Creative Writing – (2.4) Prejudice.

Autumn. Summer leaves now hang lifeless, preparing for the inevitable. The hustle and bustle of the street fades quietly to the familiar scuttle of leaves sailing over a sea of endless concrete. A pungent industrial scent hung in the stale congested air. From here you could watch the world go by, see the city layer by layer for who she truly was. People could go about their pointless lives worrying about the little things. The pointless things. People could profit off the weak as the homeless starved and the poor wept. She was many things to many people to some sweet and kind. To others a cruel mistress who was neither fair nor just. Wild and unpredictable her icy touch could mean life or death.

Time passes. Leaves silhouetted. The blood orange sunset fades into night’s dim cloak. It is here that true colours are shown. Silence strangles the once-bustling streets as darkness descends. The once stale city air now a crisp and bitter chill. Every lungful is more and more difficult than the next. Pale yellow streetlights hang suspended above the grieving boulevard below. An eerie silence engulfs the narrow winding passages. Deafening. Consuming. Hooded figures scurry in the shadows like rats through drain pipes. Desperate. Powder floods the once innocent streets. Whispers inaudible hint at an impending transaction. Bang! A black body hits the concrete. Limp. Lifeless. Warm blood painting this concrete canvas. A masterpiece. She reaches out and snatches another innocent life away in her icy grip. A mother clutches her child tighter and closer, fear in her eyes, a prisoner in a cell. Abandoned.

Listen, the gentle cries of the helpless ring out in silence for they are the ones with no voice. Drowned out by white noise this unsung song is heard yet bitterly ignored. A blind eye turned. Governments. Society. Corrupted. A system with no purpose. Where the worth of a human life is determined by the colour of one’s skin or the amount of green in your pocket. The content of one’s character is about as relevant as the dirt on which we walk. communities hurting and hearts broken. Fighting for equality. Influence limitless, her bias knows no bounds.

Look, White people living in their white houses surrounded by white fences. Comfort in a perfect world. To them she was kind. Unaware of the endless struggles endured. Oblivious. That not far away families are dying. Children are crying. Murder. For they had been shielded, sheltered if you will. From the streets paved with the blood of the innocent. A cruel chess game in which they are the pawns. Cheap lives. Expendable in her eyes. It is a rule after all ‘white always moves first’.

And here you stand in the comfort of your own home, watching, gazing, The unfortunate crowd the desolate streets. Black feet marching for a brighter tomorrow but you turn your back. You’d rather turn on the evening news and return your gaze to what you’d deem the bigger picture. Because pain, suffering and anguish to you it happens elsewhere.

By Nathan Beaton.