And here, because @kseniaanske is wonderful and suggested this is a good thing to do, is an excerpt from my writing. I should have explained, I write lit and fantasy fic, and sometimes poetry. This is from a short story called Flashpoint:
Malek had stepped down from the metal bird an hour ago, yet still she trembled and cursed the ungodly man who invented machines that fly. She had reached the twilight of her life and change had been visited upon her like an unwelcome bedfellow. She closed her eyes and willed humidity to envelop her like a blanket. She longed to walk barefoot through the moist soil of her land, her fibres grounded to the earth but the land no longer belonged to her. The heathens had taken her home and livelihood. They had spilt blood and desecrated prayer houses, ransacked homes and carried off jewels they had not earned. They had taken women who were not theirs. Malek had been forced to flee in the dead of the night with her sons, the moon high above them, terrified by the thought of encounters with the armies of men patrolling the streets. She had travelled with nothing other than her identity documents and a small bundle of currency in her bra. And now, after hours of a journey in which her terror had found a new peak, she found herself deposited in a gleaming airport terminal on British soil.
She waited amongst the throngs of refugees in the airport, frightened by the shiny newness of this alien world. The chill air pierced her dress. Her twin sons, Bilal and Binjamin, stood beside her, boys outcast and prematurely aged at eighteen years old. They wore forlorn expressions as they waited silently in sweat-stained t-shirts amidst the concrete jungle. Malek caught another woman’s eyes and saw her own exhaustion etched deep into the crevices of her face. The refugees were notable for their lack of luggage, the colour of their skin and the fear seeping out of their pores.