Bad Things, Good People

Laura’s agonizing tears burned

Jim’s chest as, gently, firmly,

He led her away from a city

In a country

Whose people had lost hope

His mind wandered to the night, years ago,

When they’d held each other close, safe, secure

Against incoming rockets

And swore they’d change the ways of these people

And presently Jim swore, likewise,

To rearrange the face of the bastard

Shelling the cinderblock schoolhouses

Embodying the knowledge of fishing with

Which he’d left them

As the giant hand applied

To Jim its tremendous donkey-punch

He thought,

How funny, that 155mm shells have no sound

Save for that of the rush of blood in my ears

Riots

The fateful bottle created a parabolic arc of sparks that rapidly burnt out as it coursed through the cool Brazilian air, calling the eyes of the entire crowd to its boldness as it shattered against the phalanx of governmental authority assembled to halt the sons and daughters of liberty.

Not willing to be shown up by a mere glass bottle, the crowd surged forward and surged around the Policia, skulls and forearms and ribcages shattering accordingly in the meat grinder of flailing batons and angered curses. The poor bastard who had accepted the drink offered him in the first seconds was getting a bit hot under the collar. His shield and his discipline alike began to warp from the heat, and in a moment of violent disgust he took the plastic device from his arm and hurled it lengthwise into the crowd, catching an unsuspecting dissenter square in the mouth.

The crowd continued to undulate against the tide-wall of oppression, and soon enough a fissure bared its teeth to the faceless arm of the law. Idealists poured into the gap created by the faltering discipline of the scorched officer, who was by now shitting himself several dozen yards back, not even bothering to look behind him because he knew how much harsher the mob’s law could be than that which he served.

The Crimson Sunrise

The forest silenced itself in his presence, the awesome crunch of his booted feet through the snow an awe-inspiring symphony the likes of which its inhabitants had never before heard. Its brooding darkness in turn silenced him, reverence clamping its gentle hand over his mouth as he walked aimlessly through orderly groves. As the first fingers of sunlight licked the night sky, the corners of his lips turned up slightly; and so the crimson sun rose, once again there to present to him the world around in its innocent glow.

He closed his eyes, trusting his feet to remember the way home, and his mind to recall his reason for going there. That silent night, where his mother had lain down for the final time, and he’d blinked through fiery tears to see that crimson sun, its warm glow the only constant in his life. And so he had returned, along the same route, every year since that night. Snow crunched on, and the lens of his tears caught the light as the sun struck fire from the snow-capped mountains that framed his mother’s small cabin.

Jane’s hands had closed around his, and he’d looked into her eyes for that eternal second, that finite moment that he needed to realize that he loved her. She put that moment to use telling him that she no longer wanted him in her life. He smiled, because he knew that his reality was a mere manifestation of his dreams. When he kissed her, she kissed him back, and returned to him.

He remembered that day so long before, when, as young lovers, they had shyly stood before each other and pretended to be interested in anything but. Her smile as he looked up from the quiet solace of the ground was the most captivating thing he’d ever seen. His feet were rooted to the spot, and he stared at her in awe for a moment before realizing that cultural norms dictated that he smile back, and he did so.