Resembling a field of flowers, overlapping round circles of colour
stretched along the streets, the only colour on a grey day. From our
offices we saw the advancing protesters holding aloft their umbrellas
and the policemen, a dull mix of blues, standing firm, waiting, their
cannons ready.
From above it looked comical- the cannons squirting, the flowers dipping in a futile attempt to shield their stalks. Instead they flew, beheaded flowers littering the street. To us it didn’t seem real.
Only after, seeing my brother battered and bruised did it sink in.
Now I stand among them, my umbrella aloft.
From above it looked comical- the cannons squirting, the flowers dipping in a futile attempt to shield their stalks. Instead they flew, beheaded flowers littering the street. To us it didn’t seem real.
Only after, seeing my brother battered and bruised did it sink in.
Now I stand among them, my umbrella aloft.
Written for 100 Word Challenge #414 on Velvet Verbosity; the prompt was the word Umbrellas.
it takes different things for us to become purposely purpose-full. Well done.
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