Day 19,983: The Spirit of Peace

Themes: Ukraine, Peace. 450 words, 2 minute read. With Claude Sonnet.

The empty crystal decanter rattled against the window frame as another explosion lit up the Moscow sky. Elena Petrova steadied it with trembling fingers, the glass cool and unfamiliarly dry against her skin. Outside, through frost-laced windowpanes, orange flashes painted the night – Ukrainian ATACMS missiles finding their targets. The Kristall Distillery, Moscow's oldest vodka factory, burned in the distance.

"Tick, tick, tick," her kitchen clock counted the seconds. Elena's fingers drummed the same rhythm on her grandson's latest letter, the paper soft and worn from repeated folding and unfolding. A drop of water fell on the ink, blurring his words: "Even Sergeant cried today, Babushka. We toasted Pyotr's death with kvass. Kvass! His hands shook so bad he spilled most of it anyway."

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The local market's shelves gaped like missing teeth. Where rows of vodka bottles once caught the fluorescent light, only dust remained. In the corner, Old Dmitri, the store owner, hung a handwritten sign: "No vodka. Don't ask. Try water." He caught Elena's eye and shrugged, his shoulders heavy with unspoken words.

"Three thousand rubles!" A voice rang out from a small crowd outside. "I'll pay three thousand for a single bottle!"

"Five thousand!"

"My son's wedding is tomorrow!"

Elena walked home, pockets full of mortality payment but grocery bags empty.

At home, she opened her cabinet – the good one, carved oak from her mother. Behind the false back panel, her fingers found smooth glass. One bottle left. The last bottle of Stolichnaya in all of Moscow, perhaps. She'd been saving it for Victory Day.

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Through her window, a river of people flowed through streets that hadn't seen such crowds since 1991. Their signs caught the settling sun: a crude drawing of a vodka bottle with a slash through it, another showing a dove carrying a martini olive. Elena's Order of Maternal Glory medal felt heavy as she pinned it to her lapel. The last bottle of Stolichnaya felt heavier in her pocket.

As they approached the Kremlin, the cowardly began to hang back. One hundred meters from the gate, a circle formed, none daring to come closer.

The crowd parted for as she pushed through to the front. She raised the bottle high. The seal cracked with a sharp pop. Her hand was steady as she poured the vodka onto the ground. It splashed against the concrete, running in rivers between the feet of the protesters.

A young officer stepped forward, riot shield lowered. His radio crackled. He silenced it, then reached inside his jacket. The crowd tensed. He withdrew a flask, unscrewed the cap, and turned it upside down. Clear liquid pattered against the ground.

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