Writing in the grave; Kizzy and Iona
Jun 9, 2016 20:37:42 GMT -5
Post by * on Jun 9, 2016 20:37:42 GMT -5
K I Z Z Y
The training center is full of bafoons. Why these kids stand around, flaunting their attitudes, as if it'll make them live longer is beyond my reasoning. Why do they even care? If I were in their shoes, and I am, I would worry less about impressing those around me and worry about trying to figure out how to survive. Those thoughts run through my mind as I sit at the table, furthest away from the lot of them. I find a moment of peace by myself before the crowd gathers amongst the spread of delectibles that the avoxes and the capitol has prepared for us all. It looks nice with the garnishes and pretty little flecks of shaved gold decorating some of the morsels. It's just a distraction though from the task at hand. My hand.
"Fairwell feasts more like it." The words slip through my lips without reserve . I could care less for anyone around to hear; let them. I allow a small glimpse to wander over at the avox standing just a few feet away from me, as still as a statue and her eyes glazed over, with a sort of hatred for her own position. "What district were you in?"
The question comes to her as a surprise because I saw a tiny flicker of something forming in her eyes, on top of that, she took a deeper breath straightaway. Was it fear? Curiosity?
Questioning her again, she didn't let the same mistake happen again. She conformed to her duties and ignored me completely the second time around. My shoulders lift upwards in a jerking motion just once. "Shame. I would have liked to know what district you were from so I could let someone know how you were. If I won, I'd send them your reguards. Guess not." The conversation is very one-sided, for obvious reasons. A glint of humor spreads like wildfire on my lips as they curve upward. Obligated, I turn my attention elsewhere to observe the others in the training center where a blonde, the district seven female, stands waiting on someone. Intently, I survey the look on her face and the lost feeling that seems to have come over her. I show my disapproval by tearing my eyes away from her to retrieve a prized possesion of mine. My notes. I quickly jot down some key information.District Seven: She's a tree of some kind.
A little lost.
Reserved.
Aloof.
Superficial.
A tiny girl, from a district made of nothing more than just plants and trees, stands this little vain girl. Her name is equivilent to the limbs that produce each stick and leaf. 'Cedar' or 'Birch' is the name she goes by. A mere twig in the redwood forest. The longer she waits, letting her dreams and hopes flitter on a cloud, the sooner her glow will wilt like a rose in the heat of the day. Only then, will she be forever forced into the roles of the ones standing at each post and corner and she ,too, will be dressed to match one another. An avox, she so desires with all her passion, is what she longs to become so she will not have to deal with the tragedy of a reaping or her so called district life. The essence of her youth says, "Someone take me away from this awful place... in a hurry."
The words are just notes, something to summerize at a later date and perfect but for now. I've memorized her face and stature for long enough. Ever so carefully, I rip that peice of paper out, folding it into a perfect triangle before moving on to some bloak that I remembered had some kind of canine formation in his name. Pen to paper, I start forming words about the canine.I crack a smile, hoffing at the words the pen is forming on this delicate peice of evidence.Wolfman: A naughty knitter of the wee morning hours....Made by Frankel