Blowin' In the Wind [Open]

[Deleted]

Benat Izar

::Have your holy, I’ll have mine
soil and birch and open sky
All our stories some day go
dust from air and earth from bone::

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To say that he was a boy of impulse would have been an understatement. Benat Izar was always, always, always hungry for a thrill. Whether it was making his siblings roar with laughter, or sneaking up on some of the girls working out in the fields, it was not uncommon for him to stick his nose where he didn’t belong. He took the words of his grandfather to heart, [/size]Just breathing isn’t living.[/color] So many of his compatriots went through life with such a stifling sense of purpose that he often thought he was the only one not choking on the tripe the capitol seemed to spew out. Settling down into a neat and orderly life might have been fun for some people, but most certainly not Benat. He would scrunch up his face at the thought, making a silly noise at the mention that he needed to be more like his younger brothers, whom he happened to believe were about as thrilling as watching paint dry. Even if they all were well respected and intelligent young men, he wouldn’t give them credit—how could they already have given up such a zeal for life?

But there was hope for Benat. At the least he had been born to a district that required long stretches out of doors. While some felt oppressed through the heat and the endless hours tilling fields, Benat made great pains to make it feel worthwhile. He had a penchant for pranking those working alongside him. Today he sat in the field primarily of feed corn, walking through the rows, thinking of the summer. He remembered his finest moment, pretended to be impaled by a rogue farm tool, smearing himself with rotting strawberries and dripping juices out of his mouth. Most certainly did not believe this nearly as funny as he, but Benat had laughed for hours at their reactions. It also helped to serve as an explanation as to why it was so hard for the young man to keep friends.

He swiped away the stalks of corn as he walked along, his feet crunching underneath his worn pair of boots. Dusk would be settling in soon, and he’d be expected to return for dinner with his family. They’d gather around to recollect how thankful they were for everything—the health of his mother and father, his uncles, his cousins, his nieces, nephews, brothers, et al, until the gallery of faces melded into one long banquet. This was the way of the Izars—a family of thirty odd members, all of them owning lands along a share of acreage none bothered to leave. It itched at Benat—that he would be expected to stay here along with them, after receiving his lonely little acres. He couldn’t think of what was worse—the predetermination of his life, or that he outright detested the idea. There were plenty that would’ve jumped at the chance to own a piece of land, much less alongside a healthy and happy family.

For him, it was more about the idea of what could’ve been than anything else. He couldn’t pin exactly what it was that he wanted—fame seemed silly in this world, and fortune was out of the question—but was there another future in his life, one that didn’t involve soiling his hands every morning and climbing into bed exhausted every evening. He pondered as much, taking note of which portions of the plot were coming in well, and which of those had been picked at by crows or rotted due to the cold snap the previous week. He stopped to snap out an ear of corn from a stalk. He held his front arm out swinging the thing as though it were a rapier, remembering the brave and valiant Pandora Woodards from the sixty-first. He struck at a few stalks as he passed, snapping them asunder with a smile. “Avast! Avast!” he began saying, imitating the old and odd stories of pirates. Imaging himself a swashbuckling fool, Benat, danced along the edges of his family’s farm, striking at invisible sailors. With a laugh he jumped out of the field and into the untilled soil of the neighboring farm.

He paused for a moment, sweaty and laughing at himself. Bringing an arm across his forehead, he leaned forward to bring his hands to his knees. They might have made him do as he was told, but they would never take away his ability to find ways to amuse himself. [/color] This was about the same time he recognized that he wasn’t quite alone. He cleared his throat, standing, and looking in the direction of what sounded like movement. Pointing the browned ear of corn in that direction, he coughed once again. “Ahoy, who goes thar?” Benat grumbled with a grin. [/blockquote][/size][/justify][/color]

[solo]

E56717 B33500 810300 4F0000

Gonna kick off my shoes and run in bare feet
Where the grass and the dirt and the gravel all meet 
Goin' back to the well, gonna visit old friends
Where the blacktop ends

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I love autumn.

When the leaves turn auburn, the air is crisp and cool, and you can smell pies baking in the kitchen. That's when my family plays outside the most, in our backyard full of trees. Nine trees, though there's ten in the family. Mum and Dad got only one between them. The rest of us have one to ourselves. 

This is the time when the most laughter can be heard from our backyard, when the eight of us throw leaves at each other and climb the bare trees with graceful feet. This is when Mum and Dad tell stories, about kings and queens and castles. This is when our family really comes alive. While all the others are working in the fields, grunting and groaning, we're laughing and shouting happily. We're a strange family, but that's just us.

Today, I'm not with them. I wanted some time alone, away from the younger one's shouts and demands, so I went to the fields, like everyone else. But I went to a deserted field. A corn field, with tall, green stalks full of juicy yellow corn. I don't dare pick any for myself or my family, because although I'm not afraid of the Capitol and their punishments, I know it's not worth it to steal right now. Instead, I sit on the dirt ground, hidden in the cornstalks, tracing pictures in the rich soil under my feet.

My blond hair has been tied clumsily on the back of my head, making what looks like a lump of curls. That's all it is, in truth. Nothing spectacular, but I couldn't care less. It keeps it off the back of my neck, so I won't get over-heated. I kind of wish I had my guitar, this would be a great place to write a song.

And then I hear it. A man's voice, I can't tell the age, but he's definitely not old. I can hear him jumping around the cornstalks, lashing out and brushing them aside. Unable to help myself, I jump to my feet, crouching, still hidden from view, and lift my eyes just enough to see what's going on.

I was right: it's a boy, my age, I think. He's holding an ear of corn, almost as if it were a sword, and leaping back and forth, as if fighting enemies he can't see. He's laughing, talking with an accent.

I'm suddenly plunged into old memories, stories of pirates and the seven seas and brave souls held captive in the hulls of ships. I can remember acting out scenes with my brothers and sisters, scenes from books like Peter Pan and Treasure Island. 

He's out of the cornfield now, doubled over, in the neighboring field, where there aren't any crops. I think he's heard me.

“Ahoy, who goes thar?”

I hesitate for a minute. Will he be angry when he sees that I've been hiding? And is this his cornfield? I thought it was one of the public ones. He's still talking in an accent, maybe he's friendly. For one hesitant minute, I drum my fingers nervously on my legs, then make a decision. Standing up, I wade through the cornstalks out into the bare field, and give him a comical bow.

"Tis I, captain." I say, hands on my hips. No turning back now, and hopefully he doesn't take me for an idiot. "Me name's Caritta, first mate ah the Raven. Sorry for boarding yer ship unannounced, I thought twas abandoned. You'll forgive me, I think?"

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