Inking out tomorrow [onyx]

[lazuli]

Larch Becket

Thought

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Memory
Narration
His speech

Painting was my last solace, my last catharsis I used to battle with my reality in District Seven, but it only brought pain to others.

I promised myself that I would never paint again. Yet here I am, trudging along to the chosen backdrop to meet the girl I’m supposed to paint. To distract myself I trace a bead of sweat running down to the nape of my neck where it hangs, momentarily still, before another ruins the moment, the stillness, irrevocably changing both their courses. If only my father hadn’t found my paintings, if only I had destroyed them, if only! I torment myself with if only’s but as always, they offer no reprieve so I keep walking head down with my feet barely skimming over the dusty path.

When he found them, my father wasn’t angry, as I at first feared and instead of his anger I faced his face contort, the muscles around his mouth twitching and squirming into a grin of pure greed. He then bellowed for my brother, Lumber, to come and he rushed in. As he did, I wondered not for the first time whether he wasn’t some muttation as he looks more like a black bear than a man. Lumber was then send to market to set up a sale to sell my paintings and I remained numb, still waiting for the inevitable eruption and beating I had tried to evade since the day I last set paint brush to paper.

That evening Lumber came home and told father that not only had he made quite a bit of money but he had made a deal which would pay off our long standing debt with the Lorenses. I’ve never really understood why such importance is put on honour and why powerful men cannot have debts to anyone but in our society, debtors were synonymous with sinners.
Five years ago my father had lost his job for taking wood for himself and not giving it to the company but Mitchil Lorense, the head of the logging company gave him another job, a better job. He said it was because my father had ‘drive’, but all that he means is that my father is greedy and blindingly ruthless. Ever since, our family has been trying to find a way of repaying the favour.


Sometime during these thoughts I must have stopped walking because I suddenly found myself lying against a great Oak, my back arched in perfect symmetry with the trunk. Muttering curses at my absentmindedness, I got up and walked quicker towards my day, no more delays. Lumber told my father that he had met Stark, The oldest Lorense boy, looking at Larch’s paintings. Stark’s eyes had glazed over, he was completely submerged in thought, planning.

The deal they made had two consequences, the first would be that I would spent painting his sister, Suzanne and the second was that the our debt and consequent disgrace would be over. Which is how I came to be spending my weekend with a stranger and why I was walking through the forest district trailing a small easel and paint set for the first time since my last time.

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[Onyx]

SUZANNE LORENSE

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Sometimes, I wonder how Michil Lorense, from the greatest lumber-management family of all time in District Seven, and Yosafina Tread, young mother with sharp wit, resilient determination and fierce control, could have a child like Stark.

I look up at him, blurry eyes making harsh contact with his hazel-oak ones even so early in the morning. His pearly grin gleams with saliva, having sucked his teeth nervously while he waited for me to wake up, and he almost winces as my lack of such a joyous expression displays my opinions on his surprise.

[/size] “You want him to paint me,” I state in disbelief, still not quite sure if he’s serious. Stark shifts his weight from one muscled leg to the other, the optimistic glint in his naïve gaze fading as quickly as any hope that I might submit to his request quietly. “You want me to wait, while he paints me, to pay off a debt?”[/b] Stark was never expected to continue in the Lorense family business. Financially incapable, the duty of providing the Capitol with a regular supply of fine woods was planned to fall on Angel’s shoulders from the moment Stark was old enough to mumble “I’ll trade you six loaves for marbles.”[/b] Yes, literally. Marbles.[/size][/color]

And here he comes with another one of his grand schemes.[/size] “I thought it would be nice, Susie,” he whines, ten of his twenty two years evaporating like water from green logs in a fire, “The Beckets are in a little financial difficulty and I’m helping them out. I thought you might like it.” Like it?! I almost hiss with disdain as I creep, with hostility as is my nature, from my bedsheets. “Out my room, Stark,” I command huskily, pushing my messy golden curls from my face, knowing they’ll only fall back that way when I let go. Who would paint this? I’m not pretty, with my round face, manly build and almost sickly complexion. My signature ‘Lorense’ locks are always filled with twigs and leaves, which match the cuts all over my legs from years playing up trees and with knives. My eyes look out of place in all this forest, with its wooden people and wooden industry.[/color]

Stark is taller and stronger than me, but he allows me to cart him, straining, to the door. The floorboards are covered in a fine layer of sharp grains of wood and sand, kicked in on the heavy boots of my father and siblings, but which always seem to cause my bare feet discomfort. Perhaps I was chosen for this boy’s painting because I just don’t fit in anywhere else. With three older siblings, one would assume I would be so influenced that there would be nothing else for me except Lorense Lumber. They want to push me out of the picture. No, grow up, Suzanne. Conspiracies like this used to be my favourite subject for solitary ponderings. But it’s the least I can do, pose for a portrait. After all, what would I do instead? Probably sit in exactly the same glade, cutting my fingers by mistake, threatening children who wander my way. And how is that any way to help my family?[/size]

“I’ll do it, Stark.” I hear him exhale loudly on the opposite side of the rickety door. He begins to shuffle away, and I watch the shadows receding, his footsteps fading.[/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify][/size][/color]

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Still lacing up my worn fabric boots, made for climbing rather than logging, I skip from our old house into the watery morning sunshine. The smell of earth is heavy in my nostrils, inflating my lungs with the fresh youth of dirt after rain. The air is moist and cool on my skin, a total contrast to the beating sun that is emerging in the sky by the second. The woods loom like some hideous shape before me, past the last cabin, starting with the trunks that remain untouched but which shield the majority of the lumberjack’s work further in to the forest. The place I know Stark will have sent this painter to is the first of many of my hidden places. I have made it my purpose to find beautiful pockets of seclusion among the damaged trees; places the axes couldn’t reach, that were deemed too hard to clear or just so abundant in life that the clumsy workers didn’t dare disturb them. Hitching my bag of knives, stumps and the comb that my mother insisted I take higher up on my shoulder, I accept the sudden coolness of branching shadows on my skin with gratitude. Today I may not be alone, but the woods always gives me a feeling of… security…

To reach my glade, I must go a route which most teenagers would find difficult to navigate and remain unscathed and, indeed, undetected. The first time I came here, I was left with torn legs, blood running down them like roadmaps. I feel it would be a mercy to the poor child who has to manoeuvre himself through the brambles to ease his path, and reach for my knife to start the task. The branches and vines give reluctantly and elastically, spitting foamy water out as they break. I am around halfway through carving a crude tunnel, just under adult-sized, when the rustling nearby alerts me of the arrival of my guest.

Be nice, Suzanne. You mustn’t scare away the company before he has even set up. I try a nonchalant half-laugh, and sweep the remaining leaves aside to let him through. Never mind the beads of blood blooming so quickly on my arms, Stark would want me to put others before myself. This is going to prove to be an interesting experience.

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OOC:Sorry for how little sense this makes :3 <3

[lazuli]

Larch Becket


Thought

[/colour]
Memory
Narration
His speech

A few metres before I reach the glade I stop and allow myself a few deep breaths to intoxicate and comfort me. My mind rattles angrily in my head and it takes me a few seconds to collect myself, to remind myself that this is my only choice and that my brush strokes will not mimic the lashes my father might bestow on others. I am not the puppeteer who controls my father. My actions have no consequence. Keep walking.

I keep walking and soon reach the glade but again cannot move as an immovable barrier of fear blocks the way. I’ve never been natural with strangers, I look at them too intensely. I can’t just talk for the sake of talking -I have to converse . I attempt a search through my thoughts for memories of this girl, memories which might soothe my worries.

I must have seen her around somewhere, the Lorenses are hardly inconspicuous, but my gift for remembering faces fails me. My minds eye sees a of flash gold, her hair maybe? A glint of anger, or fear directed at me, a stranger – her eyes? These thoughts are laboured, as if I were grasping at a dream already destroyed by waking thoughts. Who is this girl? This memory? My mutterings end the thoughts and, drained from forcing the hand of the painter inside my head, I stop and rest.


I’m ready to move on, or at least I have to be ready- I have a job to do. Praying a silent prayer to a God no one believes in any more, I realise the moment of flight has flown so, accepting my fate, I move towards the glade. As I do so Suzanne sweeps aside the leaves to let me in. Her movements are disjointed and awkward- She feels the same as me!

Looking at her for the first time I realise why I found it so hard to picture her in my head; her posture is hunched- not timid or afraid yet she hides from me and I cannot see her face. Remembering what I came here for I silently set up the small easel and paints my father told me to bring- only props to suggest I was something more professional than I am

Preparing to draw for the first time since last summer I can't help but remember last time; it was simpler , all I had was a pencil, paper and a scene in front of me. My subject was a bird, fragile and gentle, passing its time just being and I was jealous and wished that like it, I could be unencumbered of responsibilities. Then father came and the jealousy grew to pity as I saw the realities of a bird’s life- a life of fear.

My preparation complete, I need to address Suzanne so and, turning to face her, I say with as much authority as I can muster, I’m ready for you now, just come and sit by that tree, whatever is natural for you , who am I kidding?

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