Lively Graveyard

(Taken from my 2013 Archive and translated with translation machine. May or may not be accurate from real history and fictional stories, and I'm too lazy to rewrite)

[1st Particle - Alexander Alexandrovich's Funeral]

1942

For the first time, tears fell from the eyes of the Alexandrov men—and not merely a drop or two; each of them repeatedly wiped away tears with a damp white handkerchief. The women bearing the same surname wept just as profusely. They shed these tears within the cathedral, standing not far from a priest who could only stand motionless, unsure of what to do other than gaze at the fully sealed coffin awaiting burial. The other guests, relatives and dignitaries close to the Alexandrov family had already left the cathedral to wait at the burial site.

Before Fugue

[November 1941]

"Snipers are everywhere. Be careful!" The captain shouted. Everyone nodded in agreement. They then made their way to a swampy forest. Just as they crossed the swamp, a shot rang out. The soldier at the very back was shot in the head. Everyone scattered to search for the sniper in the area.

Dmitry crept through the bushes, listening for any sound that might betray a sniper's presence. Another shot rang out, and he saw another soldier collapse. He realized his current position was dangerous.

He scanned the area keenly. Aha! The sniper's feet were visible. Light grey boots? No mistake about it, Dmitry thought. He took aim at the boots and fired. The owner of the feet screamed; sure enough, it was the sniper. Dmitry and the other soldiers immediately opened fire on him.

"A strange sniper. Exposing his feet while on duty," Dmitry wondered aloud.

"Who knows... You, guard that side!" the captain ordered. Dmitry promptly ran to the designated spot.

He circled the trees, watching for any movement. Suddenly, the atmosphere grew eerily quiet. Dmitry looked back, only to find his comrades gone. Torn between the panic of being left behind and the fear of the captain's wrath for abandoning his post, he simply crouched there in confusion.

Just as he crouched, a shell whistled over his head and exploded five meters away. Startled, he peered out from behind the trees. Enemy tanks and troops were advancing. He ran to catch up with his comrades.

"There's an attack in the northeast!" Dmitry shouted. Everyone ran in the direction Dmitry pointed. Sure enough, the enemy had arrived, and a firefight broke out. Dmitry and his comrades returned fire. Two bullets tore through the air, wounding both of Dmitry's shoulders. He was still alive, but his arms weakened. One of the soldiers he had met at the station hoisted him up.

"Come on, comrade! Let me help you." He dragged Dmitry to a tree, away from the crossfire. Dmitry’s vision began to blur as he steadily lost blood. Little did he know, there is another struck by a tank shell, and then everything went dark.

***

He desperately hoped for a swift death to claim him... He had hoped that the last blur would be the last thing he ever see before leaving this world.

Then his wish was granted! He saw a bright light, and there was Alexei right beside him.

"You sleepyhead. We’re here, you know!" Alexei teased. He blinked, realizing they were in a truck. They had arrived at the CSKA building. He could hardly believe his eyes. Was this the heaven his mother used to talk about, or had all that warfare just been a nightmare?

"Come on, get out! Do you want the driver to haul you all the way to the East?" Alexei teased again.

"You’re being unusually snarky!" he exclaimed. But he and Aleksei laughed it off, treating it as a joke.

They were welcomed by the leader of the Ensemble, wearing his signature friendly smile. It was hard to believe the war had passed so quickly, yet he was thankful to have survived—alongside his best friend Aleksei, of course. He walked with purpose until he came to an empty corridor and stopped abruptly. Standing before him was a young woman she had known for a long time. Darya!

He ran forward, arms outstretched for an embrace. Darya ran too, her face wet with tears. Just as they were about to embrace, he slipped and fell into a void. The girl was gone.

"Thank goodness, he’s alive!" a nurse said. He felt his body being lifted, then bandages being wrapped around both his shoulders.

"Where... where am I?" he asked. "At one of the field hospital, far from where you were found. It’s a tragedy other comrade who saved was killed by a bomb. Though it’s amazing... you were right next to him, yet you didn't suffer a single burn!" the nurse marveled.

"..."

"There, all done! Come on, get up; you're moving to that recovery tent over there."

Reluctantly, he walked toward the tent the nurse had pointed out. He cursed himself for hoping for too much...including the hope of dying in the war.

*Taken from 2013 archive I ever wrote

Disregarded Attention

[May 1936]

My eyes snapped open; I realised I had woken up in yet another unfamiliar place. I was in a train compartment, with three idiots I loved all still asleep. Dmitry and Vadim are leaning to each other across me. And the bald man Vasily had even brazenly propped his feet onto my lap, his head resting against the compartment window.

"You yokel," I shook my head toward Vasily. I slowly rose from the compartment seat, took Alexei's diary book from the backpack and stepped out to compose myself.

I found myself in the sixth carriage. Gazing out the window on the right side, while also reading what I've been missed for two weeks in the diary. My reflection was faintly visible in the glass, forcing me to reluctantly admit that I was beginning to hate the face staring back at me. It was a face so innocent, suggesting a respectable upbringing. It was the face of a dutiful Soviet youth, utterly unsuited to someone like me, who actually longed to escape this land of iron. My face ought to have been one of angry villain, not this guileless visage.

Piece of Peace, Letter and Bread

Sometimes I wonder; people often say that every family’s life is special. But what exactly makes it special? Is it their hobbies? Their status? Their neighborhood? Or their jobs?

My family’s life is pretty ordinary. My father runs a small-scale bakery in Stavropol, and my mother acts as his assistant while also managing the household. My twin sister and I are just ten-year-olds who love reading. We live in an ordinary home, too. There are no fancy decorations like statues or decorative lights outside our apartment building, just a streetlamp that flickers whenever the power fluctuates.

The bread isn't particularly extraordinary either... Though don't get me wrong, it’s not that my father’s bread tastes bad. It’s just that his isn't the absolute best in town. There’s a bakery up north that serves piping-hot bread to every customer, and another on the outskirts that offers a huge variety of loaves with a shelf life of over five days.

My father simply says that our livelihood is already ordained; all we have to do is put in the effort. What I admire most is that he never gave in to the temptation of making "fresh-baked" bread or using preservatives; instead, he kept experimenting to create naturally long-lasting bread with diverse flavors. He has successfully developed ten varieties of naturally durable bread so far, and they’ve become favorites among the people in the heart of the city.

But it isn't my father’s job that I want to talk about. While my story does involve bread, it’s what’s inside the bread which made our family life truly special.

Splinters of a Triptych

Moscow, June 1945

For now, Dmitry, Vadim, and Darya could say nothing but sip the hot tea that had just been served, when Vadim visited Dmitry’s new settlement. The sound of Elena sobbing and her mother consoling her in the other room was the only noise filling the apartment, deepening the gloom that weighed on each of them. Vadim rubbed his watery eyes and looked at Dmitry, who was sitting directly across from him.