It felt good. Like a good stretch in the morning. Like finally finishing a day of hardworking yard chores on a hot day and all you want to do is crack a beer on the back porch and regard your dominion and the world you made. Like the smell of cut grass and sweat. It felt good.
Michael closed his eyes as endorphines filled his body. He breathed deep, nasal passages fully dilated and clear. He could breathe. For the first time since he couldn't remember he could breathe. Not the crushing, short breath of panic and the bruise in the heart and the impulse to exhale a groan. Sleepless nights bathed in adrenaline.
He breathed in. The smell of paper. Coffee. Shaving cream, pencil shavings, new carpet.
Eyes closed. Heart pounding. Warmth and peace. He inhaled and held for the silence. He didn't want it to end.
But he felt, now, his hands gripping something hard. Something jagged. Pain. His hands felt pain. He exhaled, then opened his eyes to shards of broken glass and paper all around. His hand gripped a chair, wooden legs pointing outward, one broken off in a jagged fray of maple. He felt the stares of people. People who had been there only to deposit a check. Silent. Staring. Taking cover. A man in a tie and a suit huddled, peeked at him wide eyed trembling below a dented, office supply strewn table. Paper clips and bits of flat screen monitor.
Michael dropped the chair and felt the pain leave his hands. He opened and closed his fists.
Sirens. He realized now that he had been unaware of sound for a moment. The sound of multiple overlapping sirens grew louder. His ears felt hot. Good, he thought. Good. Where else would I go?
This is short fiction from the Red Writing Hood site.
use a Gandhi quote to inspire you to throw a little conflict at your characters in the name of strong plot development.
It is better to be violent, if there is violence in our hearts, than to put on the cloak of nonviolence to cover impotence.