Locked out of Heaven // Bradley

[Anatra]

[atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(http://i.imgur.com/qedWDos.png); border: 000000 solid 0px; width: 500px; height: 250px; padding: 0 0 0 0px; border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px;]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: 292929; border: black solid 1px; width: 498px; padding: 0 0 0 0px; border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px;] Rocky Mead The sun was rising with a normality that touched nobody but the clouds. The day should have been bright but it was overshadowed by a veil of insecurity. What was that insecurity? It was the Peacekeepers. They patrolled the meadows, orchards and tree lines. Not a single mile had fewer than ten of them in sight. Work was relentless, and people had a lot of work to do. All crops to be harvested on time. All crops to be taken to the appropriate area. All crops to be secure in their harvest containers. The words were echoed each week. Each day, even. People were in the waiting hall, where they would be briefed on the most important tasks of the day. In the background, there were people watching the screen nearby. There was only one face on there that was perhaps recognizable and that was Iago Izar-McClaine. There were only a hand-full watching, and Rocky wasn't one of them. He was among the crowd waiting for work. A peacekeeper dressed more formally than militaristic emerged from a door in the far corner of the room and stood with a clipboard which had numerous scribbles and marking on. Names and numbers, graphs and data that few could even see. His mouth opened and into our ears his words did fly. "Sector One: Crop retrieval. Sector Two: Crop refining. Sector Three: Crop gatherers. Sector Four: Watchmen and time keepers. Sector Five: Rotary break." To those in the group, this would have made sense unless it were their first day. Crop retrieval was simple enough, and refining it was just putting it into a machine and such. Gatherers went and carried bags of crops which was harvest by the retrievers to then take to the refiners. Watchmen would signal the time with the district-known whistle and the Rotary break was simply an empty slot which would find something productive to do around the district. Each hour, the jobs would switch to the next numerical portion. Rocky knew his starting sector, it was always to be Sector Three to begin with. Thankfully for him, this was the best position, as three hours into work and he would only have had to work hard for one of the hours; Gathering. He got a bag, which went on his back. His large arms slipped into the loops and the empty bag, like on everyone, looked a little strange and out of place. Some of his co-workers didn't seem to be at work today - perhaps they were ill. His Sister wasn't here today either, she starts officially tomorrow, or maybe later today. It depends when her signing sheet is produced. He waits by the door for any people who would like to join up and go out gathering with him; like most of the workers would do. His team was absent so he feel reluctant to leave without one.

[/justify][/blockquote][/size]

[/td][/tr][/tr][/table]

Word Count: 522

[brΔdley]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,394,true]

[atrb=background,http://static.tumblr.com/50712dba0d08460e44da94a8fee3a560/b6njnug/xKxmmjq23/tumblr_static_white12.jpg] The cycle of the seasons never halted the labor in the southern-most district of Panem. As the heated season of summer, yielding it’s luscious melons and ears of corn, began to fade away, a diverse selection of crops seemed to suddenly appear for the autumnal waiting to be reaped for the Capitol. It was a never ending cycle; Cantaloupes turned to apples which turned to pecans which turned to blueberries and peaches and the cycle repeated itself. We, the vocational employees of District 11, were never free from the tyranny of the seasonal changes and the work it entailed. Our master, the Capitol, watched precariously over the labor that we endured each season with no sign of fatigue. We, the slaves, would whistle our tunes to pass the time and gather the crops that we knew we could never afford to purchase ourselves. The only thing that seemed to not change with the transition of nature’s seasons was the sweat that leaked from our pores as we labored diligently. The spring rain masked our sweat during small showers and drizzles while summer exposed our entire beings to the elements of the fiery sun. This harvesting season, in particular, doomed the vocational employees of District 11 to a full shift in the fields that wouldn’t end with the descent of the sun. Today was no different from the days before that and the days before that. The sky lacked normal saturation, the grayscale of the clouds glowing faintly from the glow of the sun behind them. The air was becoming more crisper with the distant cold season. My feet were independent of my body, trekking through the hard, southern ground. The grass was blanketed with patches of condensed dew shining elegantly like diamonds or pearls on blades of fauna. A barely visible, faint wisp of breath escaped my mouth with every step I had absent-mindedly taken, the grey scale of Panem slowly causing my mind to become congested with worries and other thoughts. It must be nice to not have to wake up every day and worry about people you love. It must be nice to not have to care about anyone. It must be nice to be you. My mental being snapped back into reality the moment a beveled stone in the frozen dirt on the dirt road had come into contact with my heavy foot. I restore my balance just as quickly as I had lost it; my feet continuing their fast pace journey to the field. The moment I had snapped back to reality, it seemed that all of my senses had returned with my mental being. The slight drop in temperature kissed my skin with its frosting embrace, the color of my cheeks turning a crimson red. I could hear every day commotion that suddenly rushed back into my ears – the distance rumble of Peacekeeper vehicles and my own footsteps stomping against the ground. As my journey came to an end, I could see the field that I would be laboring in for that day. Wheat stalks and other various agriculture stood closer to my direction, while orchards with bountiful trees and vines were nearly invisible in the lengthy distance. After checking in with guarding Peacekeeper’s whom had been keeping track of the workers who had entered and left the fields, I headed straight towards the waiting hall towards the entrance. I usually found myself as a harvester or crop retriever, using tools to remove crops from their earthly homes and stalks. However, the guard Peacekeeper had alerted me that I would be assigned to Sector Three for today. Apparently, a few members of the sector had been caught smuggling pecans from orchard trees towards the north of the plantation and had been severely punished – too punished to attend work the next day, I suppose. The television screen in the waiting room was the first thing I had noticed, the faces of the mere children in the Quell winding towards the finale of the games. The arena this year reminded me of a sickening joke to the Districts – an alarm who’s message was just as loud as ever. We’re all tributes in the Capitol’s games. I divert my attention from the screen the moment the two commentators of the televised games begin their rift about the tributes this year and focus on my duty for the day. I find a canvas sack in which to place the harvested crops into and struggled to find the loops. It was so alien to me that my arms couldn’t find the holes created by the fabric traps until the second or third attempt. Once successfully equipped, I looked around the room. Another male, standing a few inches shorter than myself, had the same canvas satchel on his posterior as I did. It didn’t take me more than a few moments to identify the body as Rocky Mead’s. We were both seventeen, meaning we were in the same classes during our education in District 11. Everyone in the general same age group had become somewhat aware of one another, though they had not been previously introduced. Another thing I knew about the boy was that he was a regular for Sector Three during the regulatory work days. Working as a harvester or crop retriever, you become familiar with the gatherers who’s faces you see every day. I walked up to the boy and gently slapped his back in a friendly greeting. “Hey there, buddy!

[/color]” My eyes squint as I smile at the other teenage boy. “Looks like we’re coworkers for the day. You might have to show me the ropes seeing as how I couldn’t even get the bag on.[/color]”

bio // wc: 977

[/justify]
[/font][/size][/blockquote][/td][/tr][tr][td]

[/td][/tr][/table][/center]

[Anatra]

[atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(http://i.imgur.com/qedWDos.png); border: 000000 solid 0px; width: 500px; height: 250px; padding: 0 0 0 0px; border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px;]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: 292929; border: black solid 1px; width: 498px; padding: 0 0 0 0px; border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px;] Rocky Mead Enthusiasm. It was something that came easily to somebody who was reluctant to face the strenuous tendencies of labor. Rocky's face seemed pleased to see somebody approach him for once, so he embraced the moment. "Good to see you." He smiled. "You'll get used to the bags, they're new." The bags used to be much worse. They would require a good couple of people to carry which made it a slower process. These new ones are a little more complex but get the job done faster. Rocky isn't quite sure to himself whether that is good or bad. "We'd best get going, don't want to be late. Peacekeepers might get antsy." He grips the strap of the bag and begins to walk to the door which is just an double archway. The light flares in with precision and the defiant shadows are embossed. The group was usually silent until they get to the fields. Not because it is the rules, but because they are all taking in their last smell before wheat and crops overthrow their senses. The smell of it gets stale, boring. Rocky spends his silence thinking of where he's seen this other boy before. School, probably. His thoughts recall - Yeah, it is school. Can't say I talked to him though. It was true, he didn't really talk to him at all. In fact, he couldn't remember his name. It isn't usually meant in a harshness, when Rocky forgets names and such. It is usually just something else that pushes it out of his memory. In this case he doesn't really have an excuse, school was boring which made you recognize the little things. This must have just slipped his mind. Finally, the silence broke; "What's your name then?"

[/justify][/blockquote][/size]

[/td][/tr][/tr][/table]

Word Count: 335

[brΔdley]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,394,true]

[atrb=background,http://static.tumblr.com/50712dba0d08460e44da94a8fee3a560/b6njnug/xKxmmjq23/tumblr_static_white12.jpg] The other boy reassures me that the discomfort caused by these malicious, fabric satchels would become unrecognizable as time eclipsed. I’m not entirely sure that I believe his words, the thick straps pulling directly on my underarm skin. With bent elbows, I rotate both respective arm to stretch and relieve my shoulder blades of any stress or tension that had become entrapped within my joints and muscles. The soothing sound of popping escapes from my body, my arms falling in a relaxed state by my side. The moment I began to relax myself for the laborious duties that awaited us, my vocational companion states how the Peacekeepers would begin to rush us away from the preparation area and out towards the fields of golden grain. I hated them – the Peacekeepers that is. What gave them the right to force us to collect, cultivate, prepare, and plant their crops and their fruits? Who gave them the right to use deadly force whenever one individual refused to do a certain task? Who gave them the right to own me and him and everyone else in this District? These questions, though most likely running through a majority of the worker’s heads as quickly as they were my own, would never escape my lips. I’ve witness too many public whippings in the Town Square and too many deaths for the most mundane of reasons. Though it would be impressive to be a symbol of change in the district and speak out against the oppressive force of the Peacekeepers, as well as the Capitol, it would also be a death wish. I’ve seen it happen too many times already in my short eighteen years of life here. Even a whisper or mumble of rebellious energy or thoughts causes the Peacekeeper to get, as Rocky would say, “ antsy.” ”You’re too right. I would never want to be late to a party like this.” I give the boy a little sarcastic wink and a chuckle, lightly slapping him on the shoulder once more. We begin our journey to the fields and plantations, stepping underneath the double archways that connected the two different areas together. We began to traverse through the trails that were going to lead us to our daily duties of collecting the harvested crops. The sun was still hiding behind the blanket of grey clouds in the sky, but it’s illuminating light emanated well enough. Everything was as bright as usual, but the saturation of color seemed to be missing from the District today. I don’t necessarily mind, to be honest. Those days in the hot, sweltering summers with the bright sun beaming on all the flora and fauna was enough to make anyone nauseous and sick from seeing the myriad colors. Though, in the saturated summer glow, the colors were beautiful and vibrant, the layers of salty sweat individually dripping from one’s eyelashes that seemed to find their way into your gasping mouth seemed to block their beauty. No, a day like today was perfect for now. Suddenly, the boy breaks my wandering mind with words of his own. It’s not uncommon for people to forget other’s names here. In all honesty, I knew a majority of my coworkers by nicknames or descriptions of their morphological features. When your world becomes immersed in harvesting and collecting, you begin to let all the other details of life slowly leak from your conscious mind. I look at the boy with my green eyes and chuckle a little bit. “It’s Evan. Evan Santucci.”

[/color] I pause a little bit here, taking a deep inhale of oxygen as I continue with my sentence. ”I don’t think we formally acquainted ourselves, but I believe we went to school together.”[/color] Again, I pause here, and run my fingers through my hair, scratching my scalp and looking down at the ground. This had become my initial reaction when faced with a social situation where I was thinking of something – anything – to say to the other individual. ”I wasn’t really, er… super memorable, I don’t guess. I was on the wrestling team at one point but I don’t think I was ever really a superstar.”[/color] I look back at the boy and let a laugh escape my lips, followed by a charming smile.

I was a pretty decent wrestler back in my younger teenage days, despite what I had said. It was during a time when I didn’t have to worry about coming out here, to this place – the fields. This was before I was forced to vocationally labor day in and day out. The minute my family needed me and any economic support I had, I had to help. This also meant dropping any extracurricular and social activities that would bring me happiness and joy during the day in District 11. The friends I had made during that period of time in my life slowly leaked through the cracks as the hardships of facing work crept slowly upon me.

What would we be like if we weren’t enslave to the Capitol? Would I still be actively engaging in the wrestling program at the secondary school, or would I still find myself working a job to support my crumbling family? Better yet, what would everyone else be like? Would the Peacekeepers, the driving force of the oppression here, be kind men in their homes with their families in the Capitol, or would they still be the evil, power-hungry animals they are today? What would Rocky, or any other kid I went to school with do? I look up towards the sky and let out a noise of discontent and anxiety. The universe dealt our cards, and the only person who knew how we could use them was high in the sky. I look towards the boy after letting out my breathless noise. ”This walk every day, though, now that’s something memorable that we’ll never forget, huh?”[/color]

bio // wc: 984

[/justify]
[/font][/size][/blockquote][/td][/tr][tr][td]

[/td][/tr][/table][/center]

[Anatra]

[atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-image: url(http://i.imgur.com/tZost19.png); border: 000000 solid 0px; width: 500px; height: 250px; padding: 0 0 0 0px; border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px;]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: black; border: 273d28 solid 1px; width: 498px; padding: 0 0 0 0px; border-radius: 0px 0px 0px 0px;] Rocky Mead We're walking through the field in-between the gaps in the lengths of crop. There isn't anything more secluding than a segregating wall of wheat and fruit. In the far distance, they've made it ascertain that we can see the huge District Wall, probably around sixty feet high. Though nobody ever gets near enough to measure the sheer size of it. Thick metallic walls with small passageways for cars, guarded immensely. You won't find me walking through them anytime soon, if ever. Evan seems nice enough, a good working companion. Although I'm leading the walk it seems, I do find myself checking back to see if he's still there. The pauses in conversation make me a little wary of whether he is still around. Though he says something now that catches my attention; ”I wasn’t really, er… super memorable, I don’t guess. I was on the wrestling team at one point but I don’t think I was ever really a superstar.” I wouldn't daresay I don't remember him at all, I just rarely remember people in general. There's few things outside of my family home that I truly find refuge in caring for. Besides the neighboring houses, there is little for me to take friendship in. The only thing I remember of Evan is seeing either him, or his friends in the Gym as I walked by during school from time to time. They would be practicing in the small arena we had and I'd just walk by. Me and my friends rarely did go there, we usually just found a tree and talked or did something productive that avoided the major cliques. But, what is a superstar. A superstar in this District would be somebody who did the most work, I guess, or somebody who spoke against the Capitol - got whipped - came back. We forget those who don't return, and it's a truth we hide from ourselves. Their families think them foolish, though they still grieve. I've seen it in my neighbors and I've seen it around the District. ”This walk every day, though, now that’s something memorable that we’ll never forget, huh?” Not really, I find myself thinking. I don't say it because I know it isn't a nice thing to reply with. Instead I formulate a better response... I think; "Only because it happens every day. I don't find myself enjoying the walk. Though company helps." Maybe it was a better thing to say. After all, making friends is much better than making enemies. They begin to arrive at their designated area, in which some gathers have already gotten to work. There's a couple of people in one corner, stacking some wheat bales and a sparse few scattered around the edges of the 'square' in the crops, beginning to gather and retrieve. There is one girl, quite short - clearly young and inexperienced - who is in the middle trying to tie a knot in a wheat pile to connect them all in one stack. "Here." Rocky lets out a little laugh as he nears her and takes over for her. She looks like him, quite a lot actually. "Thanks ..." She sounds thankful but in a relieved way. "Don't worry about it, they usually send you lot in with more... sociable people." She turns to look at Evan; "Like him?" She smiles, as does Rocky as he turns to look at Evan. "Yeah, sure. Like him. Now get back to work, you. Don't want the peacekeepers scuffling your hair." Their back and forth there would make anybody watching away that they knew each other. And she did look a lot like him. "Well then, best get to work pal." Rocky tells Evan as he allows his hands to start tying wheat bundles together.

[/justify][/blockquote][/size]

[/td][/tr][/tr][/table]

Word Count: 666

[brΔdley]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,394,true]

[atrb=background,http://static.tumblr.com/50712dba0d08460e44da94a8fee3a560/b6njnug/xKxmmjq23/tumblr_static_white12.jpg] I find the rhythmic pace of my feet to be slightly slower than that of my companion’s. In the symphony of our beating boots against the dried earth below, I begin to hear moments where his pace is faster than that of my own. There are moments in the rhythmic song where I find myself speeding up just to keep up to my guide’s momentum. I have no idea why, but my heart, my mind, and my soul just weren’t focusing on the daily work in the fields today. Whether it is because my vocational expertise has begun to focus on the extraction of the crops from the earth or limbs of trees only and was being thrown into a new area of focus or I simply was just beginning to dread the idea of working in this sector, I have no idea. Nevertheless, my heart is beating quicker and harder than an usual day in the fields. This meticulous march to our vocational destination seemed to be never ending. The fields of grain and orchards of nuts and fruits extended far beyond the eye’s own line of vision. The web of paths that lay active with marching workers and the transfer of tools and accessories are interconnected throughout the entire plantation. I recall my first day of work where I became lost during the autumnal harvest and found myself lost and deserted in a patch of corn husks and crops; An inexperienced individual thrown into these paths and webs could find themselves alone before they know it. However, I have reached the level of experience where I understand where certain paths lead and how to avoid becoming lost in the maze of agriculture. As my mind wandered, I find that we have reached our final destination. A few other employees – some adorning the brown, fabric satchels on their posterior just as I had – had already found their way through the maze of crops to begin the day’s vocational tasks. Without thinking about it, I reach into the rear pocket of my pants, pulling out a pair of gloves. Ever since my first week of labor in this plantation, I have found these gloves to be my best accessory besides the scythe or sickles. Without the protective layer of grime-covered leather and stiff plastic grips, my hands become encased in red sores and painful blisters that pain me in my following day of work. I slide them on my hands one by one and wiggle my fingers to ensure a tight and snug fit. It may be silly to throw these on at the nearest sign of manual labor, but it’s a habit – safety has become a habit. As we approach, a damsel seems to be in distress and, surprising to me, Rocky immediately runs over to the small, inexperienced girl to aid her. Through my few introductory moments with the boy my age, he doesn’t appear to be the type of individual to have compassion for someone falling behind vocationally. He seems hard – he seems like the type of person who is tough as nails and self-sustaining, but rarely compassionately kind. This begins to raise the question: Does he know this girl? Their similar appearances and mutual banter seemed to answer that question for me. They must be related in some way, shape, or form. It wasn’t very odd for siblings or family ties to become coworkers as well, here in this District. I smile at the younger girl as Rocky mentions something about getting back to work, and I nod and chuckle. I watch his hands masterfully begin to tie twine together around the bales of hay and my mouth drops a small amount. Swiping a sickle at the base of a stack of corn husks required absolutely no skill – no mastery. I attempted to mimic his masterful movement of the twine in loops and downward ties and twisted pulls with ease, but I was slow and more sloppy. Looking up, I made sure the girl from earlier wasn’t within earshot as I began to speak to my companion. ”Is she a cousin or sister of yours?”

[/color] I push my stack of hay to the adjacent left as I begin to tie another one as I nod my auburn head towards the girl he had talked to earlier. ”She seems nice.”[/color] That seemed to be the most appropriate thing to say. I feel that even mentioning anything about Rocky’s family member’s attractiveness or appearance would have been a stupid move that would have had me shot faster than if I burned a Capitol flag. After much thought, it seemed harmless enough to say to the boy.

WC:765

bio // wc: 984

[/justify]
[/font][/size][/blockquote][/td][/tr][tr][td]

[/td][/tr][/table][/center]