It wasn't far past midday, Flint was certain of that much. He'd lost track of time a little, as his morning had been interrupted when he'd spotted a fox chasing a squirrel for a good half an hour. It was quite something to behold; the scrawny, lithe predator bringing fear to the unassuming, rather cute prey. Chasing it without strategy or finesse, without trickery, only with hunger, and desire. The squirrel was so effortless in it's evasion, climbing trees the fox could only scratch at, leaping effortlessly over it's head and confusing the other beast. After a while it looked more like the rodent was toying with its would-be captor than actually trying to escape it, looping around itself as the fox lapped behind it, an insatiable hunger in it's eyes, it's low growls and yelps becoming less a challenge and more of a plea. Flint saw some poetic truth in their chase. The dying animal, a shade of what it had the potential to be, unable to shatter the drive of it's lessers.
He wished things could be so simple as he turned and proceeded towards Diagon Alley.
Flint walked through the Leaky Cauldron a little after eleven, and had spent the remainder of the morning in Gringotts, arguing with a particularly venomous goblin about how much he was being taxed. His funds had been on the decline rapidly over the past year, a combination of his lack of productivity and what he was sure were focused attacks by the Ministry on people like him. Those who weren't afraid to speak against them, those who wouldn't buckle so quickly. They were too few and far between for Flint's liking. Too many of the people he passed on his way out of the bank were content to fester in their misery, to simply exist despite what was being forced upon them. Inhumanity was all it was, and it filled Flint with a rage he had barely contained over the past year.
Yes, he was an angry young man, a would-be visionary. But it was useless. For over a year a manuscript, now hopelessly outdated, had sat on his desk, unread by all but him. It wouldn't be published until he had offered something creative, less political, that would sell without the Ministry on the back of his editor. That was what he had been told. Those ideas, however, were nowhere to be found. Whenever Flint tried to write, he could not manage more than a sentence before scrapping it. He didn't want to, he wanted to paint a vision with his words and bring some joy to the hearts of those that read it – but how could he paint joy when all he felt was... was what? Dissatisfaction would be the best word for it, he supposed, but it felt like a limp imitation of the feeling. It coursed through him, an urge to break the monotony and the downright oppression that the people around him suffered. But he was no fighter, no leader. He wrote. Except, right now, he didn't.
Flint had barely realised that he had stopped walking, stopping next to a small wall that ran between two shops. It was maybe three feet high, and not very wide. He looked at it, and then around him. The street was busy - It always was, but as this was a Saturday it was especially so. A thought occurred to him, and he looked at the wall again. It was madness, surely. He had seen men, normally muggles, shouting out in the street, speaking to those that walked past. They were insane, there to be laughed at, not to be respected. Flint sighed and shook his head. Yes it was madness, but he had no other way.
In a fluid movement, he clambered onto the wall, and turned to face the street. A few people glanced up at him, but paid him little heed. He considered casting Sonorus to magnify his voice, but decided against it. Shouting would be fine. Flint cleared his throat, frowned, and began to speak;
“Friends! Brothers and Sisters!”. People turned to him. A couple stopped, most continued on. “I come before you because we need shake off our weariness, our shackles of apathy, and take up new bonds. Bonds that hold us together. Bonds that will empower us against what the Ministry ask of us.”. More people stopped at that. There was a palpable coldness in the air. This wasn't the kind of madman they were used to seeing. “They don't just ask to own your bodies, they ask to abuse them! They seek to use you as a tool.”. Flint's anger was welling up inside him, and his voice grew louder.
“I will not be their tool! I will not be a performing monkey! Not a one of us should pander to this... this invasion! The bodies of our women are not tools to be abused! Our minds, our hearts, and our morals are not subject to their whimsy!”. More people had stopped, but Flint noticed a ruckuss in the street a few metres away. Magical Law Enforcement were approaching, rapidly. Time to wind up.
He stood up tall, glanced over the crowd, and shouted, “Don't accept it! Fight! Fight, like your lives are the forfeit for losing! Because I tell you, sooner than later, they might just be!”. With that, he leapt from the wall and ran, through the crowd. There were shouts, and a bolt of red flew past Flint's head as he ran, dodging and weaving through the crowd. With a loud pop, a man in uniform appeared in front of him, and made to grab Flint. Thankfully, he had misjudged his apparation, and was about a foot to far away, letting Flint hop nimbly to one side and change direction, barrelling into a nearby shop. He stormed through it, vaulting over the counter and past the bemused owner into the back, where he ran til he found another door, out into a smaller alleyway behind the shop.
It was around 10 minutes later when he finally stopped running, convinced he had lost his pursuers. He collapsed onto the steps on a building just off the main Alley, breathing heavily. Now, with his passions cooled, he realised the stupidity of his actions. At best, nobody had seen his face and he had seemed an insane man. At worst, someone had recognised Flint Cotnoir, successful author and he was now a wanted man. Flint put his head in his hands, looked at the cobbles below his feet, and sighed. The squirrel lived another day.
by Flint Cotnoir Mon Sep 01, 2014 5:17 pm
