Introduce Yourself : I only associate with the best guys. by Volodimir Skorokhod

Greetings, friends!

My name is Vladimir Skorokhod. My call sign "Novak" is also my literary pseudonym, used on the books I've written. I am a Ukrainian serviceman, defending my homeland since the first day of the full-scale Russian invasion.

Now, after concussions and a profound change in my perspective on life due to the fighting, I want to write stories so that people understand what's what and how we will live on, not only us in Ukraine, but also you in America or anywhere else. My texts are not dry reports or propaganda, like those of stupid politicians, no. My texts and books are more like raw, unfiltered truth about trench life from the very heart of the defense, and, unfortunately, now the reality of life in any part of the world. I often write stories about the brotherhood of the guys, the fear of being betrayed, the absurdity of the high command, often consisting of idiots. Of course, I write about the inner strength of a person that bends steel, and about life that clings to every day under shelling, in friendship with death.

Why are my texts valuable?

• First-hand experience: More than three years on the front lines. Assault operations, defense in trenches and dugouts with a machine gun in my hands, constant life under artillery fire, various types of reconnaissance, moments of silence between battles. I write about what I myself experienced.

• Ready material: I already have dozens of such ready-made, poignant stories.

• Perspective: Based on this experience, I have written books. I am looking for those who can turn this into a profitable business; I can write, but sales and project implementation are still in their initial stages... only on Amazon so far. My first ironic fairy tale, "The Tale of the Jester's Mask," is now available on Amazon. You can find and read it by searching for the title. Author: Novak V.V.

Example of my text (documentary story from the positions of the Ukrainian Armed Forces):

The night passed surprisingly quietly. In the morning, Cadet and I sat and drank freshly brewed coffee in silence, but that silence was more eloquent than any vows; war was all around us, and we needed to go to the front lines. After breakfast, like in Paris once upon a time, I got down to business. I gathered all the discharged batteries from the drones and radios. They needed to be taken to the next street, where there was a collection and charging point for various batteries powered by a generator. I decided to take a shortcut through the garden – it was faster that way.

I slung the heavy bag over my shoulder and went out. The morning was clear, cool, and quiet, as an autumn morning should be. It was as if there was no war at all. I walked across the ploughed, cratered land, avoiding patches of surviving potato tops. And then I found myself right in the middle of this field when the world changed.

At first, I didn't even understand what it was. A strange, multiple rustling sound in the sky, growing louder, like rain on a tin roof. I looked up. And I saw several fiery trails streaking across the sky; it was definitely a "Grad" rocket, flying straight at me.

At that moment, I had no time to think. The whole world turned into fire, roar, and flying earth. The sky disappeared, the sun vanished. Around me was only a brown-black wall, woven from explosions, which was closing in. I didn't feel pain, but I clearly felt the movement, a powerful, inhuman jolt from below threw me up like a splinter. I was flying, not falling, just flying in some unimaginable, slow somersault through all this hell. The guys later said that they saw the explosions, and I was still flying, tumbling through the air above that very garden, as if death couldn't decide whether to take me or not. I didn't understand any of it; there were only deafening explosions that drowned out everything. Then – a strong, crushing impact with the ground. Several somersaults, as if I were a rag doll. And then silence. Not absolute, but a muffled, cottony silence. The roar subsided, replaced by a high-pitched, thin, strong ringing in my ears.

I simply... sat up, as if I had woken up, and looked around. An impenetrable curtain of earth and smoke hung all around. I couldn't see beyond my outstretched hand and didn't understand where I was. Where to go.

I stood up, my legs held me, and I walked, almost by touch. Through this slowly settling fog, outlines began to appear – the ruins of a barn, a broken fence. And then I saw my friends. The guys were running towards me through the smoky veil: Cadet, Lyuty, and Sasha. They were running, and their faces revealed a mix of horror and hope.

They ran up and surrounded me from different sides. They didn't grab my hands, didn't shake me – they just looked. They were all silent, and their gazes swept over me, searching for wounds, blood, missing limbs.

And finally, Cadet, in a voice hoarse with tension, squeezed out just one phrase that contained all our common, unspoken questions:

"Holy hell... How is this even possible? You have no wounds and everything... is intact?"

I looked at my hands, touched my face, and my head.

"God knows if it's intact or not," I said, and my own voice sounded strange to me.

All the guys laughed. The laughter was nervous, intermittent, but sincere. They patted me on the shoulders, on the back, as if checking if I was real, alive. And I stood there, thinking, looking into the still settling cloud of dust: No, I haven't cheated death. It simply gave me another reprieve. Probably, I'm still needed for something. For what... that wasn't clear yet.