argument or confrontation - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
This argument grew from nowhere into a tornado. In my rage I was blind to you, to the delicate petals of your heart and soul. I assumed I was right when I had no real reason to. The words you spoke in such well intentioned purity triggered something in me that came from fear. I guess it is the way we were raised. The words that calm you, scare me... and the words that calm me scare you. So there were were in opposite camps, suddenly blind to each other's good hearts and building barricades instead of bridges. Then I saw your soul in your eyes and knew in a moment that we, in very different ways, both wanted the same thing, but were lost in how to get there, blind to the paths yet trying to see. It was only when I let the love back in that I saw a path for us... we both wanted to do what was best for everyone, to protect kids, to have a safe society... That's when I knew we were destined to find that answer together and realise that with love we gain a new kind of sight, that it is a sort of illumination. So let's comfort instead of confront, augment instead or argue.
Instead of a fist meeting a fist, let that fist instead meet a diffuse cloud of hope, one that enters the fist as "nanoparticles," fixing and mending with empathy and compassion. Argument and confrontation are merely opportunities to learn how to passively heal the monster within.
In fear we are all the monster, the fighter, yet if we learn to respond with love and kindness we start to cure the monster in others, we return them to being the angel of their better natures. So instead of arguing, I will say I love you, I respect you, and let's speak of this later when our hearts are feeling more human. Because then we will find a way and peace becomes inevitable rather than unfindable.
There was no heat in her voice, as if her heart beat so steadily, even though she took a different view from Mac's own. She simply said this was her way of doing things. I could see Mac balk at first, so accustomed he was the to ways of Imelda and her fiery temper. Verity was different, she absorbed things and then responded more than reacted, dampened situations rather than adding to the flames. And so before I knew it everything was happy again, it was love all around instead of the bickering I was so accustomed to.
The man stood there, a sort of toddler expanded to adult size, irritation in his anger, a sort of impetuousness. I watched as thin blond hair moved over skin that yearned for more shade and rest. His eyes were on the small side, as if afraid to let the light in; his mouth was small and rigid, as if only used for the sort of smiles that mask cruelty, perhaps born of a lifetime of suspicion and the special kind of superiority that radiates contempt. It was one of those mouths that only twitch upward when a deception is achieved. If this were 'Transformers,' he'd be one of Megatron's lot for sure. "Go back to the freak show!" he snarled.
A small laugh escaped my lips, "Freak show? Oh man, if you're here, I'm already there."
He never argued with his fists but his words packed a powerful punch. Carefully spoken, without drama, his words had an air of finality to them and no matter how hard she railed against them, nothing would change his mind.
I know that when tension is high I should inject love instead of anger, give him an olive branch instead of enmity, but sometimes it just isn't that easy with Joel. He gets all up in my face and I get this urge to smack him down but if I do that he'll be gone, lost, hurting. So instead I take all the courage I have and use it to suppress my violent impulses. I soften my eyes and hold out my hand, "Joel, I love you. I love you now and I always will. I'll walk away if you need time to cool down, but if you want to talk instead of shout, I'm all ears." He steams right up my face; he wants a fight but I won't give him one. Doesn't that always lead to damage? Then he tears out of the house, revs up his bike and he's gone. It wasn't the evening I had planned with a movie and nachos, but at least he left with words of love in his ears. As his rage subsides they'll help him heal, calm and come back me as the Joel I love so much.
Words flew from her mouth that she never thought she'd even think, let alone say out loud. She knew instantly from the look in his eyes that they'd hit their mark. In that instant their relationship shattered into glassy shards. Nothing would ever be the same again.
His temper was like TNT, once the sparks started to sizzle there was very little time to duck and cover. She knew she should just stay quiet and wait for the storm to abate, but she couldn't help sparring with him. Like trained boxers they circled one another, the kid gloves were off, it was fighting time. She traded slur for slur, insult for insult, dig for dig. When his temper blew hot and he started thumping the counter with his fist she knew she'd won. He'd never slugged her yet but she knew she'd pushed him harder than was wise. For every pound she weighed he weight three and it was all solid muscle.
As he lay in bed he heard the first familiar rumbles of thunder from the kitchen. His Dad's booming voice seemed to shake the walls. It was quickly echoed by the shrill tones of his mother that electrified the air. Pulling his head under the pillow he waited for the storm to abate.
His face mottled crimson, his eyes popped, his tree trunk neck strained. His words were spat out with the ferocity and rapidity of machine gun fire. Without wiping the spit from her ashen face she leant closer, perfectly composed and uttered just three words, "I don't care." His fuse simmered and fizzed like a firework in a chill autumn breeze, then he exploded with unrestrained fury. She remained as still as a cadaver and just as pallid, unblinking against his onslaught. Then with a barely concealed smirk she turned on her heals and walked away as if strolling in the park on a fine day.
I'm just about to explode when my sister comes in with her usual big smile and a "What up lil' bro?" She casts a look from me to Mom, who's in the corner of the room beet red with hands stuck firmly on her hips, steam almost flying from her ears. Sally doesn't need to be told I screwed up again, she can read the situation faster than a one word note. And this one just says "Scram." I expect her to go, now that she's moved out of home she doesn't need to put up with the tension anymore, but she doesn't.
"I'm gonna take Tyler out for dinner. Alright Mom?"
Mom explodes, "Right. Yes. Get him out of my sight. Out!"
"He's gonna sleep over, see'ya. Love'ya." The door slams behind us and we're off to her beat up Ford Fiesta with the scummy seats. We don't say anything. She turns the radio up real loud and we head off, stopping at the pizza parlour for a large pepperoni. Next stop is the beach. She pulls a rug from the trunk and we sit as close as we dare to the waves.
She could squabble over anything. He hadn't bought enough bananas, he didn't put his toothbrush in the holder, he parked the car too far forwards in the garage. Normally he took it as meekly as a kitten subjected to the rough tongue of it's mother, but not this time. He didn't care if their ding-dong woke the hole neighbourhood. The kitten was out of town, only the sleeping tiger was at home.
The customer stood with hard staring eyes that never blinked. His sallow skin clung to his skull like a wet rag to a rail. Baring unevenly yellowed teeth he demanded to see the manager in a voice that was barely more human than a growl. A bag of opened bread hung as limply from his boney hand as a dead rabbit. Before I could buzz the manager he launched in to a tirade of expletives in the same low growl, but just loud enough for the other shoppers to hear.
Her cold fury burnt with dangerous intensity. He never worries about her frequent fireworks and showers of red hot sparks, it was these bitterly cold, slow burning rages that threatened to engulf their relationship.
Tara eavesdropped on her husband's conversation. "No..No...Baby, I love you....she means nothing," her husband, Joseph said, trying to pacify someone's anger. Tara was confused. Who was he talking to? "Yes.. I'll meet you.. yeah, same time, eight, alright?" he finalizes. Joseph hangs up abruptly and looks up.
"Meet who at eight?" Tara asks, placing her hands on her hips. And then, Joseph knew he was officially screwed.
Carl ran his hand through his close cropped hair three times in quick succession and fixed his father in a stare that could have frozen the Pacific. He snarled more than spoke. "Once I get a deposit together I'm outta here. I'm gonna be independent, get my own place, decorate it better than this shit hole you provide. You're not a Dad, you're a fail, a loser. You don't even make twenty bucks an hour!" His father dropped his gaze to the floor and hooked his thumbs into his worn jeans. These long years since Carl's mother had died had been the toughest. Shouting at his son never worked and he didn't have the chops for it anymore.
"Son, I will support you no matter what you decide, but nobody is independent, that's just the biggest myth out there."
"No, Dad, it's not. I make more than you already, I'm going and you can't stop me."
"Son, I'm not stopping you, but I love you, and like I said, no-one is independent." Carl took a step towards his Dad, a vein almost popping in his temple and his fists tightly clenched. The old man stayed right where he was. "Everyone depends on someone, Carl. Someone's gotta pour that concrete for your condo, someone empties the trash, someone grows your food. Hell, even if you go live in a mountain hut you still depend on the wildlife. I know you're angry son, but you're not the only one that loved her. I lost her too." Carl took another step forwards, now almost nose to nose.
"She was an angel and you cheated on her with, what was her name again? Was she someone you 'depended on,' Dad?" The old man stayed still, it was bad enough that he'd never forgive himself, but to Carl it was like he'd killed her...