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So, back to the beginning, this time with Azar. +252, 81.738, 59 days left.
I'll do an excerpt, because I haven't in a while. I figure anything past the middle would be too spoilery to post.
Finally she saw a familiar figure in dusty orange among the crowd, her grey hair standing out in a sea of black. Azar waved, and her mother turned toward her. She embraced her mother and kissed her cheeks.
“Are you here alone?”
Azar shook her head. “Ayman said he would come after he dropped Zaynab off at his parents’. They’re going to watch the broadcast on their vid at home, so they’re taking care of her and Amal. Where’s Dad?”
Sahar laughed. “He had some business to attend to at the tea house. He’ll be here later.”
Azar looked around. There was no one within hearing distance. “That would be a better use of the day than coming here,” she said quietly. “We’re not likely to get anything but doggerel poetry and a patchwork of recycled slogans.” She and her comrades in the resistance had some recycled slogans of their own. This celebration of an injustice was a good time to make a stand. She prayed it wouldn’t be as disastrous as the last protests.
“Twenty-five years,” Sahar murmured. “I can hardly believe it’s been that long.” Her hand went to the scar on her temple, the permanent reminder that she’d fought against the coup and risked her life for her beliefs.
Azar was just carrying on the family tradition.
I'll do an excerpt, because I haven't in a while. I figure anything past the middle would be too spoilery to post.
Finally she saw a familiar figure in dusty orange among the crowd, her grey hair standing out in a sea of black. Azar waved, and her mother turned toward her. She embraced her mother and kissed her cheeks.
“Are you here alone?”
Azar shook her head. “Ayman said he would come after he dropped Zaynab off at his parents’. They’re going to watch the broadcast on their vid at home, so they’re taking care of her and Amal. Where’s Dad?”
Sahar laughed. “He had some business to attend to at the tea house. He’ll be here later.”
Azar looked around. There was no one within hearing distance. “That would be a better use of the day than coming here,” she said quietly. “We’re not likely to get anything but doggerel poetry and a patchwork of recycled slogans.” She and her comrades in the resistance had some recycled slogans of their own. This celebration of an injustice was a good time to make a stand. She prayed it wouldn’t be as disastrous as the last protests.
“Twenty-five years,” Sahar murmured. “I can hardly believe it’s been that long.” Her hand went to the scar on her temple, the permanent reminder that she’d fought against the coup and risked her life for her beliefs.
Azar was just carrying on the family tradition.
