five am. [bruno & harper]

[florentine, d4b ❁]

harper peregrine

age seventeen
district six
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♥ ♥ ♥

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The light streaming in from my window is jarringly bright, reflecting of the raindrops that still linger there. I wonder if it's been raining all night, or if they have frozen there from yesterday. Either way, the light streaming in through the pane is deafening. Can light be deafening? I think it can, you know, because this light is and some lights are. Silence can be deafening, and cats can be deafening, so there is certainly no reason why light cannot. I'm glad that's sorted, because things like that can play on your mind all day, you know. Maybe not your mind, specifically, but certainly in mine. People say my mind is different but I don't think it is. Secretly everybody is as strange as I am, but they just hide it because the world doesn't accept people who prefer kittens to babies and prefer babies to adults and prefer adults to television. It's just the way Panem works and it's no more my fault than yours, it's just that I choose to embrace my mind and my thoughts and you don't. You choose to conform, while I compare light to kittens and silence. I sing, too. And tell stories, mostly to myself. When Myra could sit still longer than a minute (that is, before she could crawl) I told her stories, but then she began to brutally stab my characters, so I started telling them to Rowley. Fire was never one to listen, and I swear River doesn't understand the English language. So Rowley will burble away until he falls asleep. It doesn't dishearten me - he's only a baby - but I go on telling my stories, because the only ones that actually listen well are my cats. Always, they purr as I sing and they meow as I weave a tale from nothing. It's not my choosing - it's who they are, and they are kind and generous and interested in what my mind chooses to say when I talk. Now, the dawn light is still waiting to break over the hills and I begin to weave them a tale as I do every morning, as they are just awakening from their deepest slumbers or settling down for a morning nap.

Stories echo around my brain, but the one that stands out to me most is dark and tragic, one that I have never told. I glance around, picturing the person in my story - a girl who ran away from District Four on a boat, hoping to find a better place. I take a deep breath, for I am almost never so dark as this.

" Yet another wave sent the tiny boat spinning through the swell. Rain pelted down, leaving each and every passenger soaked to the bone. The sky above was brooding and solemn, with great flashes occasionally lighting up the world.

Ara turned her head and squinted through the rain. In the darkness the girl could just make out the remains of the sails, tattered and ragged, being torn up from where they were fixed and tossed into the air. They hung there for a second before being dragged down into the waves. In a second they were gone.

It was impossible to tell that she was crying; her tears were washed away at once by the thunderous rain. Choking back a sob, her hands gripped around the rail. The boat lurched again below her as another wave sent the salty ocean mist into her face. The stifled sounds of screams clashed with the churning of waves and the creaking of the old boat.

Suddenly a cry sounded from somewhere behind her. ‘We’re sinking!’

Despair and fear filled her, and she no longer felt the biting wind on her cheeks.

The great grey ocean swirled below her. Taking a deep breath of salty air, she pulled herself to her feet, feeling the boat jerk around below.

Carefully balancing, the girl made her way through the tangle of crying bodies, her eyes squinting through the rain for anything that could keep her afloat.

The water began to lap over the sides, and more screams rang out. With an almighty jerk, the tiny wooden vessel tipped to the left, sending bodies tumbling weightlessly into the ocean. Ara hung onto the railing with the little strength she could muster.

An empty barrel, possibly once filled with flour or fresh water, lay ahead of her. Forced to let go of the railings for a second, the girl lunged across the deck, slipping and tumbling to the floor. Her fingers gripped the rough edge and pulled the barrel towards her. Relief flooded her body as she locked her arms around the only thing that could keep her floating when the boat finally sank.

Another wave rose up above them, threatening to crash down at any second. Water rushed over the girl, sending her spinning through the wave and into the sea. The freezing water elapsed and she struggled to pull herself back to the surface. Gasping, she scrambled to regain her hold on the barrel.

Around her, people were screaming and thrashing. Hands grappled at her barrel, trying to fight it from her. Everything moving too quickly, Ara kicked out into the water, the cold already numbing her inside and out.

Somehow, in the darkness the only hope of life was taken from her and she fought against the swell with no avail.

Within minutes, a boat had come to take the survivors away. It's search beams lit up the stormy sea, salvaging the few survivors. By then, however, it was too late.

Ara was already dead. "

I speak my story aloud, and my cats purr. They stop as I finish, dismayed. Always my stories have a happy ending. I must be an a terrible mood today. Maybe I dreamed of something dark. It is decided. I must go for a walk to refresh myself. I climb out of my window and cross the path. I guess I could have used the door, but I don't feel as though today is a door kind of day. The morning air is fresh and cool on my cheeks, and I am glad to be able to breathe it. Maybe I will meet somebody as I walk aimlessly, trying to find some happiness.

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[Deleted]

A fairly bright boy is far more intelligent and far better company than the average adult.
John B. S. Haldane

Looking around as the sunlight hit his eyes, Bruno pulled the covers over his head. He buried his head down underneath all of the old pillows and blankets and curled up into a ball. He heard his mother yell out his name. "I'm coming for goodness sake!" He yelled back. He fell down the stairs, landing flat on his face. He picked himself up, brushed off the dust and stormed out the back door.


He made his way down the gravel paved rode, trying to figure out where to go, when he bumped into someone. "Oh, I'm so sorry."

[florentine, d4b ❁]

200 X 300 picture

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'' take your past and burn it up and let
'' it go , c a r r y on i'm s t r o n g e r than you'll ever know[/color][/font][/color]
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As I walk, I think. I think about slamming revolving doors, of a green sky and of other impossible things. I think about what it would be like if there where words which rhymed with purple, of people who could fly away into the night. I wonder about is geebs could write more than four hundred words in a post what Panem would be like if there where no fences, no Games and no strict entrapment rules, no Capitol and no districts. If the world where to be free to go where they pleased and work for themselves. These are the kind of impossible things that I dream about when I walk. I do a lot of walking.

I like watching the bird flutter about the place, for they are able to fly over the fences as they wish and make their homes exactly where they want. I admire the elegance of the seeds floating in the wind - I wonder if they come from District Eleven, perhaps. And watch and envy to snowflakes which drift this way and that - for only they can fall right out of the sky and still be accepted. Every single on is different, yet they are all the same. Beautiful. Picturesque. Alive. This is what I wish to be, one day. My cats and me, living where nobody will mock us or stare at us with their wide and curious eyes. That is what I like about children - for they are innocent and have not yet been affected by the ways of the world. Children, when they look at me, don't see a freak. They see a girl, and that is all. When their concerned parents try to steer them away, as though concerned that peculiarity is contagious, I know that they do not see my wild mane of hair or unusual wealthy family. They see me. Spontaneous. Unique. Bizarre. Honest and trusting and loving and just. That is what I like about the young ones, that I why I like their company so. Myra, not so much, but Rowley hasn't been affected by all of that yet and I want more than anything to keep him sheltered from it all. Soon he will understand he is different - but every single second before that moment is precious and I wish to preserve him for as long as I possibly can.

There is a line you cross, a line you cross when you reach twelve years of age. You stop being a child, for that is all you ever where before. You begin to be a warrior. That is the only good thing about the games, I guess. People value what they have - their families - so much more, considering that every year there is all the more chance that even that could be snatched from you in the blink of an eye. These warriors must steel themselves for the worst - watching the games and knowing that one day that might be you on the screen, having your heart eaten by your crazy district partner. And any of the other children you see around the district, any of them you might have to kill just to see your mother one last time. That is what normal children, as young as twelve must do to be ready for the reaping. Every single year.

I'm thinking, and I'm walking, and I'm not paying the slightest bit of attention to where I am going. I've stopped watching the birds and the seeds and the snowflakes, stopped noticing the cold which prickles the hair on the back of my neck. But suddenly something barrels into me and I am forced to jump from my daydreams and thoughts and into reality.

"Hello," I say, looking down at the scruffy child who has just knocked into my side. I smile at him, not angry to say the least. Why, I should have been paying more attention.

'' words like this ''
thoughts like this

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tagged: mylee, bruno !
word count: 729 !
notes: rawr !
outfit: click !
lyrics: ...to be loved - papa roach !
credit:NOTHING_PERSONAL @ CAUTION !

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[Deleted]

A fairly bright boy is far more intelligent and far better company than the average adult.
~John B. S. Haldane

Bruno looked up, petrified, this was not his standard of fitting in. His voice didn't seem to work as he stuttered, "H-h-hello." He ran his hand through his hair ruffling it even more, he preceded to brush the dust off of his clothes. "I suppose your just gonna tell me to scram right?" Which is the response he was used to.