Societal Solstice | Part II: FRACTURES

The coming to grips with this shows like a stress fracture. It’s not interesting at first. Barely even noticeable. Its warning klaxon nigh unintelligible amidst the cosmic background radiation of life’s minutiae.

A twitch in the brow.

A hard blink.

A long pause before someone answers a simple question.

It starts in the eyes, in the way people stop looking directly at each other. It furrows the brow, and glistens in sunlight. It becomes a microexpression, then a muttered comment, and finally… an action.

Something sudden. Something sharp.

Something out of proportion, but somehow expected.

That once-small huff as one reaches for their wallet is now more an exasperation, an exhortation to no one of a small wrongdoing.

The small loss of balance in the war of attrition with one’s credit cards and an empty gas tank. The loosened tongue that lashes out at the hand of the homeless, for daring to ask for loose change.

These stress fractures are malignant microcosms that taint the bones of an already malnourished society. Not one that was looking for a reason to burst, but found it nevertheless; and seems willing to embrace it. Even if, when the pieces are put back together, it looks like a monster.

When humans are pushed to the brink our herd mentality kicks in. Our ancestors figured out quickly there was strength in numbers. Banding together meant safety, and as hunters pattern recognition kept us alive so we often lump things into boxes and categories.

The powers that be lean into this for their marionette act. Driving the divide deeper between us sharpens that herd instinct until it becomes a blade.          

There’s a silent resolve you carry when walking into a grocery store. That is not new, I can only guess that it’s always existed. That part truly is old hat. Ask your parents, even when gumballs were a nickel, letting go of your money has never been easy.

I'm a big fan of produce sections. There is a silent, holy ritual when it comes to buying a bunch of bananas. You never pick the first bunch. It's unceremonious and, dare I say, heresy. It's always my first stop... Potassium is good for the heart, after all. Next is usually the deli, and as I made my first pass through the poultry I came up on a clerk, restocking the section.

He could feel my own bristling. When you work openly with the public, your attuned to people's energy whether you realize it or not. It's a blessing and a curse, and this guy definitely felt the air leave the room when I regaled the price on the chicken I was holding. 

“It was four dollars last year,” I said.

“Now it’s flirting with five,” he laughed, but it wasn’t funny. It was that numb laughter, like stock b-roll, the kind you use to plug the leak in your sanity for one more shift. You know exactly the kind.

“It’s not even the good stuff,” he said. “Just store brand.”

It was around then that a woman behind us joined in.

“I’m sorry, not to butt in” she said. “It’s everything. And nobody’s fixing it. They’re just telling us to budget better.”

Three strangers. Different backgrounds. No shouting. No conspiracy theories. Just shared exhaustion.

But there was a tense moment where we all kind of… felt where the conversation could go.

Who would be the first to say it?

I took a stab with pursed lips, regarding the meat section like a cadaver in an autopsy, “Well, it’s only going to get worse from here, I hope those who voted for him are happy.”

The moment hung in the air like a passing ghost. After a moment, the clerk piped up, “Prices have been higher for longer than that though.”

And for a moment—a brief, brilliant moment—we weren’t divided by anything. Not politics. Not class. Not race. Not algorithms. We weren’t yelling, we weren’t shutting each other out with our echo chambers, we were fucking talking.

Just three people, realizing the problem isn’t with each other. That the problem doesn’t give a shit what you look like, where you work, who you fuck, or where you were raised.

I told them, this moment right here? This is what terrifies the people in charge.

Not riots. Not looting.

But calm, clear-eyed conversation.

Because conversation is where clarity starts. And clarity spreads.

Listen. I know what I said earlier. That history is written in blood. And maybe it still will be. But for a moment—just one moment—I caught a glimpse of something else.

A different kind of reckoning. Not fire, not fury.

The kind that spreads when people stop shouting and start seeing.

RH

Author’s Note: “Fractures” is Part II of a multi-part essay series, Societal Solstice. The full, finalized version of this essay is currently in development for future literary publication. Please consider this an early release excerpt.