The Sevastopol Affair

Apparently the first story I have been writing (How to Rob Banks), part one of which is already out, was not "creative". It didn't follow the RESTRICTIONS put in place by a power higher than me. Rant over. If anyone actually reads this (which I strongly doubt), then I promise I'll have part two out... Sometime in the future. Sound good?








Down the hill, to the left, go into first gear, no brakes needed. Mikhail Artamonov drove east down the dirt road that led to Sevastopol's Bar in his Jeep. The bar was run by Adrian Sevastopol, son of Kolos Sevastopol, who had in turn inherited it from his father. In recent years, taxes had somehow gone up, and the family had been forced to move in above the bar. In a little community like the one where they lived, that was a huge change.


There was once a town centered around Sevastopol's Bar, but a few years ago there was a massive change, and afterwards more than half of the population disappeared. Mikhail asked a few people about the strange drop in population, but all of the residents refused to tell him, responding that they "were not around then", or that they "did not want to talk about it". He found this very odd, but decided to let it rest for the time being. Maybe when he got to know the people better, they would let him into their private circle and tell him why there was such a mass exodus.

The world was parched around him as he drove to the bar; the trees were dry, there was no grass, and the ground looked scorched and burnt. It had obviously not rained in weeks. Mikhail decided to open his window to try to enjoy the warm, dry breeze. His shallow blue eyes squinted in the light and his tuft of blond hair blew back in the wind. Mikhail had long been the most important of all archaeologists in the country; during the Union, he had made a name for himself by digging up artifacts from the times of the Русь kingdoms of the years 900 - 1000 AD. He was very skilled at looking at a spot and deciding whether it was worth searching for artifacts in, or not.



That was why, when the young archaeologist decided to go to this tiny community, his colleagues had been very surprised. They had thought that maybe he had lost his touch. No. Mikhail knew that he was on to something. He had to be. Building a small home in this extremely remote place was about all his strained budget could take. That, coupled with the costs of actually running a dig, forced him to take out some loans that the government, for whom he worked, paid. They had hinted that, if he didn't make a discovery at his dig soon, he would have to reimburse them out of his own pocket.


He looked over to his black lab, Sonia, who was breathing hard. Her tongue was rolling out of the side of her mouth, like a Camel. She looked at him with her pretty brown eyes, and whined quietly. "Darn", thought Mikhail. He had forgotten Sonia's breakfast. That meant that she would be whining and crying the whole way to the dig. So when he parked in the parking lot, composed of two parking spaces, and opened the glove compartment, he took fifteen Гривень with him. Ten would cover the sack of dog food, and the other five would cover his usual order.



Mikhail sat down on a stool between two construction workers. There was nobody else in the bar, so the smoke hanging from the ceiling must still have been from last night. He asked for his usual order from Adrian Sevastopol: a tall Лвівське with a handful of coffee beans on the side. As odd as a beer in the morning may seem, it was a tradition that the archeologist's father had started, and it was one that he would continue.

"You have, eh, found something in the dig?"

"Not yet, Adrian. Not yet." Mikhail paused. "We will soon, though. We have to. The other archaeologists are getting restless, and I think we're getting close to something big. Nobody else believes that there's something out in the northern fields, but I'm still sure that there is."

Adrian Sevastopol whirled around suddenly. "Why dig there, if there is nothing to find? Why not dig in a more profitable, better place, where you are nearly sure to find something?"

"Well, I have this feeling, and..."

"I do not want you to dig there! You will find nothing, and you will be ruined; it will cost too much and the government will fire you." Adrian slammed Mikhail's beer onto the table and looked him straight in the eye. He then said, simply, "Do not dig there."


The young archeologist's hand shook ever so slightly when he drank the beer; he had been told that the barman never lost his temper unless he had good reason to. Sevastopol went about his business of cleaning glasses, wiping the table. He finished that, and was himself enjoying a beer when Mikhail Artamonov left.



Mikhail didn't heed Adrian's warnings; after all, he had never been wrong before. That day a spoon and a fork were found in the archaeological dig; both were made in China. The archaeologist was let down; he had thought that he would find something. He turned to walk dejectedly to his Jeep on the cracked, clay-encrusted ground when a shovel struck something wooden. Cries of happiness broke out, and the men quickly put themselves to the task of pulling a chest out of the yellow ground. They heaved the old, brown box onto the side of the dig. The archaeologists wanted to open it immediately, to see the inside of the box, to see why such a box had been put in this place.



Mikhail just decided to open the chest and not to let anticipation mount. He flicked a switch , and with a loud click, all of the pegs that held the box closed opened and the chest popped ajar. Inside the box, newspaper clippings had been, at some point, plastered to the sides. The men were saddened when they discovered they had not found a treasure chest, but a simple time-capsule in the ground. Most swore and went home for dinner. Some stayed and cleaned up their workplaces and put plastic coverings on all of their workbenches.


The Jeep door swung gracefully open, and Sonia jumped in, sitting in her usual spot in the back seat. Mikhail pushed her into the right side of the seats,and after Sonia the box made it's way into the back seat, full of its newspaper treasure. The dog was apprehensive of the chest, and she sat in a corner whining. Mikhail drove home the quick way, the way that took him far from Sevastopol's bar and straight home. He swore as he remebered that he had never actually gotten the dog food.

Arriving home, he turned to Sonia in the backseat. She seemed to be cowering away from the box, as if she was afraid of it. "Silly dog" he thought, "what kind of guard dog is she?" He took her and the chest into his house.



Once inside, Mikhail looked over his bounty. Headlines like "The Sevastopols win!", and "The United Soviet Socialist Republic stands behind comrade Sevastopol!" stood out. This was interesting, but it was hardly the material he was looking for. Mikhail looked the box over, and deciding it was nothing of value, started to take it downstairs.



On the way he nearly stepped on his dog. He lost his balance and grabbed the handrail, dropping the artifact down the stairs. It exploded into a million pieces, leaving but the bottom intact. He ran down and realised something was not right. The bottom piece was false! There were two articles pasted to the real bottom. He began to read the first.



"Yesterday, in a small community in the mountains, fifty people were killed by Kolos Sevastopol in his bar. His fifteen year old son will be taking over Sevastopol's bar. The only notable buisness in the area, Sevastopol's Bar, as it is called, is a very profitable enterprise."



Mikhail stopped reading, because his dog was barking very loudly upstairs. Then she started whining, too. He went upstairs to comfort her. It was odd, because it seemed that there was nothing there, but something had shaken the dog and her master didn't know what else could scare a dog like Sonia.

Once she had been calmed down, he went back downstairs and started reading the second article: "Dinner held at grand mansion!" Apparently there had been an old mansion where Mikhail's dig was, and it had been very rich and luxurious. The government would very much enjoy having that as a find! He forgot instantly about the massacre story and went to bed. He tried to sleep, knowing that he had to get up very early to go to the dig.

In the morning, Mikhail went the direct route, straight to the archaeological dig. There, his team found many vestiges of the old house. Since they now knew where to look, and they soon found a monumental artifact: a box with a flag in it. This signified that an important house had been there, and that it had fallen. They were so excited that Mikhail could see that they could get no further work done, so he sent them home earlier than usual.

He came home. Sonia threw herself at him without a second thought, but when the archaeologist saw what she had done to the priceless document in his basement, he became very angry. The dog had torn up every last shred of the newspapers that were helping Mikhail fix his financial woes. He was frustrated and went to bed early. When he got up, he brushed his teeth, took a shower, put in his contacts, combed his hair, fed the dog and left for work.


"You know, I saw an article about your family in a newspaper article from a long time ago. Something about your father." The archaeologist mentioned. He sat down at one of the small, round wooden tables in Sevastopol's bar, dropping his knapsack at his feet.

"Aaah, so you know now. Yes, my father was quite insane. I will never forgive him for what he did that day." Sevastopol said, emotionally.

"I'm very sorry about that. You seem to have turned out alright, though." He said, trying to reassure the man.

"Yes, well. I burnt my father's house down the day after he was arrested. It shamed me to live under the same roof as a murderer. That is why I didn't want you to dig there; my father is dead to me, and that is his grave." Now there were tears streaming down Adrian's face as he spoke. It occured to the young archaeologist sitting across from the crying barman, that he must have thought about it very much over the past few years.

Mikhail took his knapsack off the back of his chair. Out of it, he took the flag his team had found on top of the box a day earlier. Without a word, Sevastopol took it into his hands and wept into it harder than ever.

"I'm sorry we dug it up. I did not understand what it meant to you, that it had such a significance in your family." He paused as every weeping of Sevastopol's sent a shudder through the poor soul's body. "You can put it back if you like."

"No, it's all right. I feel glad to have something to remember him by, no matter how bad he was. You can keep digging and searching. I will not stop you."

"You know, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship..." Mikhail Artamonov remarked.

How to rob banks

This is just a first draft for a story I'm going to write. Thought it might be kinda cool to put it up.


I must have been crazy when I decided I was gonna to rob the bank. The CWB was the biggest bank on the planet and everyone knew it. People said that it was impossible to break into. There's no such thing as impossible. 'Cause I like the risk, I decided to expand on my sudden impulse. Why not, after all? It was a reputable bank. The gesture on it's own was enough for me.

I wouldn't do it for the money; I would do it for the fun. Just for the fun. Melanie, my red-headed, slim bodied and pixie-faced wife had just gotten a new job downtown. She wasn't sure if she could keep it for long. She turned redder than her hair when I told her what I wanted to to.


"Max, don't do it. You'll never pull it off. We've just gotten some stability in our lives, and you want to go and ruin it for us both? Why?" 'Cause you haven't produced anything in six months. 'Cause you're just dead weight, I thought, but stayed mum all the same.


I left my wife in the hall and walked out onto the street. The slab of rock I was walking on had a kind of poka-dot pattern to it from chewing-gum. My feet stuck to the ground as I walked. I looked into the window of the nearest closed shop I could find. Next to it stood a Ukrainian Catholic church. I was kinda surprised; I thought almost all religion had been destroyed in the twenties.

"Oy xloptche!" One look around this desolate road told me I was the only xlopets in sight.
"Chtcho ty xotchesh?" An old man with brown hair, black robes and a cross on his chest walked over to me. The bottom of his robe was muddy and torn. This was surely not a priest? His face was worn by age and by storm. His eyes were tired by years of confessions.


"I don't want anything father. I was just lookin' at your place here."


This could be the opportunity I had been waiting for. Any robbery needs a planning space and a getaway plan; the latter also needs someplace to meet up to distribute bounty.


"Aah. You are English, I did not see that! Please, let me help you. What is it you are looking for?"


"I'm lookin' for a place where me and my friends could hang for awhile. We got money, and wouldn't be any trouble at all." I walked briskly to the Father, whose eyes had lit up when I said the word "money" and I put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm a Ukrainian Catholic. I pray night and day for our brothers."


He told me that my friends and I could stay as long as we wanted. Or as long as we payed. I told him my friends weren't going to be here for a few days. Then I turned 'round, and went eastward, to gloomy Old Kiev.


The sky was greyer than usual. The streetcar cables over my head buzzed with the eery sound of electricity. I could see a pub in the distance, the sun lowering itself down into the horizon. A blue and white tram passed by, sparking as it touched the wires. I ended up in front of the pub.


The name "Oukrayinski Stravy" in large, red letters hurt my eyes as I looked upwards, into one of the second story windows. There was a hanky in the window. "It's safe," I whispered to myself. Moments later I was in front of a door. The shining brown wood contrasted sharply with the pale yellow walls of the soviet-era apartment building. Knock-knock, went my fist.


A voice broke the hum of a failing air-conditioner. "Zaraz ya preydou, xolera!" a rhaspy, smoker's voice called. Finally, the door opened. Slowly. A man in his late thirties stood there. His face was not considered pretty, but wasn't ugly. Thick, curly brown hair that went down to his shoulders covered most of his head. The rest was mostly just a nose that looked as if it had been sharpened on a grinding stone, as well as inset red eyes, characteristic of users and abusers.


"Xto to?" He was a stickler for safety. His own safety, that is. He didn't care about anyone else's.


"It's me."


"Who's me?"


"It's Max and you know it, Roman."


"Aaah! So it is. I knew that. Anyway, ya, sorry I didn't open the door. I was on the telephone with a whore who owed me money." He rasped, smiling.


Before I continue with my story, there's something that you gotta to know about Roman. He was one of the only person I knew well that I didn't believe to be above me. He was a great guy. We had had a lot of times together, most of them good. All the same, there was also the other side of Roman. The side he only let loose on people who crossed him. The side no-one wanted to be on. The side where, if you saw Roman on the street, you'd better have run, 'cause he would have would have snuffed you out like candle in a hurricane.

I talked to Roman about my plan. We sat in sooty, wooden chairs that needed a good paint job, fast. Roman had dust all over his floors, 'cause if a creep ever walked in, Roman would know. We talked as the hands flew past the numbers on my watch. Every time I'd shift in my weight in my chair it would creak loudly. Every time I shifted my weight in my chair, I was afraid to fall off.

Time flew, but soon the deal was made. I had to move on to the next constituents of my team. As I walked out the door, Roman stopped me.

"I heard you were in jail, all the way in Siberia."

"I work for the police here now. You know me. I'd never rat no-one out, let alone anyone on my team. I'm the guy on the inside."

"That is true. Anyway; a man on the inside is better than one on the out."

"I know. See ya soon, Roman. Real soon." I said slowly, then left.

The rest of my team were guys who I had never worked with before, but they seemed nice. Nice, but crooked in each his or her own way. Korpanov, the Russian safe master, sat at a table in the basement of the church. He had a shot of black hair, thick glasses and figure Fatty Arbuckle would have been proud of. He was also the one talkin' now. He was blabbin' about some safety system. I must o' missed the first half of what he said, 'cause I sure as hell didn't understand the second. The bank robbery he helping plan was trivial, anyway.

The seven men watched a slideshow that had drawing of the bank's insides. One security camera for the entrance, two for the offices, two for the booths, one for the entrance to the "Employees only" part of the bank and four covering the vault. It was tight, but not perfect. Nothin's perfect.

"So, how do you want to do it?" I asked.

"We will get the tech guy, shut off the cameras, then we will point guns and make lots of people very scared." He said, showing yellow teeth as he spoke.


"Are the chairs connected with the tech room too?" One of the thugs asked. I was surprised that he could even make a sentence that made sense. The guy must have been thinking about it during all of Korpanov's speech.


"Aaah, yes. The chairs are a problem, dear Korpanov. You do not think the police will come if a teller hits her button?" Roman stated the obvious.


"Yes they will. In swarms." Another thug answered the rhetorical question. I started thinkin' that this could be could be a competition of whose answer more blatantly stated the obvious.


"Then we cut the wires going out of the building. Simple as that." Yah, 'cause that's gonna pull off the crime of the century. Cut wires. I kept that myself, though.

I haven't seen stuff like that since '92. Everyone was rejoicing. We were gonna rob the best bank in the Ukraine. . Drinks were passed around. I don't like the things the hard stuff does to people, so I left along with the priest, whose name was father Yanukovych, Roman and two others. We walked ourselves home, and after sayin' 'bye to Roman at his doorstep, I went home to hit the sack. We'd rob this bank, Lord willin' and the creek don't rise.

End of Part one of two.

100 Word Story

Here's a one hundred word story I did for school. Just a tidbit, because I have nothing else to add, and I think there's too little written down here.

"It was a dark and stormy night. The superheroes couldn't find the Crystal Flask anywhere. Between flashes of lightning, The Fist thought he had seen it on top of a drawer. Everyone crowded to look for it, but no-one found it. In fact, we all went home without our bounty.
What they didn’t know was that I had it. I, the head of the entire agency, had stolen the Crystal Flask. I was the very best villain the world had ever seen. I was supposed to be the example tight-man, but hey. Nobody’s perfect."

The first and last sentences were required. The rest was strait out of my brain.
I think I'll be using BR to "publish" my stories a little more now. Maybe that's what I'll be using it for now. We shall see...


Editorial note: I just realised that this isn't actually 100 words. It's more like 96. Sorry!

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

Fahrenheit 451 (by Ray Bradbury) is a very interesting, disturbing, cynically funny and scary book.
I'm sure that most of you read this book in high school, and know the general story. The entire plot revolves around burning books, and the ignorance of that invisioned future. Frankly, it is a book that says, simply, that all media, (with the exception of books, naturally), is destroying literature. That, when we go out and buy a newspaper, watch TV or listen to the radio, literature suffers.
In a way, this is true. The media condense everything into politically correct, "safe", and bite-size pieces of knowlage, which entertain us, anger us, incite us, encoureage us. They don't give us the whole story, but just enough to make us interested.

For the thirty seconds the story airs. I want to make an experiment. Two people watch the news re-caps for half and hour. One is taking notes about the program, the other isn't. How many news stories will the latter remember? I don't think it will be a large number.

So, yes, the media isn't helping the state of book sales. I could go on and on about this forever, so I think that I'll get back to Farenheit 451. This book is cynically funny, because it was written in the early fifties, and yet, it has carried into the future. The "relatives" that Ms. Montag is so fond of? Take a look at Lost, or even the Chronicles. We feel we have a connection with those charecters, we feel that they're nearly family. When they get hurt, we feel bad. When they yell at each other, we feel bad.
When someone turns off the television, we're sad to see them go. Internet, is worse. The fact that I'm doing this, now, could be considered hypocritical.

So, it's a book that delivers a great narrative (you'll have to read it to find out what that is) and a strong message. It made me think, and moved me like a book usually doesn't.

9.5/10

Music Viral Video - Coldplay: Violet Hill

This is an interesting video I found on YouTube a little while ago. It fits the music incredibly well; it looks painfully professional. Honestly, I would love to say more about the issues it talks about, but it speaks for itself.

Ladies and gentlemen,