The Writers' Circle

In the picture, he held his boy in his arms, saving lives. I'm saying, the shit hit the fan but it didn't hit them, and a punk rock tune played over the jukebox.

Three people stood and stared at this picture. I was one of them, of course. Hands over ears, hearing the music faintly and nothing else. Words meant less than this picture.

Because around them, outside their circle and outside their love, class war raged. Shoot the mediocre and all that. 

And the prescription pills in everyone's mirrored cupboards were not taken; screams and sitcoms were finally ignored. I mean that we all got off our meds and into our worlds.

Sons and daughters of all scenes went outside and then came the riot. Really, we could blame radio. Pirate radio. Riots. They're always linked. Violence came and did not leave, broken glass everywhere, in my mouth and under my tongue. The picture, the one in the bar, was a part of this. The picture had captured this moment.

"Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice!"

Wise statements for picket signs, yes, but it's shit. Real kids shout, they don't wave signs. Screaming...

There were people locked inside their houses and hiding under their beds, feeling protected from the gunfire. What gunfire? We didn't have the guns, they did. But they were the minority here, and we, in our glitter and travesty, oppressed them.

And to think it all started with a fucking broadcast and a fucking picture. The odds are so low. Kid, you're better off not swallowing that piece of glass.

There's a riot!

Well, maybe. A large amount of violence indicates a riot. War is a riot. 

But there was a riot squad, anyway. Of course they had to join the party with their black suits and their helmets and shields. I once demanded they try this tear gas shit themselves before inflicting it on us. I never get what I demand. Behind their protection, those stupid fucks. One of them got stabbed. People don't deserve pain but torturers are not people and they sprayed their torture. I mean he deserved it, and every one of those twelve stitches.

And someone died, and he didn't deserve it. The papers said twelve injuries and one death. As usual they were wrong, there were two dead. I know.

The picture had its dead too, and its blood. On one side the rich and influential screaming madly and dying, and on the other side the poor screaming madly and living. They won in the picture but that wasn't real life. The sad thing was the two boys caught in between. They didn't think about all that, they just wanted to stay together. It's selfish, but it makes you happy for them.

And that night that pirate radio said "Good job" and we felt that it was, but it wasn't the end and nothing was just fine. There was still so much to do, so much to fix.

And that night a ghost of a good thing burned the picture and shed tears.

And that night I watched while all the children slept, tired from raging the streets, and fathers went into every home and gave each those kids a bullet in their goddamn heads for daring to think free.


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(End)
This is one of the stories in a short story collection my friend and I are working on. You may ignore the grammar errors, they're on purpose. I don't have much experience in writing; in high school there was hardly any creative writing, I'm pretty much untutored in that area, although I have been writing short stories for three or four years.