Would this go in Historical Fic.? I doubt it, but feel free to move it, mods.
The protest was a vast sea of anti-war signs and multicolored clothing. The air pulsed with a chanted protest song, and the scent of patchouli was overpowering.
Emma marched and chanted with less enthusiasm than the rest. Catching a glimpse of herself in a shop window, she was appalled at the girl staring back. She was a living cliché, a generic sixties flower child with her long, unwashed hair and peasant skirt. She contemplated the others, dressed similarly.[i]Those Che Guevara t-shirts are probably mass-produced by little kids in sweatshops[/i], she thought. [i]Oh, the irony[/i]. Did they really give a damn about the situation in Viet Nam, or were they just feeling good about themselves?
Sighing, Emma dropped her "Bring Home the Troops" poster and departed the throng, watching with a sardonic smile as her sign was trampled underfoot, and strolled down the block toward her favorite book store.
Outside the door, a fellow flower child sat with an acoustic guitar, crooning some overplayed protest song- Bob Dylan or Joan Baez or someone. Just yesterday, Emma the Bleeding Heart Hippie would have tossed him some coins and sat down to listen. Today, Emma the Cynic entered the shop without a passing glance.
Inside, the world dissipated. She inhaled the aroma of old books, that distinctive smell of dust and paper and book binding glue. She indulged her eyes on the rows of shelves- poetry, fiction, philosophy,art...
She reached for a tattered volume of poetry and flipped through it eagerly. It was a compilation of Dickinson poetry. [i]Maybe Emily had the right idea,[/i] she thought. [i]Hide yourself away from the world... it's not like you can change a damn thing anyway.[/i]
Her eyes rested on one of the many short, rhyming verses.
[i]If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain,
If I can ease one life the aching
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.[/i]
Emma stared down at the page intently. Emily had said it better than any café beatnik ever could. Perhaps war was human nature, perhaps peace was unattainable. But change was possible, however small.
Excitedly, Emma purchased the book and exited the shop. This time, she paused to listen to the street singer.
His eyes were closed in rapture, he swayed languidly to the rhythm. His voice was deep and resonant as he teased chords from the strings.
[i]He's not trying to save the world,[/i] Emma realized. [i]He's just making music.[/i]
Her generosity renewed, Emma smiled warmly and placed a ten dollar bill in his open guitar case. He stopped playing abruptly and beamed up at her in gratitude.
"Just don't spend it on pot," she teased. He grinned and nodded agreeably.
Emma walked home contentedly. Maybe protests wren't for her, but she was determined not to live in vain.
