Miscellus

PEOPLE ARE POWER

PROMPT: Create a text whichincorporates a key idea in the provided image. 

People are power.

The words are scrawled, the letters blurred together, the ink smudged; but they are there, barely legible yet permanent. There are whispers of an uprising, a murmur in the streets of our town that have seeped into the streams and been swept downstream. Mothers bathe their children in it, sons scoop it into their woven baskets, and daughters add chopped vegetables to it and allow it to simmer. It leaks into our veins, pumping through our bodies until it is all you can hear as you lay in your bed, beating louder than your heartbeat.

People are power.

They say it is small, a hastily put together group of nobodies with an unattainable ambition that lies far beyond their reach. They say it is false, an ideology created by dreamers who refuse to see the world for how it truly is. They say we have no power and that we are weak, trapped under the sweaty palms of those who have suppressed our thoughts, our feelings, for as long as we can remember. But they do not know the truth, or they simple refuse to believe it. The truth is bitter, a tablet that must be swallowed dry, catching on the top of your mouth, scratching the flesh as it slowly trickles down your throat.

People are power.

The baker spills the words to the butcher in a hushed whisper at dinner, heads leaned into one another, trying to confine the five syllables. Mothers tell fathers as the children pretend not to hear as they complete their nightly routine – teeth, bed clothes, injection – who breathe the syllables to each other as they lay in their beds, comforters pulled up to their chins. Classmates scrawl the words on torn pieces of paper, passing it around the room until it eventually catches the eye of the weary teacher who reads it, wide eyed, and begs them never to speak of it again. The sounds fill the room, even when left unspoken, stealing the breath from your lungs. Is a secret still considered a secret when it is a secret no longer?

People are power.

Words are dangerous. Words wielded like weapons can pierce a man's heart as fluidly as a dagger, can slice through the vocal chords of their victim leaving them speechless. Words can rouse crowds with hope or diminish them with fear. The right words win wars, whilst the wrong words lead to defeat. They have silenced us for years, hands gripped so tightly around our throats that air cannot pass over our voice box; but they have grown complacent and their grip has loosened. We have regained our voice, the words have come to us once more, and they have turned a blind eye. But they will no longer be able to ignore us.

People are power.

It is time. The signal has been given – three words scrawled in the colour of blood – and we must harness our voice. The words, syllables that have been trapped inside of us for years, decades, centuries, erupt, a dormant volcano comes to life once more. Lava pours from our mouths, bright and red and angry and coats all in its path, searing those who don't cover their ears fast enough. Ash is pulled over their homes, their picture-perfect suburbs, towns, cities that they have created to suit them, not us, and pushes in the doors, breaks the windows, chokes those who dare to defy it.

People are power.

Our attack is swift, calculated, the result of months of planning. The group is not as small as they thought; we are many. We are your brothers and sisters, your classmates and teachers, your farmers, bakers and butchers. We are the backbone of our suburbs, towns, cities and we no longer wish to be bent to fit the will of the oppressors. Without us, they stumble and they fall, trapped under the sheer weight of us, of our words.

People are power.

We pry open their mouths, funnelling the truth down their throat as they choke and splutter. We clasp on their noses, forcing them to swallow, even when it catches on the back of their mouth. Our words catch them off guard and they are terrified, naked to our attacks.

People are power.

But we aren't finished; no, we are not remotely finished. We burn their picture-perfect homes to the ground, dancing on their charred remains as they are rendered immobile from our voice, loud and clear. We want change, change that they were unwilling to give, so we took it. We pillaged it from their towns, digging in the soot with our bare hands, we stole it from them and they were hopeless to stop us.

People are power.

We are the people, voices merging as one. They cower, hands over ears, begging us to stop. We push forward, heads high, the words clinging to our skin as a protective barrier. We are immune to their defences, we are unstoppable. They are powerless.

Because we are the people.

And we are the power.