This a very rough draft of a story I've written for school. I think it's terrible, and any changes to make it better would be great. I'm actually tempted to write a whole new story because that's how much I dislike this one.
When Good Men Do Nothing <-not official title
Comrade Paskoff sighed and stepped out into the chilling Russian winter. It was just another day, just likes days are. His job was simple, unlike his brother. He had been sent to fight at the front line. “I'll be the one to get Hitler” he had said before loading up onto the train.
Paskoff stood at his post outside a post office. Although he stood perfectly still, his thoughts were travelling afar. He couldn't help but smile when he thought about his daughter, sasha. She was the most precious thing in his life. Comrade Paskoff lived his life for her. She had her fathers hair, long and brown. Her eyes were beautiful, like her mothers. “My goodness... Seven years old next month. It seems like just yesterday she could hardly walk...” Reflecting on thoughts of his daughter brought peace to Paskoff. He found comfort in his family. It was an escape from the harsh realities of the war. Food was scarce, and Paskoff's frale body testified to it. A weathered old man passed in front of him on his way to work. He was so thin, and his skin so pale. The factory workers had it much worse off than Paskoff. A lot of men couldn't feed their families at all, even if they did have a job.
Paskoff would kiss his little girl goodbye before he'd leave for his guard duty. He'd strike a pose and look boldly out the door “I'm off to defend Mother Russia from the fascists!” he would say and then off to his post he would go. His little daughter would sit and stare out the little window until he turned down the street and could be seen no more.
The little girl was too young to understand what a fascist or communist was. All she knew was some nights she went to bed hungry. All she knew was that some nights her mother would break down and cry. All she knew... was that something was wrong.
That morning, before Paskoff had left, his daughter had been unusually excited. 'We're going to a museum today in school, papa!' she kept telling her father. Her face was alight with excitement. She'd never been to a museum. Her father was too poor to afford such a thing. “Pay attention while you're there. I've never been to a museum, so you'll have to tell me all about.” He patted his little girl on the head. It was so wonderful for him to see his daughter happy. In the cold lands of the Soviet Union it would warm anyone's heart to see something as adorable as Paskoff's daughter. “It's so wonderful to see the children of this great nation have such opportunities that I never had as a child. Stalin does so much for the children,” Paskoff had said to his wife before departing to his job.
Paskoff jumped when his comrade slapped him on the shoulder. “Comrade Paskoff! Aleksei says revolutionaries that oppose Stalin are planning something today. I don't know the details, but if you see anything let me know. I don't want another Anzhelika incident.” Paskoff nodded to his superior officer and then stood up straight as if to look more professional. Paskoff looked back on the Anzehilka incedent with great sorrow. He had been called out to assist in quelling a very serious riot. It had only been a few weeks ago.
Poor starving lower class citizens with ragged clothes were in an uproar. They demanded food, and were gathering around a warehouse where food was prepared before making it's way to the soldiers on the front line. The people were united with one goal. Their hatred for the Communist government burned like a most terrible fire. They screamed, shouted, and threw rocks. They chanted violently, and would have overtaken the warehouse had it not been for the soldeirs standing guard there. Paskoff had been one of the guards. He remembered raising his rifle with his comrades and looking out into the crowd of haggard faces. These were not fascist dogs. There were his countrymen. His neighbors... His comrades. But these were desperate times.
At first, Paskoff thought this was just another riot, although a rather animated one. With a crash, a molotov cocktail came soaring out from the crowd and burst into flames in from of Paskoff. He staggered back for a moment as the heat of the fire warmed his skin. Fortunately, it had not hurt him. Paskoff's superior officer, Aleksei, then brought up a loudspeaker to his mouth. It whined with a short burst of feedback, and then his amplified voices crackled out, drowning the roar of the mob. “Comrades!” he shouted, “Disperse immediately, or, in the name of Mother Russia, you will be shot!” The crowd met his ultimatem with complete fury. They hissed and booed, and up from the crowd went another lighted molotov cocktail. It went spiraling through the air and crashed against the warehouse wall, shrapnel wounding one of the Soviet guards. Paskoff remembered being ordered to take aim... and he remembered looking down the barrel of his Mosin-Nagant and seeing the withered faces of men that had nothing left to live for. A deafening blast rang out as the Soviet guards fired in unison. The crowd fell completely silent. In the thin red snow that covered the street their now lay several dead Russian workers. One by one the people in the crowd slowly walked off their seperate ways...
But that had be a while ago. Things like that were rare. “I was just following orders,” Paskoff thought, after having been reminded of the ordeal by Aleksei.
The dull guard duty was relatively safe. Paskoff stood there for hours smiling at the people that would frequently enter the post office. The hours went by with nothing out of the ordinary. That is, until Comrade Aleksei came running down the street trailing blood. “Paskoff! Paskoff!”he shouted. “Another riot has broken out! The reports say nazi youth are transporting satchel charges to the rioters. A lot of them have rifles. My God, this is serious! If you see them, Paskoff, shoot them!” Aleksei rushed off into the post office to radio for help.
Paskoff looked up and spotted a young girl running towards the post office with a satchel over her shoulder. She was running towards the gunshots, and the area where Aleksei had just come from. Paskoff tried to grab the girl, but she slipped past him and just kept running. Paskoff screamed at her to stop and ran after her.
The girl dashed into an alley only to find herself caught between Paskoff's rifle and an old brick wall covered in snow. Paskoff raised his rifle at her and she stood with terrified eyes. A tear came running down her cold white cheek. This was no different then the Anzhelika incident... when he fired into the crowd. He was just following orders then, and now he was going to follow the same orders. The girl reached for the pull string on her satchel.... She could blow herself up and kill Paskoff. All for the cause that this young girl was fighting for.
Looking through the round little sight on his mosin nagant comrade Paskoff made an earth-shattering realization. She cocked her head to an angle and stared at Paskoff. This girl, with her long brown hair, was no different than his own precious daughter. He saw, in this girls eyes, the same eyes of his own little daughter. He froze, unable to pull the trigger. The girl held her finger on the satchel charge's pull string and kept it tot. Determination shone in her eyes. She would die for her cause if she had to. (tight? Is tot a word? Taught?) She staggered to her left and found a door. With her one free hand she nervously rattled a cold metal door handle and managed to get it open. In an instant, the girl was gone, save for the rapid tip-tap of the girls footsteps as she ran through the building to escape Paskoff.
...
He hadn't fired. He... couldn't bare the thought of shooting a young girl, almost the same age as his daughter. He couldn't pull the trigger and let the bullet rip through her body fragile young body.
A bit shook up, he headed back to his spot in front of the post office. There he stood, eagerly waiting for the minute when he was dismissed and could return home. All he wanted was to be in the comfort of his home. Guilt plagued comrade Paskoff. Should he have shot her? His mind was tainted with mixed feelings. He could spend all day doing the thinking that he didn't have time to do in the few seconds he had in front of the girl with the satchel charge.
Finally Comrade Aleksei came and dismissed Paskoff. Eagerly, he headed home. Paskoff approached his small Russian home to find it not as it should have been. The door was swinging open, which, in the cold Russian evening, was something you just did not do. He quickened his pace and reached the doorway. On the doorpost was a note, written in Cyrillic Russian.
“Dear Comrade Paskoff,
As you are aware, there has been serious rioting taking place in the city recently. Mother Russia is obligated to inform you that your daughter was killed by fascist trouble makers. Witnesses reported a satchel charge going off in the subway station near your home. The Soviet Union weeps for your loss, comrade.”
When Good Men Do Nothing <-not official title
Comrade Paskoff sighed and stepped out into the chilling Russian winter. It was just another day, just likes days are. His job was simple, unlike his brother. He had been sent to fight at the front line. “I'll be the one to get Hitler” he had said before loading up onto the train.
Paskoff stood at his post outside a post office. Although he stood perfectly still, his thoughts were travelling afar. He couldn't help but smile when he thought about his daughter, sasha. She was the most precious thing in his life. Comrade Paskoff lived his life for her. She had her fathers hair, long and brown. Her eyes were beautiful, like her mothers. “My goodness... Seven years old next month. It seems like just yesterday she could hardly walk...” Reflecting on thoughts of his daughter brought peace to Paskoff. He found comfort in his family. It was an escape from the harsh realities of the war. Food was scarce, and Paskoff's frale body testified to it. A weathered old man passed in front of him on his way to work. He was so thin, and his skin so pale. The factory workers had it much worse off than Paskoff. A lot of men couldn't feed their families at all, even if they did have a job.
Paskoff would kiss his little girl goodbye before he'd leave for his guard duty. He'd strike a pose and look boldly out the door “I'm off to defend Mother Russia from the fascists!” he would say and then off to his post he would go. His little daughter would sit and stare out the little window until he turned down the street and could be seen no more.
The little girl was too young to understand what a fascist or communist was. All she knew was some nights she went to bed hungry. All she knew was that some nights her mother would break down and cry. All she knew... was that something was wrong.
That morning, before Paskoff had left, his daughter had been unusually excited. 'We're going to a museum today in school, papa!' she kept telling her father. Her face was alight with excitement. She'd never been to a museum. Her father was too poor to afford such a thing. “Pay attention while you're there. I've never been to a museum, so you'll have to tell me all about.” He patted his little girl on the head. It was so wonderful for him to see his daughter happy. In the cold lands of the Soviet Union it would warm anyone's heart to see something as adorable as Paskoff's daughter. “It's so wonderful to see the children of this great nation have such opportunities that I never had as a child. Stalin does so much for the children,” Paskoff had said to his wife before departing to his job.
Paskoff jumped when his comrade slapped him on the shoulder. “Comrade Paskoff! Aleksei says revolutionaries that oppose Stalin are planning something today. I don't know the details, but if you see anything let me know. I don't want another Anzhelika incident.” Paskoff nodded to his superior officer and then stood up straight as if to look more professional. Paskoff looked back on the Anzehilka incedent with great sorrow. He had been called out to assist in quelling a very serious riot. It had only been a few weeks ago.
Poor starving lower class citizens with ragged clothes were in an uproar. They demanded food, and were gathering around a warehouse where food was prepared before making it's way to the soldiers on the front line. The people were united with one goal. Their hatred for the Communist government burned like a most terrible fire. They screamed, shouted, and threw rocks. They chanted violently, and would have overtaken the warehouse had it not been for the soldeirs standing guard there. Paskoff had been one of the guards. He remembered raising his rifle with his comrades and looking out into the crowd of haggard faces. These were not fascist dogs. There were his countrymen. His neighbors... His comrades. But these were desperate times.
At first, Paskoff thought this was just another riot, although a rather animated one. With a crash, a molotov cocktail came soaring out from the crowd and burst into flames in from of Paskoff. He staggered back for a moment as the heat of the fire warmed his skin. Fortunately, it had not hurt him. Paskoff's superior officer, Aleksei, then brought up a loudspeaker to his mouth. It whined with a short burst of feedback, and then his amplified voices crackled out, drowning the roar of the mob. “Comrades!” he shouted, “Disperse immediately, or, in the name of Mother Russia, you will be shot!” The crowd met his ultimatem with complete fury. They hissed and booed, and up from the crowd went another lighted molotov cocktail. It went spiraling through the air and crashed against the warehouse wall, shrapnel wounding one of the Soviet guards. Paskoff remembered being ordered to take aim... and he remembered looking down the barrel of his Mosin-Nagant and seeing the withered faces of men that had nothing left to live for. A deafening blast rang out as the Soviet guards fired in unison. The crowd fell completely silent. In the thin red snow that covered the street their now lay several dead Russian workers. One by one the people in the crowd slowly walked off their seperate ways...
But that had be a while ago. Things like that were rare. “I was just following orders,” Paskoff thought, after having been reminded of the ordeal by Aleksei.
The dull guard duty was relatively safe. Paskoff stood there for hours smiling at the people that would frequently enter the post office. The hours went by with nothing out of the ordinary. That is, until Comrade Aleksei came running down the street trailing blood. “Paskoff! Paskoff!”he shouted. “Another riot has broken out! The reports say nazi youth are transporting satchel charges to the rioters. A lot of them have rifles. My God, this is serious! If you see them, Paskoff, shoot them!” Aleksei rushed off into the post office to radio for help.
Paskoff looked up and spotted a young girl running towards the post office with a satchel over her shoulder. She was running towards the gunshots, and the area where Aleksei had just come from. Paskoff tried to grab the girl, but she slipped past him and just kept running. Paskoff screamed at her to stop and ran after her.
The girl dashed into an alley only to find herself caught between Paskoff's rifle and an old brick wall covered in snow. Paskoff raised his rifle at her and she stood with terrified eyes. A tear came running down her cold white cheek. This was no different then the Anzhelika incident... when he fired into the crowd. He was just following orders then, and now he was going to follow the same orders. The girl reached for the pull string on her satchel.... She could blow herself up and kill Paskoff. All for the cause that this young girl was fighting for.
Looking through the round little sight on his mosin nagant comrade Paskoff made an earth-shattering realization. She cocked her head to an angle and stared at Paskoff. This girl, with her long brown hair, was no different than his own precious daughter. He saw, in this girls eyes, the same eyes of his own little daughter. He froze, unable to pull the trigger. The girl held her finger on the satchel charge's pull string and kept it tot. Determination shone in her eyes. She would die for her cause if she had to. (tight? Is tot a word? Taught?) She staggered to her left and found a door. With her one free hand she nervously rattled a cold metal door handle and managed to get it open. In an instant, the girl was gone, save for the rapid tip-tap of the girls footsteps as she ran through the building to escape Paskoff.
...
He hadn't fired. He... couldn't bare the thought of shooting a young girl, almost the same age as his daughter. He couldn't pull the trigger and let the bullet rip through her body fragile young body.
A bit shook up, he headed back to his spot in front of the post office. There he stood, eagerly waiting for the minute when he was dismissed and could return home. All he wanted was to be in the comfort of his home. Guilt plagued comrade Paskoff. Should he have shot her? His mind was tainted with mixed feelings. He could spend all day doing the thinking that he didn't have time to do in the few seconds he had in front of the girl with the satchel charge.
Finally Comrade Aleksei came and dismissed Paskoff. Eagerly, he headed home. Paskoff approached his small Russian home to find it not as it should have been. The door was swinging open, which, in the cold Russian evening, was something you just did not do. He quickened his pace and reached the doorway. On the doorpost was a note, written in Cyrillic Russian.
“Dear Comrade Paskoff,
As you are aware, there has been serious rioting taking place in the city recently. Mother Russia is obligated to inform you that your daughter was killed by fascist trouble makers. Witnesses reported a satchel charge going off in the subway station near your home. The Soviet Union weeps for your loss, comrade.”