Posted: October 23, 2010 in Creative Writing, Stories, Uncategorized

This is my media piece based on the street art exhibition.

The kick back splashed into my face as I wove the  can around the canvas. A quick flick of my wrist and the red paint whipped across the canvas in a spray of blood. Another few flicks of the paint can and a quick wipe with my hand and I smiled to see my latest creation come to life before my eyes.

Standing back I looked at my painted baby with pride. It showed a picture of the infamous protests of the G20 meeting a few years ago in 2013. It showed the army of police, batons drawn, snarls etched across their faces and blood sprayed across the dark blue of their uniforms. Batons rose and fell, cracking heads, breaking arms and extinguishing life with each fall. Bodies littered the ground, heads in half, legs and arms bent askew and eyes glaring and screaming with the pain and horror of being betrayed by those who were thought to protect the people not those in power. The protests had lasted for over an hour. An hour where the protestors were trapped between advancing forces of fascist fuelled batons of swinging metal death. An hour and the death toll topped 200 hundred innocent peace protestors. One hour and 50 orphans were made, 78 widows and 89 parents who had to face the burial of their children.

I was one of the few survivors of the atrocity and for the past five years I have lived under the tyrannical regime. The authorities have removed the freedom I once took for granted. No longer can I read the papers or watch the news without some smarmy state employed newsreaders shouting a load of patriotic gibberish at me. ‘Fight for the country’ he will say closely followed by ‘Britain needs you, the Chancellor needs you. Fight and we will prevail’. Prevail for what? What is it we have to fear? Cause as far as I know the biggest thing I have to fear is not outside of this country but within it. Within the very regime that governs and controls our very lives. It makes me think about the quote I have scrawled on my bedroom ceiling:

“People should not be afraid of their governments.

Governments should be afraid of their people.”

I fall asleep reading the message over and over. Repeating its meaning, learning its message so that one day I can rise against the chains of oppression and free the people. I struggle to remember how we came to this situation.

I remember the terrorist attacks of 2012, of course I do, how could I ever forget her beautiful face. Her smile used to light up my days and her eyes shone with a quick wit and exquisite humour that always had me doubled up in stitches. But ever since those explosions ripped through London the humour has gone from my life. The laughter of my gorgeous wife and hyper little daughter still echo at the back of my mind and if I close my eyes and focus like I do every night I can the talk and clamour of them in the living room as I sit penning another article or story. I cry myself to sleep with their laughter the soundtrack of my nightmare.

This new painting conjured so many memories for me it trapped me and shook me violently from side to side that I felt sick and light headed, my vision swam and stars popped and spat as my vision went black. It was a strange sensation and I couldn’t understand what was going on until in a small moment of clear vision I saw in the centre of my room a small grenade that was spewing forth a luminous green smoke. Within a second a crash sounded as my front door was broken down followed almost immediately by the back door. I gave up, I had hidden for as long as I could, I had failed once to bring down the chancellor and in this Regime, and with this authority one chance was all they would ever give you.

I fell forwards and felt my face smash heavily onto the stone flags of the floor. Blood poured from my broken nose and a white hot flash burnt the back of my eyes. As I felt hands grab my shoulders and haul me roughly upwards I gave in and unconsciousness took over my life.

The next sound I heard was the soft chirping of the robins as the flit through the trees surrounding my house. A lone woodpecker began hammering in the distance and at the very edge of my hearing I heard the sound of a deer rushing through the trees the soft rustle of the leaves reaching my subconscious self and pulling me screaming back into the land of the living.

My eyes were sticky and clinging together with the blood of my broken nose. I tried to move my hands but they were bound together, as were my legs. And so I lay there on the moist ground where they had thrown me. Somewhere close by a car door opened and slammed shut. But the sound of someone pulling back on a gun brought overrode it all. tears sprang to life in my eyes and slowly the blood washed away and I could see the end.



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