A silent disguised call to arms. An equation unfully calculated. An affront ready to be met aggressively. A group, ready to be the iron fist of the general public. Injustice, will not stand. The noise rose up and hung around as a thick fog would.
Voting is a right. Always the treasure given by this countries founders. It shall not be tampered with. The nations mental unwellness spills onto itself by a rowdy crowd overly eager and overly prepared to enforce it's confidence. A point will be made. Nigh, examples will be made. To hell with politics. To hell with waiting and using the judicial system in our democratic system we are fighting for.
Rubbing his knuckles he can feel the indent in the knuckle of his middle finger. His hands are scaley and dry from over washing usually. Today, however, his hands feel soft from over basting in his own sweat. His hands always sweat when he's nervous. His adrenaline shakes his hands as he prepares to enter with the rest of the crowd. If everything is right, why could he not bring himself to look up. His shoes were clean and still had that new running shoe feel and smell. He kicked the back of his right shoe with the toe of his left. He felt like a bull waiting to be released from a stable for freedom to buck. They would be testing if freedom and democracy were so interchangeable.
He was one of the few without a weapon. So many were armed. To be honest, he had yet to decide if he should really be there. It was all so chaotic and fast. The people he stayed with had coaxed him and he had allowed himself to be agitated by the rhetoric. They were doing what their commander and cheif could not rightfully do.
"One minute till go", a man bellowed to the crowd.
He felt himself moving backward in the crowd or maybe the crowd was moving forward. Yes, the crowd was advancing. He stayed planted. He couldn't get his feet to pick up. Maybe fear. It all seemed too unreal. An out of body experience. He was no longer in control. He could just watch.
20 seconds the crowd was rushing forward, moving him from the middle to the back.
30 seconds the crowd was before him approaching the capitol building. He could just stare.
45 seconds he felt his knees on the ground. The bone of his patella sends a shock of pain that acts as a defibrillator for his brain. His throat partially closes. It's too late and the words won't come anyways. It's happening.
60 seconds in he can just watch from a kneeling position. Kneeling, he brings himself to look up. Unprepared for the truth of it. It presents as a painting. His own personal viewing of 'The Triumph of Death', by Pieter Bruegel. In an instant history was creating itself before him. A not so innocent bystander allowing it to unfold. But, really what could he do. All he thought in this moment was the phrase found on a dollar bill, "In god we trust". How he wished to hold the embodiment of America like the statue pieta. He wished those attacked could hold him the same way as he collapsed under the weight of ignominy.
Sent from my Galaxy
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Enshrining Complement
The humidity suffocated. Unlike the balmy days of summer she spent with her siblings playing outside until sunset, this was miserable. Sweat glued her shirt and skirt to her skin. She periodically squeezed out the sweat, but to no use. It would be saturated a second later. She watched as drop after drop, dropped, a reminder of the precious liquids leaving her body. She had been walking and walking and walking. She needed something to eat and she needed water. She had walked so far. If she could lift her legs she would have attempted to run in any direction, but they were close to being numb and lame so it was out of the question. She mentally pleaded to the weather and earth for rain, a river or even a puddle at this point. Cloud cover would be the least that could be done. She'd seen 'Naked and Afraid', that was enough of the experience for her. She wasn't yet desperate, but getting there. She realized all the things she should have done differently. All the items she should have brought. Her foot hit a root and she tumbled to the ground. The root trip was the last straw to her upright mobility. She stayed down in defeat, on the ground. She took her worn sneakers off and rubbed the soles of her feet. She could feel her fingers rubbing on the soles of her feet. Reassurance that they were simply tired and not at risk of needing to be amputated. Before closing her eyes and accepting a slow death, she notices something she recognizes. A small cluster of maroon gourd shaped jewels showing among the greenery. She rushed to them. Plucking clusters of them from the tree as delicately as her need allowed. She didn't bother peeling the figs. She ate the whole thing. Then another and another until she felt her stomach reflex reminding her it could spill all it's contents if she continued. She shoved what she could in to her pockets and her small bag. Ignoring the sticky mess as a few delicate fruits burst under the pressure of her frantic touch. The strap of her bag had left a rubbed rash on her neck as she was wearing it securely across her body. A canvas, water resistant crossbody bag that tourist wear. She wasn't a tourist to the overall place, it was home, but she was a tourist to this particular forest. Surveying the land drew her here. This was just going to be a surveying trip. Over eager and confident she had gone alone early. She should have insisted her and her colleague drive here together. She was supposed to meet a fellow colleague here an hour later, but she must have gotten the location wrong or possibly her colleague did, she had yet to find her. She fell back to the ground, her sugar rush wearing off. She felt strengthed from the fruits none the less. The sugar left her thirstier, but somehow with less immediate need for it.
By simplicity2 months ago in Fiction
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