Magazine "The Avant Guard Almanac - Addendum" An addendum to issue №4

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Book\_6

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**Magazine "The Avant Guard Almanac - Addendum" An addendum to issue №4** (Russian: *Журнал «Альманах Авангарда», приложение к выпуску № 4*) is a document in *ATOM RPG*.

## Transcript

"The Avant Guard Almanach — Addendum"

14.04.1984

Topic:

"The revolutionary verse of Relsoff"

Little Red Poppy

The swollen corpse of horse thief Stepanov,

Was thrown upon my rusty metal table with neglect, by an empty-eyed soldier.

In the uneven light of the kerosene lamp, I started searching for the reasons for his death.

Upon finding them in the obvious – the loss of hope and no will to live, not in some disease plaguing the man's labyrinthine innards, that I set free by my surgeon's blade,

I picked up a needle and thread, ready to make the dissected corpse whole again. This is when I noticed…

Lo'! In the inmate's wide open stomach, a tiny, grain-of-sand-like poppy seed! Attached to it a hair-thin green stem.

With tweezers in hand, I carefully took out the poppy seed, and continued my work.

With my rusty, brutish hacksaw, I spread apart Stepanov's ribcage.

With a sick crunch under the pressure of my long knife, his ribs opened like a double door.

Opening to my gaze his blackened, shriveled heart, stuck to the back wall of it's chamber.

Cathartic, I made an incision in the left side of the dead heart, and placed into the wound my tiny poppy seed.

Oh, drink bravely from your new meat vase,

Oh little poppy seed!

Grow in this dead chest cavity, until one day you become a fire-red flower!

A red banner on a green stalk, you will break through the wall of dead flesh and bone and bring hope to men forevermore,

Oh little poppy seed…

The Flower of Life

On the fourth day of my shift, a wild steppe horse of officer N. scared the wife of captain Nikitin so much, she had a miscarriage on the 8th month of her pregnancy.

In the orange tint of dusk, I gaze upon a tiny corpse of an unborn child.

My strong, white-gloved hands strangle the air.

What a touching little miniature you are, tiny dead one!

Why, I should press on the soft bones of your doll-like head, and see your yellow-ish, skull, that's barely covered with hair, open up like a flower with four petals. Between those petals of bone a pink and grey brain would show itself to the dying sun.

Oh, how I wish my legs could grow roots!

Why, I'd bury myself so only my head would stick out of the moist ground,

So that on a rock-hard stem of my backbone, my own four-petal skull would bloom, and so that my own brain would come out and greet the fiery sky!

Why, how I would greet the reaper, that would come then, to gather my sun-bathing thoughts with his scythe.

A drowning god

Today, in a mild, but windy weather, they floated some rafts packed with salt down the river.

So, I though thus: do these rafts float like the wooden pagan gods floated on the Dnepr River, when the first Russian Tsar cast them away as he partook in Christianity?

Then I added to my thought thus: do these rafts float like the throne of the last Russian Tsar will float down the Moskva River when we cast him down, as we partake in Freedom?

Snaking through the tall grass, came a rope, attached to one of the rafts.

It suddenly wrapped around the foot of one of the prison guards like a noose. The raft pulled.

The guard fell, opening up his skull on a nearby rock. Moments later, the raft dragged his corpse into the river.

So I thought thus: Even a drowning God loves his share of blood.

Then I added to my thought thus: A bloody fight it shall be, when the Worker comes to rid the world of it's last monarch!