I fucked it I fucked up.
Go back and check out A Thousand Summers, I posted it in the last thread before I forgot about it and it got locked. I'll be damned if I don't get some feedback on ATS.
Anyway, this one's called "Rebellion"
It’s the middle of the afternoon, and I’m not moving. I’m a radio station, broadcasting and receiving nothing but dead air, static. There it is. Static. Nothing is moving around me, but everything outside of my range of vision is rocketing through space and time, and this moment of stillness I’m feeling is isolated to myself, and myself alone. There it is. Alone. I look at my phone, hesitant to pick it up, because when I do the world will start moving again. Then it buzzes, taunting me. Screw it. I pick it up, punch in my code and slide my thumb along the bottom of the screen. News. Scrolling listlessly through the news feed, I look for something to get behind, something to commit to. I feel like I’m falling, untouched by anything or anyone’s gravity. I don’t like it. I want to anchor myself to something, anything, while I can still see straight. I hate it. This feeling of insignificance, of disconnectedness from anyone who can help me make a difference, I hate it.
It’s midnight, and she’s doing something thrilling. She’s got several cans of paint in her backpack, some brushes in a small travel case, and an electric air pump on a wheeled cart. She’s in a hurry to get off of the sidewalk, away from the street. There’s an alley. That looks good. She makes a sharp turn, but the cart was made for utility, not maneuverability, and the air tank slips and hits the ground. On the verge of a heart attack, she picks it up, heaves it back onto the cart, and ducks smog-filled shadows between the VICTIM® clothing store and the low-income apartments. She breathes deep, getting a feel for her canvas. The smooth walls of the VICTIM® would certainly be a bit easier, but the tattered brick of the apartment complex, the fire escapes…okay. She puts on her mask, takes the can of green paint and the spray nozzle, and hooks them both to the pump. As she pushes the pedal near the base of the cart, the pump gradually awakens, The humming’s going to get her caught, she knows it, so she forces the thought out of her mind and squeezes the trigger. The paint leaps out eagerly, hungrily, onto the wall, clinging to it. She grins a bit under her mask, as it’s out of her hands now. The paint stretches out, covering more of the wall, settling into its chosen form. It’s some kind of animal, gripping the gunmetal grey railing of the fire escape and extending out to the drainpipe, not quite reaching. Its eyes are closed, almost in resignation.
It’s 4:00 in the morning. She takes out a thin-headed brush and dips it in the green paint can. She stencils in small, neat calligraphy the words “Leap of Faith 1992” and collapses against the wall of the VICTIM® in exhaustion. She allows herself 10 minutes of stillness. 10 minutes, no more.
At 4:12, she leaps to her feet, gathers her supplies, flips her hoodie inside out, and strolls, whistling softly, down Redmont Avenue. She can’t help but feel she has won some small, personal battle with the universe.