The Revolution

        She finished her speech, a calm and well-projected address on methods by which to overthrow the government of which she was a part. The light caught her eyes, rather than the other way around, and she fell with soft grace. The attention of the sparkling crowd of dignitaries was so focused on the speech, the speech itself, which hung there a few feet below the ceiling entirely apart from and larger than its speaker, that when she fell, nobody noticed the apparent assassination. Not for a few long moments at least, moments during which the applause rose up to meet the speech.

        It stumbled and fell when a brittle man stood up in the corner and held his arm over his head. He was a small man, but his brittleness made him appear tall by proportion. "There will be no revolution!" said he, in a voice like a harp being plucked by rough branches. "No revolution!" But his intonation on the word *revolution* was sharp and full of fire, not the somber pall of one calling for an end to dissent. There was a sudden swift motion like the migration of moths, and seven men stood forward from the crowd. They all wore ruby pins on dark blue lapels, a detail which would not have been noticed had they not all stood at once.

        "The revolution will continue as planned," said one of the men, and they all took the same number of steps to reach the podium, lifting up the limp rag-doll who had been a vessel for such words, and carrying her to the door.

by amberite, contact for use permission.