matter must correspond to verified facts. You have been deceived for a long time, now you have learned what the world is really like." New Eden is by no means the final stage of Michatron's journey of self-discovery. Especially not since he knows that the dangerous Doctor Phys is beyond New Eden in the Congress Hall. Claude's concern for his health also pushes the two of them towards a decisive encounter with their adversary. The Congress Hall stands on the summit of the land of Patricorn, once known for its magnificent buildings and clever people. However, since trade with other lands has come into brisk exchange, countless peoples of all different mindsets and behaviors have flocked to Patricorn; gradually they will shake its solid cultural pillars, Michatron and Claude almost believe that there never was that excellent land; only from a few natives do they learn how rich their lost homeland once was. Do you think this is also part of Doctor Phys's machinations? In any case, Claude and Michatron are on the heights of the congress hall, but unfortunately they arrive too late; the meeting has already ended. They see the armored cars leave with their important heads, including Phys - with his family. Michatron has his consciousness back enough that his mind and body can issue as many commands as Psych, who will have most control so far. So the two clash as Psych senses Micha's wrathful intentions; gently talking him down, he tries to talk some sense into Micha. But Micha is firm in his resolve. He is on the trail of the car until it stops at a seaside resort where Phys is spending the sunny afternoon with his wife and three children. He waits for the right moment to secretly take a look at Phys, but by then Micha's reinvigorated spirit is already beginning to sink into a crisis of conscience. As he sees and hears the many families in bliss, he finds it hard to believe that there is one of them who has caused such horrible things that Michatron will experience so bitterly on his path of self-discovery. Nevertheless, he confronts him. As his wife and children play absentmindedly in the water, Michatron grabs his scoop and snarls in a rage with his bracers held out: "You planted these weapons on me. How about being the first to experience their effects?" The threatened man stammers: "I know you, Micha. I know what you need. You were a pioneer, the first to voluntarily level the discord of humanity by thinking to yourself: To the body limited pleasures, but to the soul the unexcited ramblings of the universe. You are an angel, don't you realize that? By giving up your body, you set your soul free."

Michatron replies, more furious than ever: "And yet my body was misused for warlike purposes ..." He is about to fire a shot when Doctor Psych storms into his consciousness. "Brother, do you hear me? I have tried to restore the boy to his old self; with excessive success, as it now turns out. Your actions are irresponsible, that much is true. But I beg you: Prove to the boy that you are a man for whom love is not just a private matter; he saw how you cuddled your children, embraced them with an expression of heartfelt fatherliness and found it difficult to let them go. Prove to him that a man of knowledge is also a champion of love." Psych restrains Micha's vengeful powers, his cunning twin takes advantage of this inner conflict and makes off; before Michatron can chase after him, he disappears behind the lead door of his secret bunker, dozens of which are located throughout the entire empire. Shortly afterwards, a rocket shoots with great noise into the evening sky, straight towards Phys' star laboratory, at a safe distance from the sick earth. A glowing red ball glides out of the hole, which will be surrounded by charred plants after the fire jet, and speaks to Michatron and Claude: "I am the core, the heart of the earth. I have long tolerated your abominations on my skin. But the fact that you presume to ram against the gate of my love in order to finally break through it is evidence of a bad nature; you are no longer worthy of me calling you my children." The core sinks back into the hole, causing the earth to shake terribly. Claude says pointedly to Michatron: "And how am I supposed to find out whether I'm ill or not?" Michatron, in harmony with two souls, ignores his question and speaks like an enlightened man: "When I was still a mere human boy, it often happened that the so-called uneducated sometimes astonished the so-called educated with their understanding. From the point of view of the latter, all knowledge available to man presupposes the slave status of the person to be taught. Not so from Doctor Wisbeard's point of view, in him compassion prevailed, he approved of my wish, because on the one hand he knew about the general indifference to his work and on the other hand he had to faithfully believe that it would one day develop for the better. The ruins of the school proved that I made the right decision at the time; who is really educated, who is uneducated ...?" Claude, meanwhile, presses him for an answer, as he is very worried about his well-being. Michatron shakes his head and says with a faint smile: "People want immortality because they are mortal. And if they were immortal, they would crave death en masse." I am at the end of my outlook, nothing further is shown to me. So if a teacher or your parents scold you again, call you a fool and you feel that they wrongly know everything better, remember: any one of you could become a Claude or Michatron ...

It must be true

Two political extremists were sitting together on the riverbank. One of them vehemently defended his view: "That stone there in the water - it is the symbol of permanence, tradition and strength. Nothing can harm it, so it will still be standing when everything around it has disappeared." The other, no less convinced of his objectives, countered: "The drifting water will sooner or later carry the stone away, because everything is in motion, is subject to constant change - and so there is no existence for something that rebels against change."

While the two were arguing, Grillwarze came along the path, known as "the wise child's head", who was highly respected for his arbitration. He was asked to put an end to the dispute. He ordered the two rivals to get into the boat to cross to the other shore, which was all he had intended. As they bobbed over a shallow spot, he instructed the champion of permanence to get into the water and stay there. He ordered his rival, however, as the water became more turbulent, to dive with the appropriate equipment and head for the spot where the other was waiting. He was to attack the waiting man with the harpoon, but the survivor would be the winner. The murderous diver managed to kill his opponent, but in his drunken victory he was caught up in a whirlpool that swept him away and ended his life on the hard rock below the waterfall. Grillwarze had gotten what he wanted, he had been taken to the other shore and the little bit of wetness he wrung out of the corner of his dress was a miserable price to pay. Centuries later, the legend of the arch-rivals became a tourist attraction. Festivals, competitions and souvenir stalls advertised the simple-minded quarrel, which had been dug out of local history books and seemed so timeless in its pithiness that it offered something for everyone. This happened in times of peace. After the civilizational erosion known as war rolled over the country, there was nothing left to remind us of the polemics that had begun so naturally in the stormy years, nor of the legends that followed. Only the mortal remains of those who had perished in the water, long since absorbed into the food chain, could support their convictions for the renewing environment. For the rivers were already rushing by, and it would only be a matter of time before they flared up somewhere. And lest the spiritualists feel deceived, it should be noted that eyewitness accounts spoke of apparitions that claimed to have seen the odd couple sitting on the shore, one arm draped over the other's shoulder, pityingly lamenting the obtuseness of mortals, devoid of temporal concepts.

Picture language

After a long journey, the bustling wind returned to his girlfriend, the cell. She envied him his extensive education, while he appreciated her quiet patience in the face of the numerous events within her walls, which often bordered on the unbearable. He, the worldly-wise man, immediately began to report: "You won't believe me, dear friend, but I have traveled to countries where the walls of their homes have become a prison for their inhabitants. This may have helped some to find inner peace, but the vast majority, as soon as freedom presented itself irresistibly, went back to their former debauchery. They say: If walls could talk ... Fortunately, I know some who can; there is little honorable to say about those who are enclosed by them. Who thinks of this room that never changes ..." He expected the cell to reply, but as it remained silent, he continued his report. "I have seen considerable brains whose hands produced deficiencies, and vice versa; I have seen small wars alternate with great wars, each one capturing infinity in its own way; I have also seen image contend with image, each considering itself the most beautiful. If I were not constantly traveling, I believe the standstill, and therefore the preoccupation with what I have seen, would destroy me." The monosyllabic cell now let her words ring out: "Most of the time you only touch on things. Having seen a lot does not mean understanding a lot. Not everything can be easily expressed in pictures. Nevertheless, I will try. One of my former soul mates sat in the company of two people who wanted to tease something out of him on the one hand and talk him into something on the other. The two of them advocated 'political correctness', whereas he was on the side of 'scientific correctness'. His speeches were intelligent, just as yours are; guided by the urge to research, he wanted to shed light on the darkness of political caves that refused to do so. Their speeches went like this: 'Illness is evil! Evil must be fought! His went like this: 'Illness is natural, although it should, of course, be cured if possible'. There is no agreement among thinking beings as to where the boundaries of illness begin or end, and certainly not about evil. Anyone who nevertheless claims this, or whose actions suggest that this is the case, is driving on a spiritual one-way street; he is recklessly dragging other road users along with him and heading straight for the dead end that is to become the dead end for everyone. Like you, I too have seen a lot. We are what we are, what we had to become, but defending a certain position entails ignoring, even denying, other points of view; perhaps the others are standing up for something that you are currently lacking, something that you could get in exchange if you weren't so keen to be on a war footing all the time. What do you think? Can complicated issues be stated succinctly? Or are they an end in themselves, in which case they would be a frameless reflection of the unfathomable nature of things. How would one even want to depict what was decided long ago and what was achieved by chance as a unity? You see, I am unable to investigate any further." After a while, the cell was torn down. No one could answer whether this had been decided long ago. The wind carried away what it had accidentally gained.

The false fairy tale

Of the double standard

Lupold was an attentive boy who liked to have his mother read him old fairy tales at bedtime. This evening it was about the honorable miller, whose firm faith in God brought him only hardship until shortly before his death; the angels showered him with riches after his unholy adversaries had paid the price for their wickedness. The fairy tale concludes with the words: "...for good will triumph in the end."