[ WP ] Write any story . The only twist is that the last sentence has to be the same as the first .

Sunday came, as Sundays always do, and they buried him in the family plot, next to his father, and his father before him, and no one mentioned that his brother had killed him. 
 
 After the funeral, what remained of the family went back to the cars and they lingered, vultures hovering around carrion, dark clothes and dark umbrellas and the flash of white as one or another dabbed at dry eyes, and they watched one another with eyes like scalpels. 
 
 `` So,'' their mother said. `` Which one of you is going to be next?'' 
 
 She seemed to relish the words. 
 
 And it was the youngest, Pyotr, who had very pale eyes, looked away first, like he could n't believe what he was hearing, like if he was n't looking at her mouth as she said it then the words had never truly been pronounced, as his mother inspected the tips of her nails and said, `` I suppose we'll be seeing each other again next Sunday.'' 
 
 And it was only after she had slid into the backseat of her car and disappeared down the winding road that the second youngest, Ksenija, the one with the dark hair and even darker eyes, said, `` I hope it's her.'' 
 
 `` Or Pyotr,'' said Pyotr's older brother, Ivan, who had lisped until he was ten, and the others laughed. 
 
 Pyotr laughed as well, but by the time he arrived home he was n't laughing any more. He went down to the basement and he found the old double-barrel shotgun that had belonged to his father, and his grandfather, and he set it on the kitchen table and he sat there all afternoon, all evening and all night, and flinched at every sound outside and did not sleep. 
 
 The next morning, the dog they called Sobaka began to bark and did not stop until he went to the window and looked out and saw his sisters, Sonja and Ksenija, the one with the dark hair and even darker eyes, waiting by the garden gate. Sonja had bleached her blonde when she was sixteen, and had been too lazy to do anything but continue; she was holding a knife, but Pyotr thought that was more for Ksenija's benefit than anything else. 
 
 He opened the door, and he said, `` yes?'' 
 
 Sonja was the third-oldest. She said, `` I do n't want any part in this.'' Sonja had a daughter. Sonja had two sons. Sonja would pass her part in this down to them. 
 
 He looked at her knife. `` I see that,'' he said. 
 
 `` You leave me alone,'' Sonja said. `` I'll leave you alone.'' 
 
 `` And Ksenija?'' 
 
 Ksenija smiled. She was ten months older than Pyotr. She looked two years younger. `` I wanted to see if you had a gun,'' she said. 
 
 `` I do,'' he said. 
 
 `` I'll see you on Sunday,'' Sonja said. 
 
 `` Well,'' Ksenija said. `` Maybe.'' 
 
 Pyotr shut the door. 
 
 Then, Pyotr went down to the basement and he found the little cardboard boxes of shells that had belonged to his father, and his grandfather, and he brought it up and spilled it across the kitchen table and he sat there all afternoon, all evening and all night, and loaded and unloaded and reloaded the gun, and did not sleep. 
 
 The next morning, the dog they called Sobaka began to bark and did not stop until he went to the window and looked out and saw the twins, Vladimir, who had been called Ekaterine, and Miroslav, who had been married twice, waiting by the garden gate. Vladimir was sitting in the car with the front door open; Miroslav was sitting on the hood of the car. 
 
 He opened the door and he said, `` yes?'' 
 
 Vladimir had been the closest of all of the siblings to Sebastian, who had died last Friday. He said, `` Ivan was n't joking.'' 
 
 Pyotr nodded. `` I know that.'' 
 
 `` It'd be gentler on all of us,'' Miroslav said. `` If you made it easy for him.'' 
 
 `` For you?'' 
 
 Vladimir shrugged. `` Much easier,'' he said. 
 
 `` I see,'' he said. 
 
 Then, Pyotr went down to the basement and he found the photo album that had belonged to his father, and his grandfather, and he brought it up and put it on the kitchen table and he sat there all afternoon, all evening and all night, and pored over photos of sixteen year old Sonja with newly-bleached hair, and ten year old lisping Ivan, and dark-eyed dark-haired Ksenija, and Vladimit who had still been called Ekaterine, and Miroslav who had not been married yet, and Sebastian, who was dead, and did not sleep. 
 
 The next morning, the dog they called Sobaka began to bark and did not stop until he went to the window and looked out and saw his oldest brother, Ivan, who had lisped until he was ten, waiting by the garden gate. He was watching. He was waiting. 
 
 Pyotr did not open the door. 
 
 Later in the day, as he left the house with his shotgun and his ammo and the scrapbook under his arm, he got a text from Ksenija and saw a picture of their mother's house. And as he drove towards Ivan's neighbourhood, he saw Miroslav's car overturned on the side of the road, flames licking greedily at the undercarriage. And as he turned into the street where Sonja lived across from Ivan, he saw that one of Sonja's children was standing over the other in the garden. 
 
 He readied his shotgun. 
 
 Pyotr, who had very pale eyes, waited by Ivan's garden gate and listened to his brother's dog, also called Sobaka, bark until the door was opened. 
 
 The brothers stared at one another. 
 
 Sunday came, as Sundays always do, and they buried him in the family plot, next to his father, and his father before him, and no one mentioned that his brother had killed him. 
 

