revolutions can be tender

This is an entry for the FEMFLASH 2013 writing competition from Mookychick Online. Enter now.

It’s us, half-drunk on the icy air. The police station car park is deserted. I bend to tug a loose brick from the wall.

‘Oh my God,’ she says. I press a finger to my lips. We look at each other. Her eyes widen, anticipation lighting her up like merry dancers in the sky. She nods once.

Weighing the brick in my hand, I count to three before I lob it at the window of the nearest police car.

There’s the smash of the glass and the alarm rings out. No-one’s coming after us yet but we run, high heels clacking on the pavement, until we get to the play park, gasping and laughing and collapsing into each other.

And then we’re still, just breathing, and neither one of us is pulling away.

So I do it, and when our lips meet, her hands slide down my waist, fingertips pressing into my hips.

I feel a thousand riots inside me. I feel the centuries we’ve fought with our words and fists. I feel the world shifting. It’s worth an eternity of struggle.

It’s us, with our love and our rage, skin aglow from the orange streetlights, and it feels as though we’ve won.

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