PUBLISHED IN THE 2021 INCITE ANTHOLOGY OF STUDENT WRITING
26TH OF SEPTEMBER ____________________________________________________________ by Kyu Hun Lee, Grade 12 The year was 2014. It was the 26th of September. The time was 10:23 p.m. The wind blew against a small home in the town of Fryazino, Moscow, on a freezing night. The moonlight glittered across the snow. Stanislav Petrov, former lieutenant colonel of the Soviet Air Defense Forces, sat in a chair with a bottle of wine in his hand. The rough noise of an antiquated television dug into the wood of the walls. He took a sip of his Sibirkovy as he closed his eyes and leaned back into his chair. The creak of the aged wood momentarily cut through the voice from the television. “Now, some of y’all might not know, but there was actually a pretty big incident quite a while back, you know… uh… you know, when Soviet Russia was still a thing. There was a nuclear—” The television cut out for a moment as Petrov thought of the things he had done and the things he had ordered. The world was suddenly still for Petrov. The wind stopped blowing and the wood stopped creaking, if only for a second. He let out a sigh and took another sip of his Siberkovy, one of the few joys left in his life. As he got up with a grunt to turn off the television, the memories flooded back. Things he did not wish to remember. The year was 1983. It was the 26th of September. The time was 10:23 a.m. The wind blew against the jacket of Stanislav Petrov, lieutenant colonel of the Soviet Air Defense Forces, as he stepped out from his train and into the brisk air. Petrov took out a cigarette as he walked through the rough, stone-cobbled pathway. Every now and then, he could hear calls from boys in oversized clothes handing out Pravda newspapers, the perfect thing to read if you needed to trick yourself into ignoring the Union slowly dying in front of your eyes, or if you needed yet another reminder of how evil the West was. His cigarette painted a streak of grey against the blindingly white view. It was a Cuban import brought in under the noses of bribed guardsmen. He entered the command centre for the system of protection created for the betterment of the Union. The seeing eye, Oko. The greatest representation of Soviet superiority over the world: a wonder of surveillance technology that would protect the nation from assaults that may threaten her, created by the finest scientists and researchers the Soviets could muster. Or at least, that’s what the Union always told Petrov. As long as he kept his family fed, Oko could be a capitalist god for all he cared. “A good day to die, eh? Working hard, I see.” Petrov greeted his colleague as he poured himself a cup of brown coffee, a pleasant drink that rejuvenated his weary body. A drink hard to get for the average citizen—but pulled string here and there was enough for a box or two. His colleague looked at the cup with wistful fatigue. “Hardly a good day, Petrov, but death isn’t something I would reject right now. My back is going to be the death of me long before those idiotic Americans will.” Petrov chuckled as he went back to his papers, glancing over them quickly while finishing his drink. Today was going to be a good day.
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