The dull thud of metal smacking into flesh echoed against the buildings lining Hoover Avenue. A guttural groan escaped Sebastian's bloodied lips in the cool dusk, and a shined black boot connected with his side. A loud crack resounded, and bright red agony pulsed from his ribs. He cried out and rolled over. He brought his legs up to his chest and his hands up to cover his head. Tears stung at his eyes and cheeks, seeping into the bleeding scratches covering one side of his face.

        "You filthy fuckin' tree hugger!" The officer yelled, bringing his foot back in a strike against Sebastian's back. "This is how our troops feel when they see you wannabes protestin' the war!"

        Beneath the officer, Sebastian groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. The steel toe of the boot connected with his shoulder, causing a bright white pain to shoot down his spine and lock his legs painfully. He yelped, and a small, high-pitched whimper escaped him. The officer grabbed him by his arm and yanked him to his feet. Sebastian slouched over in the officer's grasp, glancing at a golden Lincoln Continental parked next to them. His vision swam; fifteen cops and cars floated around his head and eyes, stuffing up his sinuses and causing him to sniffle and squint.

        The cop held a sleek black baton in his available hand, and he lifted it half-way up his chest. Sebastian flinched and feebly tried to pull away from the old cop's grasp; his body was drunk with pain, and a stabbing sensation began in his stomach when he flinched. Burning bile rose to the back of his throat, but he forced it back down. His petite frame was shaking, the ends of his long, auburn hair shivering with his body under the orange street light. Blood trickled through the stubble on his chin.

        The officer let go of his arm, and Sebastian stumbled sideways and onto the driver's door of the Lincoln. The cop approached. He was much larger than Sebastian and towered over the college boy. A rough hand pulled the thin, tie-dye hemp rope from around the top of Sebastian's head, taking strands of hair with it. The cop held it up to his gaze, as if contemplating its meaning, before dropping it down a storm drain in the sidewalk. A malicious grin spread across his face, showing crooked and rotting teeth.

        "Let this be'a lesson to you, Boy," the old man said, pointing his finger at Sebastian, who flinched away from the movement. "Next time I see ya protestin' on government owned property, I'm gonna kill ya."

        Sebastian opened his bleeding mouth to speak, but he was awarded only by an immediate, fiery shot of pain up his jaw. His rapidly-swelling eye teared up in response, and all he could manage to offer in reply to the officer was blink. Sebastian turned his head to try to locate his car, and his whole body fell into the motion.

        The cop cleared the back of his throat, and moments later a large glob of warm, mucus-laden saliva connected with Sebastian's temple. Harsh laughter followed, and then footsteps signaling the officer's leave. Sebastian raised the sleeve of his worn denim jacket to his face, wiping the spit from his temple in a jerky, slow motion. He bit the insides of his lips, trying to ward off the stabbing nausea in his stomach with the gesture.

        He shakily regarded his surroundings, and finally spotted his navy blue woody in his double vision. He leaned heavily on the parked cars while he made his way toward his, and few passersby stole him a second glance. Those who did were cold and cruel, snapping at him about his long hair or how he deserved what he got. Long hair and peace symbols were just two signs that showed anyone who would look upon him that he had burned his draft card and resigned himself to a quiet life of peace and love. It was an outcast's life, and the police regarded all "hippies" as criminals, even if the individual had committed no crimes.

        A young man moved from the sidewalk and gently pulled on Sebastian's arm to steady him. Sebastian looked over with his swollen eyes and gave the other man a thin-lipped, bloody smile.

        "I was at the protest too," the man said, using his free arm to point to the white lily he had wound into his shoulder-length black hair. "I saw you give your flower to the soldier before you left. That was choice, cat."

        "Thanks, man," Sebastian managed to say. He stumbled over the curb as the other man pulled him onto the sidewalk. He wanted to say that he also remembered him, as the man on the front line of the protest with the largest sign and the biggest smile, but the words on how to do so escaped him.

        His body was still shaking and shivering, with blood dripping down the front of his jacket. He struggled to stay walking in a straight line; his legs were becoming painful lead weights the farther he walked, and his body began to fall sideways onto the stranger.

        "This your ride?"

        He looked up from the sidewalk cracks and up at his navy-colored woody. He nodded, and the stranger helped him around to the driver's door of the car. Sebastian pulled the door open, and fell graciously onto the afghan-covered bench seat. He was able to keep himself upright, and he turned to look at  the man.

        "You're a damn groovy cat," Sebastian croaked out. The man laughed.

        "M'name's Brent Jones," the stranger said, extending his hand.

        "Sebastian Voice," he said as he took Brent's hand and weakly shook it up and down. Brent raised an eyebrow at Sebastian's name.

        "You okay to drive?"

        "Maybe."

        "I think you're too freaked out. Scooch over, I'll drive."

        Sebastian just stared at Brent for a long moment, and a strange feeling passed over him. Brent meant no harm, of that he was sure, but he didn't know how he felt about a stranger driving him home. Nevertheless, he nodded and moved over. He leaned against the cool glass window, the heat from his injuries leeching into the relative cold of the car. Brent hopped into the driver's seat and shut the door. The old Ford started up, and the 700 AM channel slowly crackled into existence.

        "Where do ya live?" Brent asked while he pulled the station wagon out of its parallel-parked position.

        A long moment of silence followed while Sebastian wracked his aching brain for his street address. Finally, he said, "Fifty-two-twenty Osceola Drive."

        "Oh, nifty!" Brent said. "I live real close to Osceola."

        Sebastian nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. Multi-colored stars shot through the blackness behind his eyelids, each one bringing attention to another aching pain and only making the stabbing feeling in his stomach grow. He tried to bring his knees up, but the fire in his rib cage wouldn't allow him to move his legs farther than a few inches.

        The ride was filled with Sebastian's ragged breathing, which almost drowned out WLW's report from the war. Thousands more dead. The radio played noises of helicopters and machine guns before cutting to commercial. The car lurched upwards, and Sebastian opened his eyes to see that they were in his driveway.

        "Fifty-two-twenty Osceola," Brent said. Sebastian glanced over, and saw his acquaintance grinning. He gave a small smile back.

        "Why don't you come in?" He offered while he struggled with the heavy door. He finally managed to get it open, and he stepped out of the car, leaning against its roof with one arm shakily holding the door open.

        Brent killed the engine. The orchestra of katydids and tree frogs echoed around them, interrupted only by a passing car. After a few seconds of listening to the night's sounds, Brent  got out of the car and walked over to Sebastian's side. He raised the man's arm over his shoulders, and guided him up to the Voices' red front door. They didn't knock; they just opened the door and walked right into the mediocre home.

        "How did the protest go?" Sebastian's mother spat out from her place on the couch. She didn't look up from her knitting when she spoke, but she paused in the middle of a stitch in anticipation of his response.

        "Fine," Sebastian said. He pulled Brent's arm away and sank to the beige carpet, then pulled his muddy boots off. He kept his toes inside the tops of the shoes and leaned his head back against the wooden door. His eyes flickered shut, and snapshots of the protest at Wright-Patterson played in his head. The sun shining brightly in the powder blue sky, with lofty cirrus clouds floating across the top of Earth's dome. Hundreds of protest signs outside of a chain-link fence, and military guns pointed at them from inside the fenceline, as if daring them to take one more step forward.

        Peace. It was all they wanted. A musty, earthy smell had permeated through all the marijuana and Orange Sunshine and peace and love. The wind blew through the tall grass, and people beat on deerskin drums. It was about loving everyone. It had been good, great, even, until he took a detour to stop by his friend's house.

        The cop had followed him, in a plainly-marked navy and white car. Sebastian tried to think nothing of it, but the fuzz left his vehicle the same moment Sebastian did, and not soon after, he was being beaten by a metal baton until he collapsed onto the sidewalk.

        The stabbing ache reentered his stomach, and he opened his eyes. His strangled breathing coupled with the clicking of his mother's knitting needles were the only noises in the home, and he forced himself to kneel and then stand. He felt Brent's arm around his shoulders, and Brent supported him as he slowly made his way into the kitchen. Sebastian reached for a bottle of Jack Daniels inside the highest cabinet. He undid the lid and took a mouthful of the harsh drink before reaching for two glasses from the insides of the cabinet. He poured the amber-colored liquor into one glass, then looked over at his newfound acquaintance.

        "Nah, man, I'll just have some water." Brent said, taking the glass and walking over to the sink. Sebastian leaned against the counter, and replaced the liquor bottle.

        "Who do you have with you?" His mother demanded from the living room.

        "A friend," Sebastian said. He heard her scoff.

        "I can go now, I live just up the street," Brent offered.

        "You can stay if ya want, don't let the old lady scare you," Sebastian said, taking a mouthful of the alcohol. It burned all the way down, and the heat distracted him from his pains.

        Brent shook his head, and repeated that the walk wasn't that long. He finished off his glass of water, and walked out of the home with a promise to return in the morning. When the door shut behind Brent, Sebastian limped back to the kitchen to top off his glass before going to his room.

        "G'night," he croaked out as he passed his mother. She grumbled back a reply. He took another drink from the glass and entered his small room. Burgundy tapestries hung from his ceiling, and saxophones decorated the corners. A dull gold tenor saxophone sat on his small bed, and he set his glass down on a cluttered nightstand to put the instrument into its tattered, gray case. He slid the case underneath his bed and sat down.

        He reached for the Jack and drained half the glass in a single drink. The drink pulled the pain away from his injuries, and noticeably dulled his mind. He half-shut his eyes, thinking of the white and yellow posters, and the white flowers, and started to wonder what it all meant. Sebastian didn't know if his voice could even be heard in the white flower protests, or if he was just another long-haired nobody.

        He glanced at the band posters taped to his walls, and up at The Who poster pinned to the ceiling above his bed. Jefferson Airplane, The Beatles, the Grateful Dead -- they spoke to the masses of the world through their songs. People paid to listen to them. Music was heard everywhere, by everyone. Sebastian's eyes grew wide with realization. Music could pave the the way to peace.

        "I'll start a band," he said, looking down at the last mouthful of liquor in the glass. "We'll do something great."

story cover by @mutiaraelwa // song is "who needs the peace corps?" by the mothers of invention