○ in ♥ [i.o | r.b]
Jun 10, 2019 23:51:06 GMT -5
Post by mat on Jun 10, 2019 23:51:06 GMT -5
[googlefont="ZCOOL KuaiLe:400"]
royce benstaloe
The instructor had only given him a few basic tidbits on starting a fire before she left Royce Benstaloe on his own. They didn’t want him to survive, especially if what he believed was true, that his father had somehow forced his name to be drawn from the bowl. With only a flint, a few twigs, and some dead leaves, they had expected him to know how to do it all. Royce kept his head down, facing away from all the other people in the area because he was too afraid to see if others may be looking at him. Watching him fail. Watching his chances of survival dwindle away like every spark he struck against the rock.
But looking the other way would not take the problem with it, and as he heard the same instructor’s chuckle to his left, Royce knew they were noticing. Surely she wouldn’t place any bets on him in a few days.
Every successful strike he lit with the flint burned out before he even got the chance to see it rise among the sticks. He’s a slow learner, and he was nervous that he might not have enough time. Closing his eyes, he began to play with the flint even faster. Blinded now, he felt the weight and pressure slowly drip out from beneath him, open droplet at a time.
Too bad that the pressure is a flood.
It wasn’t until he experienced the warmth of the flame that he opened his eyes again and let the floodgates open. All it took was one flick of the wrist, or several, he really wasn’t watching, to build a foundation for confidence at his next station. You have to walk a foot before you can make the mile, he thought, referencing back to his physical education classes. This day was the longest foot he’d ever had to walk.
Royce compiled the twigs and leaves on the fire, letting the flame take a more broad form instead of lying in the sawdust-like material. He wrapped his head around in exhaustion, refusing to look at the clock to see how long that took. Odds are he would’ve been able to die of hypothermia before he could start that fire again. But as his arms stretched to scratch the back of his neck, the fire leapt at him.
He must not have noticed, when he sparked the flint furiously, that one landed on his training uniform, the side of his stomach. There, lied a hole, continuing to get larger as the flame consumed it. Royce patted furiously at the flame for a second, trying to get it out without drawing any attention to it. He didn’t want a fuss. Hell, that was the last thing he wanted.
By the time the fire was out, a hole the size of a silver dollar marked itself in two places: one on the side of his stomach and a few inches before his back.
“Fuck,” he said near silently, closing his eyes again. “Last thing I needed.”
The floodgates closed, and the water rose again.
royce benstaloe
---
The instructor had only given him a few basic tidbits on starting a fire before she left Royce Benstaloe on his own. They didn’t want him to survive, especially if what he believed was true, that his father had somehow forced his name to be drawn from the bowl. With only a flint, a few twigs, and some dead leaves, they had expected him to know how to do it all. Royce kept his head down, facing away from all the other people in the area because he was too afraid to see if others may be looking at him. Watching him fail. Watching his chances of survival dwindle away like every spark he struck against the rock.
But looking the other way would not take the problem with it, and as he heard the same instructor’s chuckle to his left, Royce knew they were noticing. Surely she wouldn’t place any bets on him in a few days.
Every successful strike he lit with the flint burned out before he even got the chance to see it rise among the sticks. He’s a slow learner, and he was nervous that he might not have enough time. Closing his eyes, he began to play with the flint even faster. Blinded now, he felt the weight and pressure slowly drip out from beneath him, open droplet at a time.
It wasn’t until he experienced the warmth of the flame that he opened his eyes again and let the floodgates open. All it took was one flick of the wrist, or several, he really wasn’t watching, to build a foundation for confidence at his next station. You have to walk a foot before you can make the mile, he thought, referencing back to his physical education classes. This day was the longest foot he’d ever had to walk.
Royce compiled the twigs and leaves on the fire, letting the flame take a more broad form instead of lying in the sawdust-like material. He wrapped his head around in exhaustion, refusing to look at the clock to see how long that took. Odds are he would’ve been able to die of hypothermia before he could start that fire again. But as his arms stretched to scratch the back of his neck, the fire leapt at him.
He must not have noticed, when he sparked the flint furiously, that one landed on his training uniform, the side of his stomach. There, lied a hole, continuing to get larger as the flame consumed it. Royce patted furiously at the flame for a second, trying to get it out without drawing any attention to it. He didn’t want a fuss. Hell, that was the last thing he wanted.
By the time the fire was out, a hole the size of a silver dollar marked itself in two places: one on the side of his stomach and a few inches before his back.
“Fuck,” he said near silently, closing his eyes again. “Last thing I needed.”
The floodgates closed, and the water rose again.
