Trisha "Cackles" Ignatius-McGee }{ D11 WIP

[Loony]

C A C K L E S

District 11 | 18 | Cris Herrmann

The slightest wind disturbs the stale air within the library, lifting particles of dust and rot from the yellowed pages and letting them dance in the light that peers upon the lone occupant. She is perched upon one of the many rotting oak chairs that the gardening district is able to afford, both feet tucked beneath her slim body as she bounces up and down on the deflated maroon cushion. Her neck is bent at an uncomfortable angle, peering down upon the book beneath her with intensity. The yellowed pages smell of a troubled history and some ink is smudged beyond comprehension, but she studies the heliographic messages nonetheless. The words fly past her eyes, as her finger traces line after line after line. It takes her an embarrassingly long time to reach the end of a page, but there is no one else here to be embarrassed in front of. 

Instead, her thin lips slowly sound out word after word after word, and her baby blue eyes gain an mature intensity as she forces herself to understand the material. It is not all clear to her, but she gets the most important facts. The rotting book's cover displays in brown text Agriculture in Panem: Roots and Tubers. The girl is just pages into the heavy text, her eyes scanning the statistics and facts. She craves the knowledge that are hidden within these curves and lines, but is limited by her minimalist education. Instead, she smiles as she reaches the word potato. Something familiar in the pages of new stumble upon a familiar word.

"P-" her voice cracks, becoming even higher than it usually is, "P-Potato,"

The word echoes in this hallowed building, but her voice gains strength with each syllable. She repeats the word, "Potato!" Her voice has always been squeaky, even as she matured her petite diaphragm did not expand, but she puts her own power into the word, and lets it vibrate within her.

The memories related to the word rush to her faster than the rain to the ground.

She is small. Her father's thick beard rubs gently against the side of her face as he pulls her into a hug. His chocolate eyes lock upon hers, and he holds her at an arms length. "You'll be okay, Trish. You can get potatoes from the field