Chapter I. The Winner
The final lecture on modern literature was coming to an end. All the students knew that it was the time for Dr. Velomudrov (the Russian professor from Saint Petersburg) to announce the results of the poetry competition which he always held among the postgraduates.
“That is all,” the professor said and breathed. “Now you know everything about modern literature. The next period is the future. Who knows, perhaps, many years hence, some of you will be included on the list of world-famous writers.”
After these words, the professor opened his leather portfolio and took out a sheet of paper. “As you’ve probably guessed,” he said, “I left a little time to announce the best poet of your University. So… This competition was special. To begin with, this is the last time it will be held. I’m retiring. This was my final lecture and my last working day.”
Cheers rang out. In this way, the students of Toronto University were thanking their teacher, who had instilled in them a love for literature and writing.
Dr. Velomudrov bowed in gratitude and continued. “Secondly, I was very surprised to find a real gem. I mean, among you there’s a person whose poems outshine all others.”
This sounded very intriguing. The postgraduates began looking around, trying to figure out who this genius might be.
“The winner is… Erwin Aprik!” announced Dr. Velomudrov as if he were a referee at a boxing match. “My congratulations! I shall send your works to ‘The National Literary Almanac.’ They are worthy of being published there.”
Cheers rang out again. The winner stood up and smiled bashfully. Erwin Aprik was a promising writer whose main dream was to develop his original style in poetry and prose.
“Moreover,” continued the professor, “I shall send Erwin’s poems to the Committee of the Intergalactic Poetry Contest which will be held in Uzbekistan. This is a very serious challenge. I would really like Erwin to take part in this contest. This time the jury will be headed by Doran Traperton, the mayor of Hensburg.”
“It’s an honor for me to participate in this contest,” responded the postgraduate. “However, I have absolutely no poems dealing with either the hen philosophy or the hen world.”
“That’s not a problem,” said Dr. Velomudrov. “You have one week to write such a poem – not less than thirty lines. The deadline for authors is July 15.”
Erwin accepted the challenge. When the lecture was over and all the students had left the auditorium, Erwin came up to the professor.
“I have no ideas,” confessed the student. “They’ve dried up. Without originality, my chances of winning are nill.”
The professor thought for a moment. Like every intellectual, he knew the hen philosophy well. One of its principles stated that all ideas can be divided into two types – dead and alive. Living ideas, generated from super galaxies and existing in the hearts of life, enter our world to evaluate. Dead ones represent products of our consciousness (intellectual activity); therefore, they are unable to evaluate. No doubt, Erwin meant the first type.
“Listen,” Dr. Velomudrov said at last. “As you know, poetic ideas are contained in the red heart. A lot of hen-power is required to attract even one such idea. This is not an option for us.”
“Are there any others?” asked Erwin.
“Yes,” nodded Dr. Velomudrov. “One can gain admission into the red heart.”
“How?” asked Erwin. “Has anyone ever done it?”
“Some have,” replied the professor. “And, perhaps, you’re one of them. Each flash of inspiration means that you’ve recently been in one of the six hearts of life.”
Confusion was written all over Erwin’s face. The young poet had always thought that living creative ideas came by themselves; however, the professor’s words left him completely baffled.
