I had a dream one day. I'm on the edge of rebirth—not at the gates of Heaven, not even Hell. Nope, I'm smack in the middle of a dirt-cheap '90s TV show. You know the type: scratchy background music that sounds like iron grinding, a color scheme that feels like a bargain store for the destitute, and decorations left unsold despite heavy discounts, now used as the backdrop.
I'm the main guest. Oh, yeah, I've reached for the sky. Just died. Sitting there in front of an audience so fake they might as well be CGI. Then the screen buzzes to life, and boom—there it is, my life stats. Thrilling stuff, in air quotes: graduated college, went to a concert by my favorite rock band, got married, had two kids. Oh, and that one hilarious incident with the lost keys. Though not much had happened in my life, it felt so warm to reminisce. I'm in tears, but the audience was silent.
Then came the "golden lineup" of hosts, and the audience went wild. Satan, looking like a rebellious teen, and the Angel, calm and nurturing, appeared. Satan glanced at the screen, unimpressed:
"Oh, angelic soul," Satan drawled, his voice dripping with mockery, "It seems your life isn't devilish enough. What's Heaven going on? You ended your previous life with a measly 100 starter points? That's zero. You wouldn't even qualify for the White Whiny With Rooster Wings Wa** (Angels) Team, let alone my awesome league. Such a bore. Honestly, I'd suggest my boss drop a second Hitler on Earth, just to spice things up."
 "He'll did it!" someone shouted from the audience.
"Oh, lovely," said Satan, continuing, "The guest could've strayed off course—40 points, respawn in a broke country, turn to crime, maybe even go full Nazi. Love those guys—Hell's MVPs. But this?" He shook his head. "This is just the cycle of sh** (life). Born - die, born - die. Eat - poop, eat - poop. The Fuc** eaterpoops (human), BOR-ING!"
The Angel whispered, "Sorry, souly... We can't take you to Heaven yet. You're like a flower waiting to bloom—next time, you'll thrive." She cradled the soul gently, her eyes full of love. "You're meant for more. Keep going, I believe in you. Next life, you'll join us."
In the lore of my dream, there's no Heaven or Hell—just a settings panel for your next life. The points you earned in your previous life? They only determine the starting conditions. How you begin shapes how you end. Life goals tied to points—like living at the expense of others (getting rich and gaining power from power), creating vessels for other souls (in other words, having lots of sex), or leaving a mark (building great landmarks or creating some creats).
You can also use strategy. For example, before dying in the last round, you had an insight—IT is the future. Pick somewhere like California, with a math geek family. But how do you pull off that level of precision? That's VIP access, reserved for Team Angel. One soul had many bodies - Mussolini, Mary I, Columbus, or Catherine the Great. Forget human ideas of good and evil. Soul with just one order to massacred many others. Then have over 200 points to spend, allowing them to fine-tune their future to perfection.
What about someone like Hitler? He's off the Angel roster. Why? He earned just 35 points—he wanted to be an artist, but Satan talked him out of it. "Quit art school," Satan told him. He responded, "I should paint better," but Satan persisted: "Start preaching Nazism instead." And we know how that turned out. Now he's reincarnated as a drug addict from Pennsylvania—his fourth round since then.
Earth's concept of good and evil differs from the heavenly order. The Angel urges you to earn as many points as possible, while Satan tempts you to quit or stray from your true path.
I looked at the screen in front of me. Points. Endless lines of numbers and parameters. It felt like choosing a character in a video game, but the stakes were much higher.
"Well, my dear soul, make your choice," Satan smirked, lounging on his throne. "Wanna be a millionaire? Pricey, but possible. A homeless philosopher? Almost free."
I swiped my finger across the screen. The options were overwhelming, but something was nagging at me. I hesitated. What if I failed again? And live loser life, again.
The screen flickered. A timer started counting down.
"Oh, time's up, buddy," Satan drawled. "Make your move."
First choice: the "game server." After a quiet life in the past round, raising kids and never leaving their home country, I decided to go big this time—choosing a large country. The logic? If the next round repeats itself, at least there'd be a chance to see more of the world's beauty and nature.
Next, I chose to be born Asian. In my past life, I had developed a fascination with the idea of reincarnation. But, I decided to add a mix of economics, politics, and history to the usual esotericism. So, I picked China knowing it was on track to become a global powerhouse.
Oh, and Asians are cheaper than Caucasian in the system. Yeah, he's kind of (index finger pointing to the sky) racist. But hey, BTS, Stray Kids, and anime hadn't been invented yet, so don't judge too harshly… and pray… he needs you
Satan, clearly amused, smirked and said: — "Oh, so you're really tryin' to game the system, huh? You know what my boss is cookin' up for China, right? You really think you're gonna score that perfect setup?"
There weren't enough points, so debuffs kicked in—dyslexia, misanthropy with eccentricity, and a speech impediment. Optimistically, this kit could work for a comedian. Still not enough points? Fine, a rural life it is. No worries—you can always move to the city later, though it doesn't always go smoothly. Like that time in the Middle Ages when i left his village and got eaten by a wolf—three times. Good times!
For communication, the cheapest option was an operator like Islam, since conflicts were brewing in the Middle East (where dying at the spawn point was basment).
The soul got too caught up in racking up numbers, ignoring the words. It ended up with frequent illnesses and a weak stomach. The soul was like, "Who cares what's written? Just gimme those points!" Maybe that's why I've always hated math. Honestly, I'd probably sell a kidney if I saw a big number without reading the fine print.
Despite all the downsides, the soul broke even and even earned extra points. So what did it do? Went all in for an elite family. But I forgot my starting postion…
Satan smirked, "Well, welcome to your tiny village, buddy. Enjoy the ride."
The Angel softly said, "Don't worry, next time everything will be better. You're just continuing your journey."
It was a shiny winter Sunday in December. The snow glistened like a sea of tiny diamonds, each step crunching underfoot with a crisp, satisfying sound. Amazing forenoon, It was a breathtakingly cold. All the bank employees were called into work on their day off, early in the morning. They had no idea why they'd been summoned—perhaps a new economic crisis? Maybe they'd still have time to withdraw their own money from their accounts.
Without question, every employee showed up at the office and brought their friends. Despite the frosty day, their friends nervously waited outside the building, puffing on cigarettes. Another day without money, a year later? Probably not. Maybe next time, don't trust the government's speeches about future and present economic stability. They were ready to rush in and take their money from their accounts if needed.
But the boss of bank was oddly cheerful, carrying a glass-clinking box into the building. In the meeting room, everyone was tense. The boss's smile stretched wide—not the vibe anyone was expecting. And then, he started shouting excitedly.
"I have a son, and this is for you!" The Boss announced, placing a box of alcohol on the table. "Today, we celebrate. Tomorrow, we work. Here's how things went under Ramil Sulagulovich: when his son was born, we drunk a year's worth in one evening! And then smash out a year's report by Monday night, that's how we worked, with all our might!"
Everyone around the office was proud of him. After ten years of waiting, a 40-year-old manager and his 30-year-old wife finally became parents to a baby boy. Of course, malicious tongues spread rumors that the mother might have had the child out of wedlock. Or that they had adopted him from an orphanage. He didn't look like his father. The child was sweet, with light-colored hair. But that will change in the future; right now, everyone was drunk and having fun.
Apart from alcohol, appetizers were served. Typical salted herring and the delicacies of that time—oranges and apples. Yes, back then, they were like cars at the end of the 19th century. Rare, not accessible to everyone, and unpleasant. Yet, it was understandable; the country had just emerged from the most absurd system in the world—one rooted in "fairness". If, under capitalism, man exploits man, then under communism, it's the other way around. You caught the joke, didn't you?
In communism, 0.01% citiezen controlled everything, while the rest lived in poverty—and even that poverty was far from equal. Those closer to power or the distribution person, thanks to friendships or family ties, became the so-called "middle class" and enjoyed certain privileges. They could secure the right to buy a car without waiting in line. And not just cars—salami too. Imagine, salami!
This is why crowds of friends and colleagues would gather outside, and old scars of nations never healed. Back in the day, a store clerk would tip off acquaintances that a shipment of sausage had arrived. Everyone would drop what they were doing and rush to the store. Meanwhile, a poor doctor, finishing a long shift, would walk into the store to find empty shelves. If they were lucky, there might be some canned stew, stale bread, or sour kefir left.
Hey, your soul chose another country… what the hell is going on? Looks like some devilish prank. And yeah, he knows exactly what's happening. I was tossed into another server—Russia. Why not? It fit all the parameters: capitalism had arrived, it's massive in size, and yes, there are Asians here. My wish about the starting location feels like wishing to celebrate 7 years in the best place—meaning Disneyland! And you plan a dream trip there on the morning of September 11th, flying from NY to LA, only to end up reluctantly celebrating your birthday at The Golf Club at Chelsea Piers. You might get what you wish for.
See, I chose Islam. Had I been born in China, I'd likely have been a Uyghur. Phew, that was close to crushing! And things aren't exactly sweet for them over there. Plus, the country itself? Not so different from a typical dictatorship. A sea of poverty hides behind a curtain of economic statistics and glossy propaganda on the screens.
What about new life? Lol. It was a nihgt dream, are you forgot? But It feels like it was reality, and I simply connected with a free child who fit the parameters. For some reason, childhood remebered in fragments—episodes tied to emotions. What emotions do I experience more often than others? Hmm, let me think.
It's fears!
Fear? Fear is a strange thing to me. It was a revelation—probably as groundbreaking as fire was for early humans—when I learned that elephants are afraid of mice. How does that even work? A massive beast, terrified of a tiny creature. Ha! Yeah, I'm an elephant too. I hate mice. At least we have that in common.
Honestly, I'm scared of everything. If life were like 'Inside Out', then my memory storage archive would be mostly blue. That nerd of an emotion has completely terrorized the others and seized control of my brain's remote.
Well, fear is always with me, so it's easier for me to make it into a character. But I'm afraid I won't pass the copyright check. Now fear been re-qualified as laziness. Call a girl and ask her out on a date? Why bother? It's obvious she's not the one for you. Let's come up with a thousand reasons to say no. And when they ask about pure fear… there for some reason, my classmate comes to mind.
Although, you have so much.
Our tourist group climbed a tall TV tower. It had an observation deck with a glass floor—337 meters above the ground. The view wasn't exactly breathtaking—down below, the people didn't even look like ants; they were more like little their micro-turds smudged on the glass.
Visitors to the tower were busy taking the usual "funny" tourist photos—you know, the classics, such as pretending to hold up the Leaning Tower of Pisa or posing in Paris with a rat on your head. Your grandma's gonna love your unique idea—show your pic off to all her friends. But her friend? Oh, she'll lose her mind trying to come up with a witty response to you.
Task for her: You stepped onto the glass floor and snapped pictures of feet.
Her decision: "Look, Gulliver in the land of Lilliput! Wow, what a strong and sturdy warrior he's become! All the girls will adore him!"
It's possible that such a compliment about me might not be entirely true, but it sounds like a description of my classmate, the epitome of masculinity! He stood strong, like a concrete wall.
Nah, he was trembling like an electric jackhammer in full swing when he went there. His buddies practically had to drag him to the glass floor like they were escorting a fragile old man. Yeah, you know, if you let go of the tool, and it starts dancing on its own! Step by step, they held onto him, arms locked like a human straightjacket. The dude was wobbling so badly, his knees almost gave out. They managed to snap one photo while he was wailing before whisking him off the glass in a flash.
Poor guy hit the bar afterward and ordered a glass of whiskey to forget about the glass.
Me? I took 11 photos, lying down like I owned the place, posing like I was floating on a cloud. Sitting, standing—name a pose, I nailed it. No fear, just good vibes. Am I bragging? Absolutely. But that's not the point.
There I was, lying fearlessly on a glass floor 337 meters above the ground, just one crack away from plummeting to my doom. And I was looking down. Cool. The real kicker? Once upon a time, I'd have been glued to the edge, too scared to even peek over from the tiniest height. Back in childhood, I was terrified of crossing a bridge no longer than an eight-lane highway and no taller than a two-story building. Lol, those were the days.
This bridge wasn't just for crossing to other bank; it was a gateway to the village's biggest events—my personal nemesis included. The dreaded mass cross race, held twice a year. Apart from that, there were the usual events like regional concerts, air shows, and more. The main festival happened once a year—Sabantuy. It's a celebration marking the end of the sowing season.
Think of a traditional medieval fair, but with a communist twist. Games, markets, performances, food—you'd find something similar in any country. But here's where you'll see a parade of trucks. On their backs, scenes depicting different professions were performed. Everyone was in uniform, engaged in activities typical of their jobs. Beekeepers were collecting honey, doctors were treating patients, miners were waving hand to the crowd... scenes aren't meant for serious men. Brutalism. Lol. No, they looked flawed and dull.
I liked the parade, except for the boring brutalists—I wouldn't have gone for them. But there was something that scared me...
Crossing the bridge. The pedestrian walkway on the bridge had holes—big enough for a kid's foot to slip through. Not because the bridge was old or damaged, mind you. Nope, the engineers designed it that way. Why? Who knows? Drainage? Nah, Soviet engineers would scoff at the idea. Maybe they should've designed something more comfortable for the girls too? Like tampon. Little things for comfort life, lol. Extra movements for the convolution, let the puddles remain, they'll dry up someday. And the girls can take burdock to do their dirty deeds. Don't distract great mind of country, they're busy thinking about how to destroy the world. Hello! Crazy town's that way.
One time, I thought I'd fallen through, lost a shoe, or maybe my whole self. Was it a nightmare? Doesn't matter. At least the fear of losing my shoe stuck with me. Every crossing felt like the life of an old blender—lots of vibes, a dull blade, and no results. Ah, if only I had sharper blades instead of my hands and fruits, I'd be cranking out smoothies then! But my parents would hold my hand tight, and I'd shake inside, discovering my heartbeat for the first time. Anyway, I dreamed about that bridge more often than I do about my crush now. Unanswered question. What was it for? An unknown holes. Just a perfectly round holes, like in golf. Even Google has no clue.
So how did I conquer that fear? I didn't. It just faded. One day, I realized my foot didn't even fit in those holes anymore. Growth—physical and... mental? Lol, if it's right to say. That's when it hit me: my dad probably never cared about my fears because, from his perspective, those holes were nothing. And he wasn't wrong.
And was I relieved to find the answer to my question. If you're curious about those holes, it turns out they were for threading crane strops during construction. The moment I stopped seeing the bridge as a problem, I came across a scene: a kid clinging to the road sign, refusing to cross the bridge, blaming those holes.
Seriously, I had already come to terms with the fact that this was my personal fear. I had calmed down, thinking I was just stupid and alone. And then there was this scene: a child screaming, showing emotions. He couldn't stand it unlike I did... the population in country. Maybe others are afraid too, they just don't show it. That's probably why I remember their fears. They probably think they're lonely too. But still, the child showed me that we are not alone. And I often forget about it.
Even though I'm the king of fears, I do have some advice.
I fight some them differently. Ok, example. The plane starts shaking, and my first thought is, "Well, looks like I won't be overeating at dinner tonight. Day off from farting is starting." Or in other words, if I'm destined to die, then so be it. You can't outrun fate. It's a pretty radical mindset. But it relaxing me. Super advice for sarcasm, thank me!
But really, what if I had fallen into the river? What then? There was a river below, calm and still. The bridge wasn't even high enough to qualify for a proper Olympic dive. But honestly? I couldn't swim.
How did I know this? Well, let's take a step back.
I've always been a bit of a sociopath, never really a fan of socializing since childhood. So, my mom sent me to school earlier than I was ready to graduate kindergarten. You could say I went there as an "external student." We'll talk about my social phobia later; it's a bit of a controversial topic. The kindergarten graduated kids in the end of spring, so I had the whole free summer ahead. My sister went to a school camp at the start of summer. And I was probably thrown in there with her as some kind of punishment. But at least my parents freed themselves. Yeah, for me, that was stressful. First, my sib two years older than me, second, she's a girl, third, I didn't know anyone there, and fourth, it was school, and I'd never been to one. I wouldn't have minded playing with Barbie dolls—maybe I'd have grown up to be a MILF hunter, thanks to friendships with my sister's friends. But alas, there were other "attractions".
The school camp was a lot different from the usual - summer. It ran from morning to afternoon, like regular lessons. The teachers were the camp counselors. So basically, it was an extension of school, so parents wouldn't have to change their work schedules or worry about where to dump the kid for the starts summer.
Aside from breakfasts, lunches, and walks around the territory, there were also squad roll. No, I'm not talking about prison. In there prisoners play cards and craft little trinkets out of bread crumbs and their roll calls don't last as long. Fun and little stress. Fine, let's get back to the camp. Squad roll call — or, as it's also known, lineup. So, It's like a drill in the military, except you stand still and curse everything in sight. From Marx, who came up with communism, to the Prussian army, which invented the military tradition.
The lineup went like this: a boring speech from the headmaster. Even as a future adult, I'd tune out all those reports and wishes. Then there was the roll call, full of formalities. Brace yourselves, try not to faint just from reading this info — many kids faling on ground during the lineup itself. Weaklings, according to the higher-ups. And our envy for them. Absolutely justified, because they get whisked off to the infirmary, where they can just chil. Sure, with a headache, but still better than standing here.
And then, roll call... or another name for it—team building. Just a way to group people into teams. And now, you're not just a hypothetical Daniel you're a team 'babes'. Not a mamber. You no longer exist as an individual. Sound like an army? Yeah, damn. When you charge into battle and die, the reports won't say, "Daniel is gone." They'll just say, "The squad of babes suffered minimal losses. This is what they're being trained for..
First, the commander gives the order: 'Stand at attention, line up, count off!' Then, everyone calls out their number in sequence, and the last person adds, 'The count is finished.' (Without that, the magic of stupidity doesn't work.) If he forget? The whole team does it again.
But wait, there's more. We had to remember what squad we were in—because, you know, counselors conveniently suffered from daily memory loss. So, next by the commander's order, we together had to announce our squad's name and motto. And that wasn't even the worst part.
See, everyone here was a 'vocalist' with the beautiful voice such as grinding of dishes. So, of course, we had a team anthem to sing—loudly, like monkeys in mating season. The vibe? Not chill but drill of nill.
Where discipline and military training reigned, other joys could also be found.
My childhood passed in the cold plains of Texas. In the endless expanse of sun-scorched grasslands. Winters here were harsh and snowy, though not as brutal as in the northern parts of the country. Even so, swimming in the river at the start of summer was an extreme sport, akin to snowboarding or fingerboarding at a swinger party. One year of starting century was abnormally hot. And we went to swim.
The beach looked like Omaha, In the sense it was littered with crushed beer cans like the remnants of a damaged vehicle cans and cigarette butts, like spent shell casings after a firefight. Looked like a drunken battalion had landed here overnight. Night D—Drunkenness.
Well, at least we were in a small village, so no trendy syringes. But speaking of medicine, there were… certain products lying around—ones that prevent reinforcements. I didn't understand why adults needed them. Hopefully, I wouldn't come across this too often.
Damn, I hope that didn't sound like a wish back then.
Apart from lounging and tanning on the goose beach (original name), we swam in what they called "the frog pond." That's what they insultingly named the shallow waters. This didn't sit well with some of the kids, most of them older—well, "older" being around 9 to 11 years old. I was only six at the time, so they seemed like full-grown men in plaid shirts and pickup trucks drivers. My sister and her friends were also following these "grown men," perhaps drawn by the faint aroma of underdeveloped testosterone. Can you smell the sweet scent of chemicals in the air? I followed them like a little tail. Can you smell your stinky brother from behind?
For me, they smelled more like danger, a lack of friendliness. To my young mind, everyone older than me—kids and adults alike—seemed the same. Rude and rowdy. They all headed to the opposite shore.
There was a time I also tried to reach that shore by myself. That was just ten minutes ago, but as I write, it feels like an era long gone, as if from the time of the Carolingians or the building of the pyramids. Anyway, during my first attempt, I almost made it but chickened out when the water reached my chin. On my that try, I went further by tiptoeing and made it to the opposite shore.
But it was just as disappointing there. The kids went wild, running around and splashing water everywhere. Someone even found a muddy slope at the edge of the water and declared it a "pig slide." Everyone started sliding down into a puddle. I think even the pigs were horrified by the chaos and bolted.
Then came the "King of the Hill" battles—a full-on brawl to claim the muddy mound. After being knocked off three times, I was completely exhausted and wanted to go home. So, without waiting for anyone, I headed back "Goose Beach". The shore where I stood was empty. All the children were left behind the forest plantation, and that beach was out of sight.
So, I stepped into the water again. At first, it was up to my knees. One step, and it was waist-deep. Another, and it reached my shoulders. Then my neck. I thought, "No problem, I'll just turn back like last time." I tiptoed back… And that's when I slipped and began to drown.
I started trying to push off the bottom, but each time, I was pulled down again. I only had time on air for one breath. Panic surged. My arms splashed frantically. There was no time to scream. At one point, I gulped down water with the air I desperately tried to inhale.
It felt like a solid object, not liquid, had lodged in my throat. The water stung my ears and nose, but it wasn't hot like boil.
At that moment, I felt like I had died. Well, no, I didn't have time to rack up points. I hope I have enough for at least a normal life. Who am I kidding? Self? I realized this attempt was a failure, and that's it. It felt like a domino effect—now, I'll be an adept of Satan. Lovely. As I watched the sun fading, it didn't seem bright or cheerful. And last on my live. It irritated me, knowing I couldn't reach it. But then a hand reached out to me.
Someone pulled me out. Everything was dark and dull, and I coughed violently, tearing at my throat. After some time, I came to my senses and saw my sister's terrified eyes. Yep, she was scared. But nope, she isn't my saver.
I don't remember how I came on "Goose Beach". I don't even remember the name of my rescuer. I only remember my sister's frightened face and how, for everyone else, it was just another day. The next morning at the lineup, we listened to the principel announcements and sang the usual hymn. Nobody asked how I was. My rescuer vanished, someone I had seen often before he save me.
After summer, I started school and made some new friends. Our paths home often diverged—I would turn toward the residential neighborhoods, while they walked through an oil storage area. I remember them showing me a small puddle of oil there.
One day, a journalist from a local newspaper visited our school.
"Kids, did you know there's a hero among you?" The journalist was practically ecstatic.
"Of course, we never doubted him! Let's give Ainur a round of applause. He may be small, but he's mighty," the teacher chimed in.
"That's what she said," I would've yelled if the me from now had been there in that moment.
The next day, the article was published. On the front page, it told the story of Ainur's heroism, mentioned his parents, and even included a quote from the "hero" himself. "We were just walking home along our usual route when we saw some ducklings stuck in the oil. We pulled them out, and the owner came running over and thanked us." Yes, that was on the first page.
Just think about the value of a person in a country like this—where food (do you think ducks are raised for companionship themselve?) is valued more than human life. In dictatorships, life isn't worth much to begin with.
Years later, I wondered—if I had drowned that day, would they have set up buoys in the river? Would they have watched over the kids at the beach? Or just ensured everyone walked or stood in line and followed the same stupid traditions? I heard from someone that it's safe here. Of course. If they kill you, no one will investigate, so as not to spoil the statistics. Otherwise, why such control over the population.
How many people have been saved, and how many have died? It's all just routine here. Now, with the war, the number of soldiers killed is staggering. And even without attempts to hide it, no one seems to care about the deaths of strangers. Even the most zealous patriots aren't rushing to enlist as volunteers. Everyone knows how little a life is worth here.
But you know, even though I'm a coward—this incident didn't leave me with any mental scars at all. I didn't even remember that incident. I just couldn't swim until I was 14, and all my friends hated me for it because we spent every summer splashing around in the shallows. Then one night, I had a dream that I could swim—and that same day, I did. Just like that, I got up and swam.
It reminds me of people living under a dictatorship. The traumatic past just fades away on its own. In another side, maybe it was all a nightmare, but you know me. Right? Well, how do you reset your memory? It's unthinkable and fantastic. Your brutal classmate is still shaking at the height.
For a while, I I asked my sister. My sib confirmed it. She remembered my rescuer, as well as her fear of getting scolded for my death. And the boy who saved me? He's been gone for a long time. He had died of cancer on adult.