Wake and Hide your Face (Cici and Zori)

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[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border: solid 0px; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 450px; border-radius: 0px 0px 10px 10px;] The sparking beauty of the capitol surpassed my wildest imagination. I used to dream about this place. A place where the rainbows left their colours, and where the sun shone as bright as the desk lamp in my house. The buildings - oh the glorious buildings - were the giants in my story book, that is, with out all the arms and legs and the breath of life. But at night, oh how the buildings come to life, it is as if the auroras in the north and south merged and was given the gift of light for it to dance from building to building. A battle field of colours, that's what it looked like from my bedroom window. Face touching the cold glass as my hands cupped around my humming bird eyes. The lights were turned off in my room. I wanted the colours to fill my room and bring me to the place I used to dream about. Where colours would jump from one thing to another. Where nothing was permanent. Stationary objects bring nothing but sadness to my whimsical mind. Now I know better. Nothing lasts forever, not even my little - I guess I could call it that - happiness. Since the reaping I have thought about how little time we've got in this earth. How easily our lives could be blown away by the breeze that carried the leaves we used to sweep in our backyards. This time, I told myself I would try to live out the little life I had left. I would be the hero of my story. Gone was the shy little smart boy who stayed at the back of the room. This time I will make sure people remember me. What else was being in the hunger games for, but for people to remember you, and that has become my goal. I've started making friends, you see. The female tribute. Her name's Ivana and she's become my friend. We talked a bit in the train just the simple 'tell me about yourself' stuff. I was hoping to get to talk to her more at dinner, but I wanted to see the colours dance. And there's Seatak, my stylist. He told me to wear coloured eye protectors - I mean shades or was that sunglasses. He said I looked better with it, but Trina argued that people wouldn't see my sea blue eyes. They argued for a while saying things like 'they give him a tough man look' and 'no he is supposed to be portrayed an innocent little child and just give him glasses that have colours in the metal frame. Or you could make him wear the green shirt because we want his eyes to pop!" I certainly didn't want my eyes to pop so I told them I'd take the glasses with the coloured metal frame and they both just nodded and laughed. They certainly are nice people. Knock knock knock came from my bedroom door. I felt like royalty. People knock before they enter, back in my parents house they just come stomping in and carry me out to the backyard to play. But that was a long long time ago. The days before darkness fell and the spell of sleep wasn't casted by the wicked. In the capitol they had soft clean sheets, unlike my dusty one in the district. But, I can't help but feel nostalgic whenever I think of home. My dusty sheets, creaky floorboards, and my notebook. Well I guess I'm just gonna have to write when I get back home - oh no, I mean if I get home. Trina enters with her loud and cheerful voice, I can't help but smile whenever she speaks. She just affects you with her enthusiasm. Even if I'm still gazing at the dancing colours, I knew Trina had her own dazzling show. "Stick - I mean George, get to the dining hall already! Everyone's down there," she says switching the heavenly lights on. I turned to face her and let out a playful sigh, "You can call me Sticky, I'm used to it. " "I will not. It is bad for the public to call you such an ugly name." "But wouldn't they remember me for my 'ugly' name?" I left the room for her to think about it. Passing by Ivana's door, I thought about calling her. Then I thought maybe she'd be there by now, so I continue treading to the elevator. Funny thing about elevators, the first time I rode it going to my room faint almost took me. Never have I felt my stomach rise that way, I had to hold on to Seatak for support. Now I was ready. I entered it pressed the and ended up in the dining hall faster than I thought. I looked around and saw that almost everyone was there so I got into line and took plates of dishes I haven't even heard about. Time to look for a table. Looking around I saw people talking while others were sitting like good little children. And that's what we really are, innocent little chicks forced to fight like tigers in a jungle. I wanted to talk to people, but I wasn't sure where to start, everyone seemed to mind their own business, so I took the empty table at the back. So much for being the popular hero. I sat there and began to eat. ©tattle for the table [[ooc :: i think this was supposed to be a blitz not sure xD]]

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I a g o
I z a r – M c C l a i n e

•••

{I feel numb most of the time}
{The lower I get the higher I'll climb}
{And I will wonder why}
{I get dark only to shine}

•••

The sun that peeks through my shades has come to steal away my sleep. I would say that dreams are the only space the capitol has not sought to control, but last night I was—as seems customary nowadays—proven wrong. My young cousin’s face dotted a starscape, and I, swimming through air with no land in sight, had swung back and forth toward no destination. I had thought he would scold me for how I’d done nothing but spit acid at everyone around me these past few days, but instead he stared, opened his mouth to smile, and vanished just as fast as we’d began. The slack jawed rubes of my district believe in such things as fortune telling and dream reading. Words like omen float up from bonfires and circle as explanations for the inconceivable. Dreams are nothing but the rubbish bin of a tired brain

[/color]. A smart man would find neither faith nor fear in imagined nothings.

Wishing on stars was the whole reason I was here, wasn’t it? I crack my first smile in days[/color]. Sampson would say that it meant he was watching over me. He would have taken comfort that even with my lifeline stretched out and waiting to be snipped, I could still have hope. I push my tongue across my teeth with a swish, and search for the remnants of last night’s apple crumble. All of us were supposed to believe that fighting valiantly would result in some sort of—some kind of monument to our strength. All of our souls were already saved, weren’t they? This life may have been over, but we were promised a spot in the stars, or a ferry to an island, or whatever pathetic excuse for after-death you wanted to believe. Martyrs for a cause I had yet to wrap my head around, they’d make songs that would last as long as the dust that collected on our gravestones.

I marvel at the marble and porcelain of the wash closet. My face burns red thinking of the pathetic shower at home. Here there isn’t a rusted spout that clinks before pouring out lukewarm water. Hot steam lifts out the glass cage as though I’ve set myself aflame. I stand and let the drops needle into my skin. Benat had been here just two years ago, his feet on the same floor and his head on the same pillows. Tasmain and Diam utter about his appetite[/color] and positivity[/color]. He sounds more pet than person. I think of my adjectives, but lather soap over my nethers instead. “Honest Iago,” I mutter. I take a towel from the waiting rack. The full length mirror shows less a warrior than the brittle boned teenager in front of it, and I hurry to throw on my uniform.

Every step I take must be measured[/color]. It’s hard to focus while I stand in line debating between a muffin stuffed with blueberries or a heaping slice of chocolate cake. A trill of voices reminds me of the little ones; boys and girls plucked before blooming. I think of how some think it fun and games until we step into the arena. Let’s be friends,[/color] I imagine the words drip from their ignorant lips, as if anyone that would stare down at you from the hilt of a sword could be more than enemies.[/color] Is it naiveté or cleverness that makes these false friendships? Whatever the answer, I think I give them too much credit. I grab the blueberry muffin and take it on my tray.

It’s a sea of faces I’ll do anything not to recognize. All the tables have too many occupants (that is to say, none of them are empty[/color]) and I find the one moon faced boy sitting on his lonesome in the corner. I stare too long at his face. He has eyes like Sampson.[/color] A half-heartbeat passes and the thud deadens my ears. All the children here are weak. Like the boy from five, he looks as though he fears what we can’t control. Snap out of it![/color] My knuckles curl blue around my metal tray. Someone must break them before they build back up again. Someone ought to show him what he’s up against before a sword goes sailing through his neck.

“What have we got here?” I whisper, letting my twang curl through. I put down my tray to the left of his, and bring my face to his level. “Sitting all by your lonesome? Don’t you want to play nice with everyone else? Oh, you don’t mind me sitting here do you?” I give a grin and slump into a seat without waiting for an answer. “Thanks.” [/blockquote][/size][/justify]

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Because of my late sleeping habits, Carmel’s already ordered an Avox to knock on my door every morning until I finally wake up. I don’t think anyone understands that I didn’t come here to train my butt off.

[/i] I’ve been doing that for at least five or six years now. No matter how many times I express the fact that I’m all ready for these games and don’t need any more useless assistance, Carmel and and Kaiser and the whole crew is intent on sculpting me into the perfect little representation of District One, which is why I can’t wait for the games. Once I step off that plate, they can’t tell me what to do anymore.[/i] No one can. I can say whatever I want, I can do whatever I want, and I can die however I want.

I’m not afraid of dying – at least I don’t think so.[/i] I’m more afraid of going home than anything else. I just hope that in the last few hours of my life, I might actually be able to control my own actions. Ever since the day I arrived at the Moreno household, I’ve just been a puppet in their show, but I’m done with that life. In time, I’ll have pulled off the strings and soon enough, I’ll be free.[/i] Well, I might as well start preparing now. For the last few days, I’ve made it my sole effort to disobey every order I've been given. Of course, the results haven’t been quite so pleasant but it’s all worth it. Everybody here is screwed up anyways. I’m no different. [/i]

I sit up in my bed and reach for the couple of berries on the table next to me. I grin and hold them in my hands as if they are the answer to a puzzle that has disturbed my mind for many years. [/i]I stole these poisonous darlings from the training center last night, barely slipped them into my pocket without the trainer noticing. He would have, had it not been for my many years of wallet snatching experience. How easy would it be to die right here, right now?[/i] I put them next to my lips, but another knock on my door and I’ve slipped them into my pocket.

I quickly ready myself, barely slipping out of my pajamas before heading to the dining hall. I mostly just grab whatever food I see and pile it onto my plate. It’s no secret that I enjoy food.[/i] It’s no secret that anyone here enjoys food maybe a little too much. I scan the tables and finally set my eyes on that District Eleven idiot who always picks fights with people over nothing, the kid who thought he could actually pick a fight with me on that first day. Heh.

Ever so determined to seek my revenge, I watch as he nears a young boy, sitting by himself. I move towards them. “What have we got here? Sitting all by your lonesome? Don’t you want to play nice with everyone else? Oh, you don’t mind me sitting here do you? Thanks.” He sits across from the kid, and I take a couple more steps towards them, grabbing the next seat over before either of them can say a thing about it.

“Ha, because you sure play nice with everyone else,” I retort, fingering the berries inside my pocket. “Nice to see you again, Farm Boy.” I turn to the younger boy, putting on a phony face. “And nice to meet you too, kid. Ignore this idiot; he thinks he knows how to make friends. Anyways, I’m Emery. You got a name?” I let the berries into my palm, pulling my hand out of my pocket, but keeping it beneath the table. A malicious curiosity fills me and I suddenly wonder what would happen to a tribute who died before the start of the games. I grin slightly to myself, thinking of the havoc I would cause. It would be a marvelous demonstration of my control, wouldn’t it be?

The boy looks down for a moment and I use this single moment to my advantage, dropping the berries into his bowl of fruit before returning my hand to the underside of the table. I toss a glance in Farm Boy’s direction, a look of warning upon my face. If he weren’t from District Eleven, I would have definitely slipped those berries into his breakfast, so he’d really better be thankful, play along, and keep shut.[/i]

“You should really eat up while you’ve got the chance,” I say to the younger boy. “A kid as small as you’s already dead, you know.”
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[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-image:url(http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m0r51jQgFX1qzeg2so1_r1_500.gif); border: solid 0px; width: 450px; height: 300px; padding: 0 0 0 0px; border-radius: 30px 30px 0px 0px;] GEORGE WINRARD WASHINGTON.

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: bbbbbb; border: solid 0px; width: 450px; padding: 0 0 0 0px;]

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[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: ffffff; border: solid 0px; padding: 10 10 10 10 px; width: 450px; border-radius: 0px 0px 10px 10px;] The soup reminds me of the porridge from the story of goldilocks and the three bears. I miss my house, my empty dusty destroyed house. Oh, how I long o return to my dusty white sheet. The beds here in the capitol are made for kings and queens, it isn't worthy for a beggar like me. Maybe to a hero, yes, but I am not. Not yet at least. Heroes are men and women who fear nothing, not even the breath of cold death. Some heroes die young, their skin as white as snow white's and as soft as it too, but are burned into the minds of people. That's what I wish to be, the little kid who died early, but is very memorable. I need to be known for an act that makes us human seem true good and beautiful, but what an irony, I was reaped into the hunger games where being true good and beautiful will lead you to an early death. I guess we all have to get used to a world where the magic of kindness doesn't solve anything, sometimes it even exacerbates it. The wooden table shakes as a fist hits it. The noise snapped me out of my thoughts, eyes blinking away the rainbows that try to chain themselves to my brain, how peculiar that was I never thought this hard about anything before the hunger games. All my thoughts, before would be placed in my torn notebook, within those yellowed pages are my thoughts, experiences and stories. Stories about me, who I am, who I want to be. That notebook contained my soul. If fairy godmother permits it to come alive, I assure you that it will be a perfect facsimile of me. “What have we got here? Sitting all by your lonesome?" I'm never alone, I have my notebook within the caverns of my mind. It may not be physically with me, but every word punctuation and side notes in the pages are sculpted inside my brain. "Don’t you want to play nice with everyone else? Oh, you don’t mind me sitting here do you? Thanks.” Actually, I did, I may have wanted to be the center of attention, but not now. Obviously, I know the man in front of me, he is Iago Izar – McClaine the tribute from district 11. They are very famous for their exportation of harvest to the capitol, I recall reading this from a newsprint with my father during our sunday breakfasts. He has a look to him, the look of a wicked warlock. In a strange way, I feel my heart skipping beats when I look at him, it's as if behind his back he is casting a wicked spell for me. “Ha, because you sure play nice with everyone else. Nice to see you again, Farm Boy." It seems like thy are well acquainted, I'm the only outsider here. My fingers grip for the edge of my tray, body begins to rise from the chair, but Emery Moreno, female tribute of District one, seems to acknowledge my presence and even asks for my name. "You can call me George or Sticky." Silence then waves its wand at us, I can feel the awkward air that silence cursed us with, with nothing left to say I let my head fall. Looking at the palms of my hands, imagining the words from my notebook suddenly appears on my hands, then a quick flop brings me back to where I am. In the middle of a room where people talk and talk and talk. Where the walls turned to gray because it cried when people forgot to listen to the wind. But luckily I listen to its whispers and it told me my soup is poisoned. “You should really eat up while you’ve got the chance. A kid as small as you’s already dead, you know.” My eyes widen as she says this. I hate being underestimated, but I didn't want to cause a scene where I know I will be out numbered so I simply say, "I'm sorry, but though I maybe little. I'm no fool. And that little poisoned berry you dropped in my soup, well that was a low blow. Can't you wait for the Blood Bath to kill me?" I say with a devious little smile. © tattle for the table

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