grace
Peaceful protests go ignored and when they burn their city to the ground they're described as thugs and criminals.
Do broken windows matter more than severed spines?
Don't misquote Martin Luther King just because you don't understand the nuances of the problem - a riot is the language of the unheard.
They used to live in tandem with one another, but they don't see eye to eye with you anymore. It's not that she doesn't love him, it's that she's bored. The books she reads are full of adventure, but with him there's nothing but routine. He's caring and kind, but he's dull.
"I see signals everywhere. How can no one else see them? Look, over there, the way that woman looked as she crossed the street surely meant she wanted me to help her. The way the wind rustled the trees, the way the cars engine sputtered right as I walked past. How can no else see? Why won't they believe me? You believe me don't you?"
The man walked alone begging his friend to believe him. But the phone he was shouting into was turned off and his furtive glances had made the woman cross the road to get away from him.
The wind made the sand rise past her ankles and whip her shins like the flames had risen past the logs on the bonfire they'd extinguished earlier that evening. Pressing her head down she made her way back up along the beach, the pebbles and sand making her journey harder, the darkness seeming to fall far too quickly. "Not much further" she shouted, but her voice was dragged off in the other direction. She turned a corner so a cliff face could act as a breaker to the wind. A few minutes later she stepped back into the cold, suddenly deafened by the howls of the gale. Surely they would have caught her up by now. The beach was deserted. They were gone. She was alone.
She grasped his hand as he tried to walk away.
"Don't." He snatched it away and carried on.
"Please." She called after him but he was already slamming the door.
Branches flailing like the arms of drowning man. Bucking and bending beneath the power of the wind, the trunk of the great oak seemed to moan with pain and sorrow every time another gust of wind battered it. The rain formed puddles that washed away the soil revealing its roots, its stronghold on the landscape slipping, creaking and swaying with the power of storm. A crack, the snap of a breaking bone sounded as the lightning struck. Down. It crashed, and there it lay until long after the storm clouds parted and the skies returned to blue.
The way people looked at her as she crossed the road made her feel as though she'd done something terribly, terribly wrong. Committed a sin so great she was about to be cast from society and forced to live as a hermit for the rest of her days. Instead she was walking home, with ladders in her tights and a heel broken, the make up from the night before smudged under her eyes. Still, she thought as she put her head down and suppressed a smile, totally worth it.
We all learn things through our lives and some stay with us more than others. You never forget how to ride a bike and you always remember to look both ways before crossing the street. It hurts the first time you learn that you have to power and capacity to break someones heart, but it hurts even more to learn that you can have your heart broken too.
He plays the instrument like hi life depends on it. Seeing him stood up there on stage, sweat dripping off his fringe make the hours spent sat in the kitchen listening to him to play until his fingers bled, even whilst I was working, or cooking, or trying to sleep, worthwhile. The arguments and memories turn into dust; it's just him and his guitar.