Fragile Shards: Fragile Shards

By Tim Nakhapetov

"Fragile Shards" weaves a tapestry of narratives that delve into the complexities of existence, the surreal, and the profoundly human. Each story in this collection is a shard, a fragment of a world brimming with imagination, mystery, and, often, melancholy.

 

These tales transport the reader through landscapes, ethereal and obscure, where the boundaries between reality and fantasy blur. The stories are set in realms where dark trains traverse impossible routes, cities groan under their weight, and characters – both human and beyond – grapple with the existential dilemmas of their unique worlds.

 

"Fragile Shards" is a collection of stories and an odyssey through the uncharted territories of the mind and heart. It challenges the reader to confront their perceptions of reality, love, loss, and the ineffable nature of the human condition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Nakhapetov
• Release date: Jan 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224219452

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Fragile Shards

Tim Nakhapetov

Copyright © 2024 Tim Nakhapetov

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All images used in the book’s design were made by the author using the DALL-E neural network. Subject to the Content Policy and Terms, the author owns the images he creates with DALL·E, including the right to reprint, sell, and merchandise.

Fragile Shard 1

FRAGILE SHARDS OF DREAMS

The dream embraced her, enshrouding her in the endless threads of millennia, glowing with the amber reflections of centuries. She slept eternally, yet she was not deceased. Her slumber brought forth dreams — immense, grand, and boundless dreams far more significant than herself.

They were dreams of new worlds, of universes adorned with myriad stars and planets, where black holes danced with galaxies. Simultaneously, she dreamed of the smallest dust particles on the seashore, the gentle midday breeze, the swaying of amber wheat fields, the first raindrops, mountains, and the turquoise glimmer of oceans.

These dreams were breathtaking, and thanks to the ceaseless work of neurons in her mind, these worlds came into existence. They lived, populated by utterly different beings. They were born, and they died. These worlds thrived and flourished when she smiled in her slumber; when she cried, they crumbled to ashes and dust.

Then, one fateful day, she awoke. A nurse in a pristine white coat stood by her side, caressing her forehead, and spoke of some unprecedented stroke of fortune. She endeavored to remember — recall what she had dreamt of. Yet, it eluded her, for it had surpassed her finite being — vast, limitless, and beyond comprehension.

But those worlds were no more. All the realms she had envisioned perished.

So, let us pray that the one who dreams of you and me will slumber undisturbed for as long as possible.

To never awaken.

Fragile Shard 2

LIVING DEAD CITY

Above the bluish-lilac clouds, the whale swam, venturing where the crimson hues of the setting sun failed to reach and immersed itself in purple-blackness. On the giant mammal's back sprawled the city, adorned with hundreds of pointed towers, its windows gleaming with a thousand lights, and its streets lined with cathedrals and gardens. These gardens were remarkably splendid when the whale sailed over the southern seas in spring. However, it was now early autumn, and the gardens slowly transformed from their lush greenery and vibrant colors into a yellow-red palette, bright yet bearing a distinct imprint of sorrow and oblivion. This only accentuated the overall desolation that pervaded the abandoned city atop the back of the enigmatic whale.

From a swirling cloud emerged a solitary flying stingray darting towards the whale's right fin, where a small airport was located. In the vastness of the sky, the minuscule, shimmering stingray appeared as nothing more than a spark, a fleeting glimmer.

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Navigating between abandoned high-rise buildings, the stingray illuminated its surroundings with bright electrical flashes emanating from its tail. The pilot circled the landing area multiple times, carefully selecting a spot amidst the wreckage and remnants of the aircraft. Finally, the flying fish touched down near the entrance of the airport terminal building, an architectural marvel reminiscent of a Gothic cathedral.

As the stingray’s movements subsided and its tail’s flashes dwindled, the glass dome of the cockpit, embedded in the fish’s body, slid open. A tall, heavily built figure-clad head-to-toe in dark gray flexible plate armor emerged from the cockpit. Red and other fabric folds were draped over the armor with an intricate floral pattern. From his appearance, one could assume that this traveler (or the unexpected guest of the abandoned city) was a representative of the ancient clan of hashashin — the highest-level assassins. If an observer were present here, they would undoubtedly be surprised, for the hashashin vanished from the public eye centuries ago, and all traces of their existence were meticulously erased.

Thus, the presence of a living mercenary in such a peculiar place, where no one was left to kill — all succumbed to the epidemic — was all the more astonishing.

Nonetheless, the mercenary knew the purpose of his presence in the floating city perfectly well. Tipping his head slightly as if sniffing the air, he confidently proceeded toward the town and the whale’s side, rising above the distant horizon and towers, stepping over heaps of crushed stones, and bypassing towering fragments of buildings.

A rickety wooden staircase was fastened to the whale’s immense size, a makeshift structure hastily erected by looters. The hashashin cocked his head, evaluating the scale of the imminent ascent, and then sighed grimly, embarking on the dangerous climb. Starting from a height of two hundred meters, the ladder swayed mercilessly in sync with the whale’s undulations, the slightest movement of the mercenary causing oncoming airflows. He still had around a hundred meters to the top, the lower observation deck of the city, when the unstable structure creaked and began to crumble.

Fragments of wood plummeted, shattering upon hitting the fin’s concrete or being carried away by the wind, soaring into an endless flight through the clouds. Clinging with grasping fingers to the whale’s bumps and protrusions, the hashashin narrowly avoided tumbling into the abyss, teetering on the precipice for a few heart-pounding seconds. Yet, he was no stranger to such precarious situations — dancing with death was not just a profession but his entire life. Skillfully ascending the sheer wall, he ultimately conquered the last meters, clambering onto the ruby pavement of the city.

He sat for several minutes, leaning against the stone parapet, catching his breath. Then, he stood up, smoothed the intricate folds of his fabric, and surveyed his surroundings cautiously; from the quite expansive square where he found himself, two spacious, straight avenues and several winding, narrow alleys diverged, all leading uphill. After careful consideration, the hashashin chose one of the alleys that meandered toward the central town hall square. Even though the city appeared entirely deserted, it never hurt to exercise extra caution.

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Stealthily and swiftly, the mercenary trod along the ruby-adorned pavement, aglow with red flashes in the setting sun’s glare, his hands brushing against the walls of the buildings.

Previously, when the hashashin had just accepted this assignment, he regarded the forthcoming task with his usual cold indifference, devoid of any emotions — an order was an order, after all, and there had been many in his lengthy life. However, he felt incredibly uneasy alone in this strange ghost town. What was amiss? He trembled incessantly with a sticky, vile sensation of loneliness — not the blissful solitude he felt when returning to his secluded abode on a cliff after completing a mission, where he would spend time reading or training, but a dreary, gloomy feeling of eternal isolation, beyond remedy. He suddenly felt the anguish and agony of the lonely, tortured, deranged whale beneath his feet.

When this maelstrom of emotions peaked, and uncontrollable panic threatened to overwhelm him, he halted. A faint glimmer of reason flickered at the edge of consciousness, reminding him that, in this state, he would be accomplished at all costs. Seating himself directly on the cold, polished pavement, he meditated. He began to clear his