(Photo from Pixabay)
By the time, the riot police arrived with their threatening paraphernalia, there was left no activity to disperse, no arson to direct their water cannons at and no clashes to separate with their gleaming black batons. The damage was well and truly done. Wrecked furniture lay atop each other in an asymmetric pattern of destruction. An assortment of moans and wails emanated from the ground where prone bodies with broken bones lay curled and twisted. The asphalt had turned darker absorbing the tiny rivulets of blood forming amoebic puddles.
Chairs were hurled at each other by the warring adversities with such ferocity that the law enforcers were stunned to see a couple of them perched precariously on a massive beam overhead. It was like a trapeze artist, who, after being rendered clueless about her next move, was just balancing dangerously on one leg.
It was an innocuous question raised by an octogenarian that made the congregation a tinderbox. “Why shouldn’t the President be made accountable for his devious activities. He is not above any of us – as human beings after all.”
A flying boot made a cracking connection with her jaw. As she hit the ground – mayhem!
(Word Count: 199)
To read more of the stories based on this week’s prompt, click HERE