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| ♐ May The {Odds} Be {Ever} In Your Favor ♐; Hunger Games | Closed | Active | Mature | |
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| Topic Started: Feb 8 2012, 11:26 PM (1,259 Views) | |
| Gipity | Feb 8 2012, 11:26 PM Post #1 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>When you reach the age of eighteen, I feel like you hold your breath the most at the Reaping. It's your last year, and your name is in it more times than it ever will be in your lifetime. It's the year where they could possibly say another's name once more and you are free from the Games for the rest of your life... That is until it's time for your children to be a part of the action. <br><br>I know my mother, Primrose Fletcher, the healer of our parts, a position she took full on after my grandmother passed, is the most nervous out of all of us. Me and my two twin sisters, the latter only fourteen, look on with butterflies in our stomachs. I know that if either of them were called, I would wish to volunteer to be in their place, if only it was allowed for boys to volunteer for girls, and be much like my aunt Katniss before me. She saved my mother by volunteering to be in her place, and in turn, had made for an amazing opponent in the 74th Games. The Capitol saw her as a threat, or so I've heard, and killed her before she did anything drastic to save both herself and her fellow District 12 Tribute, Peeta Mellark. <br><br>My gaze travels over to Aven Mellark, his eldest daughter, and probably my best friend. Together, we make a fine team. We traipse the unprotected woods to find food for our families. Aven doesn't really need to, for her father has been rich since the day he made Victor, but maybe she just enjoys my company, the outdoors, and the action of it all. It's peaceful in it's own way. <br><br>Though my family struggles more, it's not much compared to others in District 12, those on the brink of starvation. Peeta, who loved my aunt with every fiber of his being, took care of my mother and grandmother, and continued to assist us after my mother had married. We also have Gale Hawthorne by our sides, a man who was like the way I am with Aven, but to my deceased aunt. I feel he must have had special feelings for her like Peeta did, but I've never mentioned these theories. From what I've seen and heard, she was a remarkable woman, and I've heard a select amount of my traits and talents come from her. <br><br>My weapon of choice is a crossbow, the more automated version of my aunt's famed longbow. My accuracy, I have heard, is impeccable, but I feel like I can improve. Though I do hunt my fair share of game out in the woods, I feel as if most of my time is spent collecting the plants that my mother requires for her apothecary practice. <br><br>Our Reaping this year is early in the morning. Me and Aven don't even have time to meet up in the Meadow beforehand. Instead, we stand, split into our age groups, as well as split by gender, as we wait for our names to be read from those slips of paper in those large glass bowls. Effie Trinket has retired as the District 12 escort, and instead a woman with an attire that could make your eyes bleed has taken her place. Her name is Razziel Quinnley. Her hair is so red, I have to keep double checking to make sure blood isn't seeping from her scalp. <br><br>This year is a special year for the Hunger Games. It is the fourth Quarter Quell, the marking of every 25th year the Hunger Games are put on. Something special happens every Quarter Quell. Something special and something horrific. <br><br>Three months ago the President informed us that this Quarter Quell would be quite different. Much like the 50th Quell, there would be forty eight instead of twenty four Tributes. Four from each District would compete. The thing that was special about this one, was that this year the Tributes would be put into randomly selected teams of four. There could be four Victors this year. However, there was the horrific catch. <br><br>When a Tribute dies in the Arena, so do their families. <br><br>Which means that even though so many could win, those who died would elicit a lot of deaths. <br><br>It would drive the Tributes to do everything in their power to win to save not only themselves, but their families as well. <br><br>The first two females called are not my sisters. The first is a girl I've seen here and there around school, but I don't really know her. The second... The second makes a lump the size of a squirrel form in my throat. <br><br>Aven Mellark. <br><br>No. <br><br>I watch as she goes forward, and I almost feel sick. I almost can't stand watching her go up, watching as Razziel Quinnley is so friendly towards her. My jaw grows rigid but I stand my ground. There's nothing I can do. Nothing I can do but wait until after the male Tributes' names are called and I can say my final goodbyes to my best friend. The very thought makes the tears want to burn through my gray gaze, but I hold them back, staying strong. I am not weak. <br><br>Razziel goes on to name the first male Tribute. <br><br>Colton Fletcher. <br><br>It's me. <br><br>This causes the crowd to gasp. What do they make of it? The daughter of the winning Tribute of the 74th Hunger Games, and the son of the girl the infamous Katniss Everdeen, Peeta's true love, the deviant, the mockingjay, volunteered her life for, to be together in the Games. It almost seems planned. I don't know how, but I step forward, nearly gliding. I find myself up on stage beside Aven, and it takes all of me to not grab at her hand like a child. <br><br>Another male Tribute is called. It's a fourteen year old boy who's in the same class as my sisters. It makes me feel sicker than I've already grown in the past ten minutes. I hate the Games. <br><br>The Reaping is over. I'm allowed my final goodbyes. My mother tries to stay strong, but I tell her it's okay to cry. My sisters do too. She gives me my aunt's mockingjay pin as my Tribute token. I know the look on my face showcases how much it means to me. I hug them all, and I promise to make them all proud. With that, they are ripped away from me by the Capitol Officials. Soon after, me, Aven, and the other two District 12 Tributes are, along with our mentor, Aven's father, forced onto the Tribute Train. It's not long before I can't even see my home anymore. <br><br>Though the train ride isn't very long, just over a day's time, it feels like a lifetime. It's quiet... Quieter between me and Aven than it's been in a long time. I believe we're both in shock. So much so that we can only make raving quips here and there about how lush everything, especially the food, is when the Capitol is providing it. Even though Aven eats better than most, we both fill our bellies 'til we nearly feel ill at each meal. That's the only good part. <br><br>Peeta manages a few words, ones of encouragement that sound so sincere. He has always been the best liar I know, best at soothing you with words that you knew deep down weren't true. I feel the pressure on me in his voice, in the sharp edge of his eyes. It's my responsibility to keep Aven safe and alive. I will risk all that is in me to bring her home safe and found, to make her one of the four Victors. That is, if we are on the same team. If we aren't, there is nothing I can really do. If she dies, Peeta and the rest of her family are gone forever. If I die, there goes my own family. I can only hope, but I know it's highly unlikely. <br><br>When we arrive at the Capitol, everything gleams and glimmers in the bright sunlight. It's breathtaking, and yet it seems to grab hold of my innards and squeeze them tight. <br><br>I'm going to be the 100th Annual Hunger Games. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Feb 9 2012, 01:04 AM Post #2 |
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[align=center]![]() [/align] [dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> I woke up too early, and I can never go back to sleep once my eyes are fully open. So, for the past half an hour, I've been fiddling with these three rusty old pieces of piping from my childhood, partly wondering if I can do anything to make the item more useful than a thin bludgeon, and partly wondering if I'll make it through the day alive. The first question was pretty easy. I've had the pieces since I was little and I first assembled them into a usable staff, and realized I had a knack for…just…things in general. I'm good with my hands. I can understand how things work. I don't know how, exactly, but I guess everybody's born with something. <br><br>Maybe I'm a teeny bit mad sometimes with my visions of weapons. But your mind has to go somewhere when you live in my world. A lot of times, it just wanders. If things were different…if I could make the things I want to make. <br><br>Every time, my thoughts go in the same pattern. It's become predictable. First, I'll think about what I could do if I could have whatever materials I want. Anything at all. The weapons I could build with that sort of inventory. I would be bring in more game than ever. But then slowly, I'll start to realize that there's no point in thinking about these things. Maybe we have the money for supplies, but I would never feel right just blowing it all on my hobbies while others are starving. So then I'll think, maybe I could just write down creations…sketch them in a notebook. Do something with it. But soon I'll see that I'd be taking a risk. If it ever fell into the wrong hands, the Capitol might think I was planning something. I had no right to be thinking about weapons. If they saw no use in my book, they'd execute me. If they found use, they might think me a valuable person to contribute to the Games and design weapons for that, and that was something I'd prefer death over. Thankfully, my tools are probably too primitive for those elitists. Execution seems a lot more likely. I may live in the Victor's Village, but I'm still in District 12. <br><br>These thoughts would make me so angry and irritated that at times, I'll be unable to sleep for hours, tormented by my guilt and suffocation. And once I finally fall asleep, I'll always have the same dream. It's about having cartons and cartons of eggs. I'll see myself boring a small hole in every shell and drain the gooey syrup of yolk and whites into a bowl, then setting it aside for those from the Seam to make a giant breakfast of it. After that, I take time to meticulously fill each shell with a careful blend of gasoline and paint thinner. Seal the holes up carefully with tape or tar or whatever I could get my hands on, and then place 'em back in the cartons. <br><br>Then I carry all of those cartons to Capitol. I wander around. I imagine myself, feeling the cool, smooth shell of an egg as I slip it against the cloth of a slingshot, delicately. Tugging the cloth back till the egg was cradled, and then launching each one all over the Capitol till the whole place was drenched in the flammable liquid. Then I take a match, and watch it burn. Simple as that. <br><br> With the flames igniting the air behind me, you'd almost think I was the daughter of the girl on fire. Katniss Everdeen. The Mockingjay. The woman I admire far more than my own mother, who you can always tell is disappointed in me. Maybe she wanted a boy, or I'm not girly enough, or maybe deep down, she's jealous of the close relationship me and my father have. I don't think I'll ever find out, because she's never stopped screaming at me long enough to know me. She wouldn't understand my dream, my longing, my fever to end the Capitol. <br><br>This is all crazy talk, though, and I know it. It doesn't make sense, and even worse, it's dangerous thinking. Still, it's just a dream. A dream that I have sense enough not to share with anyone but Colton. <br><br>He's my best friend, and, ironically, the nephew of the Mockingjay. He's been in my life as long as I can remember, and our families are so deeply intertwined that it's hard to imagine one without the other. We've got a history. My hero of a dad saved his hero of an aunt, and the vice versa. If it wasn't for Katniss, I don't know if I would have ever been born. He made a point in repaying this debt, always looking after Katniss's family, and I'm not complaining about the results. I got a best friend and a family in return, after all. Me and Colton…well, I just don't know what I'd do without him, without our woods. <br><br>Finally, I realize it's time I should get going. I open the drawer and let the pipes roll into it. I don't know what to wear to the Reaping, and I don't really care, because to dress up would seem like I was celebrating the event. Only someone completely sick-minded (most likely either from the Capitol or people from the Districts 1, 2, or 4) would do that. I can feel my chest squeezing tight already as I slip on some olive green dress made of cotton with a layer of thin material I don't know, and then I'm out the door. <br><br>But after a few steps, I start to regret the decision. The dress's shadow is transparent sometimes. It looks like the clothing's a ghost, almost, and it's that instant that I feel some weird sense of dread and I hate it and I want to change. But I can't believe late, and…well, that's just dumb. It's just clothing, and it doesn't mean anything. <br><br>I hate the Games, I hate thinking about it, I hate what it did to my dad and everyone involved. I try to push this from my mind, knowing there's nothing I can do, but every footstep is an angry one. I hurry up to join the crowds, searching for Colton's face while I do, but he's lost amongst the pale expressions. I guess I wouldn't really be able to do much anyway, but one glance from him could mean a world of change to my emotions. But I just make do and line up with the rest of the seventeen year old girls. My eyes take in our garish representative, and I try to think of something funny to say to Colton later…but I can't. I can already feel my dress sticking to my sweat as I remember the conditions of this year's Quarter Quell. <br><br>I don't want to think about it. I don't want to imagine the possibility of me, or Colton, or his sisters, being chosen. Of death in our families being a possibility. I close my eyes, knowing it won't help but wishing it would, and maybe wishing would be good enough. I don't even open them when the first name is called. I don't want to see the girl's hopeless face. But then, suddenly, I have to open my eyes, because I hear my name being called, with such enthusiasm that you would have thought I just won twenty year's supply of grain and oil. I turn cold. <br><br>My name was in there six times. It was a luxury others couldn't afford. So why did it seem like now I was paying the ultimate price? <br><br>I make myself move, but it feels like I've been pushed out of my body, and I'm watching everything happen. Just like a dream, but no gasoline-filled eggs, no fire. I see myself staring back at Razziel, a strange look cast over my face as I take my spot. This is it. This is everything. I try to come to terms with it all, what it means. It means I can't lose, no matter what, because then I lose my family. I can't lose. I can't lose. I can't lose. <br><br>And then I hear Razziel call Colton, and losing turns into a loss I hadn't predicted. I'm back in my body, and horror, rage, fills my eyes as I see him join me on the platform. I want to push him off and scream. This has to be a joke, and, looking at him, I can tell he's thinking the same. What are the chances that both of us would be standing here? Him, his last year, son of Primrose née Everdeen, nephew of the girl on fire. Me, daughter of the two-time victor. <br><br>The fury melts away into pure disbelief, which allows me to at least say good-bye to my mother in a sort of decent manner, and the first time in forever, she actually shows some signs of caring. I really don't know what to make of it, and I try to awkwardly comfort her, despite being the one needing comforted. Of course, she's not bawling the way I can imagine other mothers are at the moment, but it's an effort. Saying good-bye to Colton's family is harder. They've become my own flesh and blood over the years, and I'm starting to realize that if I don't make sure Colton goes home, I lose them, too. And it's not so simple that I can just die protecting him, either, or there goes my own family. <br><br>The teeniest, tiniest comfort is that my dad is on our side…he'll be on the front with us in all ways but direct. If there's one person I'd trust to do everything he could to make sure both me and Colton make it out of the Games alive, it's my father. I cling to this idea with every ounce of my being, trying to keep something that will keep my head clear, but it's so, so hard, and I'm absolutely silent on the train. At least, in the sense that the real me is. Everything I want to be said is kept, locked away, back with those pipes in my drawer at home. Things that don't matter, jokes and nudges about everything on the train, are the only things that are said. My dad's doing his best to be strong for all of us, and it really works. You can see why he was one of the media's favorites. But him being so together just makes me want to cry, and yet, I feel like those tears are locked up too. <br><br>Then suddenly, we're at the Capitol, where the citizens are their own species, separate from the Districts. Staring at it, seeing my ridiculous dream would never come true, that this place will be here and do whatever it wants till the day the sea boils…I grab Colton's hand, and bury my face in his chest, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to deny it all. I give in. I say what I really feel, not knowing how long I'll be able to keep this sort of indulgence before the Games start. It's already risky, but I do it anyway. "Damn it," I murmur, my voice muffled against him as I breathe in his familiar scent, always with a trace of strength, bitterness and freedom, always a hint of the herbs. "Goddamn it." </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Feb 9 2012, 01:27 AM Post #3 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>I find that we call this doomful day the 'Reaping' almost amusing, because it sounds no different from my life. Reaping means to harvest, and isn't that what I do every day but Sunday? It is from sunrise to sunset that I collect a vast variety of fruits and vegetables, where only severe whether can prevent us from doing so. The sun doesn't seem to count. I have seen too many of my fellow workers, of my friends, dying from the heat, forced to continue working. <br><br>The worst part is that we hardly get any of the food ourselves. Most of it is immediately transported to the Capitol, where they can use our gatherings for decedent desserts, sauces, soups, dyes, and even medicines. Medicine. That I know well. I have always taken interest in the medicinal plants that surround us. It helps to keep me and my other District 11 citizens alive. I am modest though. I'm no expert. There are many much older and wiser I have learned from, like my elderly aunt and my grandmother, who is so old and frail, it is a wonder she still lives. <br><br>Not many live to old age here in District 11. Though we are surrounded by food, we don't get our hands on nearly any of it. If we even attempt to sneak even a miniscule berry, our strict Peacekeepers will not hesitate to punish us. Driven nearly mad with hunger, I myself have defied them, leading to the many scars that run along my arms and back. They shine against my dark skin, the welted skin so much lighter. Each time my stomach grows empty, I look upon the scars and remember my place. It's a place I loathe, but what am I to do about it? <br><br>To aid the members of my family, I have signed up for several tessaraes, as have my many siblings. It manages to help, getting us a little farther than most, and the price we pay is being in the pool for the Reaping far more than anyone should. My chances have never been good. <br><br>I stand there amongst my group, a sea of thin girls with mocha skin and ebony hair pulled back away from our faces. I stare blankly towards the dilapidated stage with chestnut eyes. The escort finally picks a name from the bowl and calls it out. <br><br>Kasha. <br><br>While I'm not surprised when my singular name is called first, something keeps me frozen in my spot for longer than it should. It's fear, but I can't show fear. I swallow it all back. I think for a moment, but it's a useless thought. You can't deny being a Tribute. The only thing that can save you is if another volunteers to take your place. No one will volunteer. I know this. Some force moves me forward, and it doesn't take me long to realize it's my own will, knowing that there is nothing else I can do. <br><br>I stand on top of the stage as they call out the three other tributes. The second girl and first boy must work in orchards far from my usual stretch, for I do not know them. The second boy, however, I work along side often. He's not all there, for he has had one too many encounters with the tracker jackers, but he's a good boy. They are all younger than me. I feel as if I already know they won't make it, which means neither will their families. <br><br>I hardly believe I will, but I could never let down my family that way. I must win for their sakes, so that my siblings may live, grow and thrive. Our existence here is not the most privileged or glamorous, but a life is a life, and I don't want to take theirs away from them. <br><br>I realize I loathe the thought of losing my own. <br><br>We're summoned into the Justice Building, which only decays further and further as time goes on. I allow myself to weep for my family, because this might be it. We may all be dead by the end of these games. I feel as if the Capitol Officials steal them away from me far sooner than is the norm, and I am whisked off with my fellow Tributes onto the Tribute Train. <br><br>Though I am surrounded by the greatest of feasts, I am almost hesitate of it, as if it isn't real. When my escort says I should dig in, I finally go ahead, only to sadly find myself full before I can even finish the first plate. My stomach has grown so small, so accustomed to small meals and infrequent eating. I try though, to eat as much as I can, because I am not sure when the chance to stuff myself will ever arise again. <br><br>I like the train. It's lush and vibrant. I don't have to work. I worry, but there is no work. There is no blistering heat, no insects, no Peacekeepers with their whips, and no rumbling stomachs. These are the sole perks of this. <br><br>I know they will end soon. <br><br>In fact they will end all too soon. <br><br>It is not long before we arrive at the Capitol, where every building is pristine, the complete opposite of my district. The people here, of a mass variety of different colors, parade the streets, and I'm not sure what to make of them. I find them a bit silly, but I would never dare to say it. I've had enough punishments to last me several lifetimes. <br><br>Though the other Tributes are by my side as we exit the train, I've never felt so alone in my life. I have no one to cling to. I press my lips together tightly as I hold back a cry. I can do this. <br><br>I have to. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Feb 9 2012, 02:03 AM Post #4 |
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[align=center]![]() [/align] [dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> It's funny. <br><br>I used to make fun of the Careers with my friend Hadyn when we were young. <br><br>We thought they were dumb, volunteering for the Games. That was like volunteering for murder. Glory? Titles? Me and him, we were the sons of quarrymen, and we didn't need all that shit. We just wanted ordinary lives. Enough food and an ordinary house and an ordinary family. We were only nine when we thought about that stuff, but we already knew more than people twice our age. Yesirree, we mapped out our future plans before we were even in the double digits. Thinking back on it now, it's really ironic, because back then, we knew everything, and we knew nothing. <br><br>Things changed when I turned ten. A big accident at the quarry. A rock too big, a chain too weak, shrapnel everywhere. Nine men dead, so of course everybody was pointing fingers. Someone had to be blamed, and people turned to Jed Miller, this young guy with a wife and already six kids, which was just stupid in this day and age, because who could support that, but he had never been the smartest guy. I knew this because my dad, Cephas Slate, usually just called Ceph, owed him. Big time. Apparently, when my mom and him had me, they were starving. Not everybody lives the fine life the other Districts imagine ours does. My family, ha, lucky us. We were an exception. My parents were too old to sign for tessaraes, and with a baby, they had no idea what they were going to do. <br><br>Then out of nowhere, Jed, eighteen years old and single at the time, signs up for a tessera himself, and splits half of his share of oil and grain with my parents. A real life saver, right? <br><br>Wrong. <br><br>That bastard has, albeit, unknowingly, destroyed my life, and my family's. <br><br>My dad was never one for debt. So when people started pointing fingers, when everybody was assembled in the square and the Peacekeeper demanded someone to come forth, my old man had to be a hero and take Jed's place in the execution, saying he was the guilty one. Probably feeling that the man was young, he had a wife and kids, and he was the one who had singlehandedly saved the Slate family from starvation years ago. Well, Dad, that's real sentimental, but you had a wife and kids, too. Kids, plural. If it was just me, I could have managed. <br><br>But no, there was Maisie and Rance, my younger siblings. And that made everything different. <br><br>When you die for a crime like the one my dad took the blame for, the blame doesn't die with you. The families of those who died, they blamed my mom, me, my brother, my sister, just because my dad wasn't around to accuse and torture anymore. They took it out on us, and although we knew the truth, that didn't count for much, and Jed was too busy protecting his own family to speak up about it. Sure, he told us how great Ceph was and all that shit but what did that really matter in the end? Fact was, until I was eleven, I spent the time defending my father, saying he was a hero, although no one could know why. Then I realized I was wasting my energy. That I should have been concentrating on my siblings, and my mom. <br><br>I'm wildfire. Nobody likes to say anything to me. They know that with one wrong word, I'll combust. The rest of my family is different. When I was eleven, Maisie was six, and Rance was three. I soon discovered that they were being bullied at school, angry relatives of those who died in the accident holding my siblings responsible. My mom was treated terribly too. The family name had turned to dust with my father's bones. I don't care what anyone says about me. But my family, they're untouchable. <br><br>I used to think of the quarrymen as heroes. I couldn't wait to be one. Coming home, smelling like granite, my shoulders speckled with black powder. Dirty fingernails. Engine grease on my face. But now I saw that being one was pointless. That wasn't going to bring honor back to my family. No, in this world, there was only one way to get honor, and that was by winning the Hunger Games. So, I turned into the thing I hated. A Career. Wasn't born that way, but had to become one, if I wanted any chance of surviving. I did work in the quarry, like what was expected of me. It was good training for strength. But I did my own sort of training on the side, too. Combat, weapons. Whatever I could get my hands on in my spare time. <br><br>I stopped screaming about how my father was a hero. I didn't mention him at all, hoping that people would just forget about him, while fully knowing that they wouldn't. Still, it would help. Either way, I was determined. When I was eighteen, after I had seven years of training, I would volunteer, and I wouldn't take no for an answer. My training time was less than the other Careers, who had been drilling themselves all their lives. But I had a lot more passion than they did, because I had a reason to seize that glory. <br><br>For a long time, I hated myself, and what I was going to put myself through. Hadyn wouldn't even talk to me anymore, because I couldn't tell him why I became like this. I didn't want to mention my dad, bring up those memories. I hated it. But when I thought about my little sister's skinned knees, from being pushed around at school, when I thought about how she tried to keep the teasing from us, none of that was worth a damn anymore. I wasn't worth a damn. I was fully prepared to give my all. If I didn't win, I'd at least die in some grand way, that would give my family a grave to be proud of. <br><br>But then three months ago, the President told us what this Quarter Quell would be like. I wasn't allowed to die, because then they'd kill my mom, Maisie, Rance. Suddenly, I didn't know if I could participate. That wasn't a risk I was willing to take. What was the point of glory, if the ones you were trying to win it for would be dead? No. I'd have to find another way. It killed me, to think that all my work had been for nothing, but I knew that there was always an alternative. I could do something else…anything that didn't put them in harm's way. <br><br>Thinking back about all of that, it really is funny. <br><br>The one thing I had wanted for seven years, and I get it. The representative calls my name. But I don't want it anymore. I can't take it. Yet, for once, there are no volunteers. Maybe they see me, and my hulking form, and they just assume that I won't back down. I can't cower. Like hell that would bring glory. So I do the only thing I can, and I go up on that stage, and I say my goodbyes, and I wipe Maisie's tears and hug my mom and tell Rance to be strong now, because he's the man of the house. And I go on the train, with its pretty seats and pretty food and pretty this and that and then we're at the pretty Capitol, and I'm staring up at the buildings. I look to my side at the Tributes, and the first one next to me is some girl, fighting back tears. <br><br>It's funny. <br><br>But not in the way that makes you laugh. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Feb 9 2012, 01:14 PM Post #5 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>I finally feel the familiar grasp of Aven's hand only seconds after we step off that train, and it seems to break through the wall I had built up since my name was called, the wall of ice where cracks ventured but never allowed it to truly fall apart. It was as if her touch was like one of the picks his father used in the mines, crashing through the frozen barrier and causing it fall into a million pieces. <br><br>I found her face in my chest, and my arms soon collapse to wrap around her, consume her in my own embrace. She's cursing out the games. It's subtle and muffled, but I always have the feeling we're being watched, recorded. I worry, but I allow her this, my hand finding the back of her head, pressing her to me. I rest my face in her hair as I hold her close, closing my eyes, taking in the sweet and spicy scent of her. I know I can't say it's going to be okay, because I don't know that. Nobody does. I don't think even the Careers could be so confident as to believe, one hundred percent, they would make it to the end, that they would save their families. Not deep down. Deep down everyone feels a sense of dread and loss as they predict the possibilities of their death, of high slim their chances are. <br><br>I want to say something encouraging though. For her, and for myself. My fingers run along her hair like one would strum a harp, and soon I find my voice rising from my throat, delivering soft spoken words that I can only wish will bring some sort of hope, "We'll get through this, Ven." It's the best I can do, and I wish I could do better. I want to stand there forever, holding her in the security of arms, but I know I won't be allowed another half a minute. Fortunately, her father pulls us apart before an official does. <br><br>"Come on, you two." He manages a caring smile towards us, his hand resting on my back. I know how much it hurts him, to see his daughter like this, to know that not only her but me, the nephew of his one true love, having to face the games. I can see in his determined blue eyes that he knows he's one of the biggest keys to our survival as our mentor. "You're going to have to be made pretty for the cameras." <br><br>With that, we are ushered into the remake center with all the Tributes, and that is where me and Aven are truly separated for the first time since our names were called. I hate it, but I know I'll see her again. I'm taken to a room where I feel as if my skin is rubbed raw so that is looks to be of the highest quality. My faint stubble to waxed away before it is rubbed with some sort of cream that I would assume is what keeps it from growing during the duration of the Games. I feel my names manicured, my teeth brought to the most brilliant white, and my hair made thick and silky. I feel like I'm there for ages, but the boys are done long before the girls, and outside we wait for them in simple pants and shirt. <br><br>Finally, she arrives, and the girls take their places in their respective districts. I'll admit I'm a little put off by how she's so clean she's almost glowing, but the longer she's around, I find I don't mind. She's stunning, but maybe to me she's always been that way, even when her golden locks were ratty and the dirt was under her chipped fingernails. <br><br>We now must be split into our groups before the Opening Ceremonies. They decide to surprise the audience when we come out in our chariots tonight instead of them witnessing the selection, and for that I'm glad. The less time I have to have cameras on me, the better. Each of our escorts takes a turn reading off a group. One, two, three, and it continues up until we get to eight. I'm wondering how long it will be until me or Aven is chosen, and soon I get my answer. She is the first girl to be called into the eighth group. <br><br>She has to walk forward, to stand by group seven and await the next names to be called. I suddenly feel sick again, because what are my odds? I'm going to be in a separate group, where I will be unable to protect both Aven and myself. I swallow back the vomit that wishes to surface, closing my eyes for a moment as I take in a breath, trying to accept this. I don't open my eyes until the next female's name is called. <br><br>It's a girl named Kasha, and she's from District 11. She's almost too slender, her skin a warm light chocolate color. The look on her face is hard and rigid, and that gives me hope that she's strong. I need strong people to be on Aven's team, to help keep her alive. If I can't win, Aven must. Both of us can't die. <br><br>Next, the male Tributes' names are called. First, it's Ashlar Slate, of District 2, and he's obviously enough a Career. He towers over me and while I am of a robust build, he probably trumps me with fifty pounds or more of weight. I loathe Careers. Both me and Aven do. They're insane, and make it that much harder for those less privileged, like in mine and Kasha's districts, to succeed in the Games. While I have my disdain, I find myself relieved that a Career was chosen. He'll be of a great assistance to Group 8. I'm so focused on Ashlar, and how he will benefit the team, that I almost don't hear my own name being called. <br><br>The amount of weight lifted off my shoulders, the relief, almost makes me want to cry, but instead, a smile reaches my lips, one which almost seems foreign to even myself. I march over to Group 8 and stand beside Aven, my hand taking hold of her own, our fingers lacing together, like we were two pieces of the puzzle that were always meant to be attached. This was it. We would be the winning team. We would save both of our families. <br><br>Over by the group of mentors, I see the wash of relief in Peeta's face. When a district has more than one member in a team, their mentor is automatically assigned that team. Fortunately for us, the other two District 12 Tributes have already been grouped, meaning we get to keep Aven's father as our mentor. I couldn't be happier, despite the circumstances. Maybe the odds are in my favor. <br><br>We are separated again so that we may be prepared for the Opening Ceremonies. To my shock, the two stylists for our team is none other than Cinna and Portia, the geniuses who worked with Peeta and Katniss Everdeen. Cinna had been the one to make Katniss the girl on fire. Cinna has been brilliant ever since, but never quite like that. Apparently though, he wants that theme to return, for all of us somehow, despite our different districts. He had requested whichever group I was in, and he felt it had been a win win to obtain both me and Aven in his group. <br><br>I'm dressed in a fine suit made up of the finest coal black velvet, one which gleams with warm hues of orange and red when the light touches it. Though Kasha and Ashlar sit across from us in our chariot, I hardly notice them, my eyes trained on the glowing vision of Aven beside me, in her radiant dress that matches my own costume. I don't need to be told to take her hand. In fact, I decide to go one further and put my arm around her. It delights the Capitol crowd, but that's not why I do it. The hype seems to get to me though, and I find myself smiling and waving towards them. They seem to like you so much, it seems hard not to respond to their love. <br><br>Even if they know there's a good chance you'll die for their entertainment. <br><br>The Ceremonies seem to be a huge hit and it's not long before we find ourselves ushered to the Training Center, where we will stay on the Eighth floor with our group until the Games begin. We aren't given much time to settle down before we are taken to a group dinner featuring our group, our mentor, and our escort (Which is still Razziel, who I find is Effie Trinket's cousin). The disturbing Avox mutes serve us our feast, and I can't find myself to start conversation with our two foreign team members, partly because I believe something rude may escape if I address the Career. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Feb 9 2012, 02:42 PM Post #6 |
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[align=center]![]() [/align] [dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> I feel Colton's strong arms around me, wrapped snuggly, but instead of making me feel better, they just make it harder not to cry, because I don't know what's going to happen…how many hugs I'll have left. He's so warm, like a flame, but one that will never burn you or harm you, one that protects you and keeps the cold out. I don't care who's watching, who sees, or what they think. Right now, it's only me and him. Back then, that thought used to comfort me, but now it only fills me with terror and what I have at stake. Maybe it'd be better to say what I don't have at stake, because as far as I'm concerned, everything is at risk. I feel his fingers comb through my hair, and for a second, but the sensation reminds me too much of losing, of things slipping away, and for once, although it feels so good, I want to ask him to stop. <br><br>"We'll get through this, Ven." <br><br>I want to ask how he knows. How that's possible, when Katniss, his own flesh and blood, the strongest woman I ever saw compete in the Games, didn't get through it. But the second I lean back, just a little, just to look back at him, with just the suggestion of tears in my eyes, we're pulled apart. Thankfully, by my father, because if it was anyone else, I might have socked them one and caused more trouble. He's being so calm about this, so grounded. It's really no mystery that he is the two-time victor. I manage to crack a smile back at him, just to give him something to know that I'm not going to give up, not yet, although I can barely contain all the emotions whirling around inside me like a tornado about to shred me apart. At his words about being made pretty, I even accomplish a very characteristic groan. You can ask my mother how being made pretty and me go together like oil and water. I have a feeling the prep team are going to have their work cut out for them. <br><br>I'm not really given time to be upset about leaving Colton before I'm being tortured in ways I've never known. Okay, it's probably not going to be as bad as the Games, but deep-root waxing was something I could definitely do without. The condescending clucking about my nails wasn't that much fun, either. They say it's typical of District 12, but they expected better from a girl from the Victor's Village. I reply with language from the Hob. They end up glueing fake nails on top of my natural, uneven ones, always pared for better hunting. Brushes and combs are yanked through my hair and I feel bad for ever wanting Colton's fingers to leave them. They're a sharp contrast. There's all this tweezing and plucking and creams and oils that I feel like I'm an animal getting salted and marinated before a stew or something. Finally, I'm pushed outside, feeling completely naked despite being completely clothed. I emphasize my dazed, just-recently-assaulted look when I see Colton as a joke at first, as if I really have just been tortured, but then all joking is pushed aside and I realize I'm really seeing him for the first time, unshielded by the dirt and grime of the hunt, and for the first time in a long time, I feel shy. <br><br>Then the shy that pushed aside humor is shoved aside by apprehension when I realize the groups are being picked now. <br><br>I wait, and wait, and it's much harder than the Reaping, when I wasn't even aware. Neither of our names are called, however, until the eighth group, and then it's just me. I go and stand there, and I can't tear my eyes away from Colton. I watch him close his eyes, the way I did during the Reaping, and I know that won't do any good. I want to be by his side, hugging him while I wait, but it's impossible, and I have to use every bit of strength in my body not to let my knees buckle. I finally manage to look away from Colton when my first teammate is called. Kasha, from District 11. I'm reminded of a story of a person from that District, from my father. Someone who kept the girl on fire alive. But I'm not the girl on fire, and I don't think I ever could be, and I wonder if this girl would still bother to protect someone like me. She looks strong, though. Maybe a little too thin, but I hope that she's quick. She doesn't look like she's going to back down from a fight anytime soon, at least, and it's a lot better than getting that poor quaking twelve year old from District 9. <br><br>And then, it's the male Tributes. I'm praying hard and hard for Colton, but the first name called is someone else. Ashlar Slate…a Career. He walks proudly enough to be one, and you can just tell from his body that he's been waiting for the Games. He's eyeing me and Kasha as he walks over…probably trying to determine our worth. I don't like him already. Having a Career is a great asset, and I catch a couple of disappointed gazes from the other Tributes who might have been hoping he'd be on their team. I'm not so sure. I'm not that great at working with people other than Colton. The next name is going to be called, and I don't know how much hope I have. What if the Capitol wants us to be pitted against each other? That's probably a lot more interesting than seeing us being happy together. Everybody loves a sad ending. But what I would I do without him? I could never fight him. I don't know what to do. I don't know wh-- <br><br>But then Colton's called, and relief hits me so hard it's almost painful, but pain I gladly accept. Colton joins our group, taking my hand, and I finally feel like I really have a chance at this. At saving us, at saving our families. My earlier annoyance with the Career is completely forgotten. I know that the same relief is in Colton's and my father's hearts. Finally, with all this bad news, some good luck. Almost too much to believe. <br><br>There's not that much time for celebrating, though, and we soon have to split up and get prepped for the ceremony. And then I'm faced with more good luck, because I see that my stylists are the ones that helped my father and Katniss all those years ago. If there's anyone who knows how to win over the crowd with fashion, it's these two. I can relax, knowing that I won't have to ride the chariot and be barely clothed (although that seems like it'd be the least of my worries right now, I still didn't like the idea). I know I can trust these two. They're as valuable to our survival as any weapon. To my secret delight, Cinna announces he wants the fire theme back again. I think I know who was the inspiration for that. <br><br>Before I know it, I'm being guided into a gown of black velvet that glimmers and reflects like coal. I thought the dress was all black until I saw that when the fabric meets light, flickers of fiery hues glitter like a heartbeat in the material. It's got this feeling of a contained, but very potent, power, and though fashion's never been one of my keen interests, I sort of fall in love with the dress. It's a little slinkier than anything I've worn before, and I feel like I look older, but…I also look my best. My hair's been styled in a way that really brings out the gold, and it looks like wisps, echoes of flames. I completely forget about whatever little bit of newfound confidence I have when I see Colton, however. He's dressed in an outfit almost identical to mine, probably because we're from the same District, but any logical, reasonable thoughts leave my head when I see him. I want to say something, but I have no idea what, so I just remain quiet, stunned, ignoring Kasha and Ashlar. <br><br>Suddenly, Colton puts his arm around me, and I'm surprised. It's not like he's never done it before. But in this setting, it's…weird. I don't know what to think of it. Was this part of a Game he was playing too? We were both fully aware of the tactic my dad and his aunt had used years ago, but a method that wasn't so much of a method on my dad's part, at least. Was Colton going to use it too? Or was this just a casual thing? I'm confused, and then angry at being confused, because I know that if it wasn't for the Games, I wouldn't be thinking about this. There wouldn't be all this uncertainty, all the double-meaning, the need to please the crowd for a better chance to survive. But thinking like this won't do me any good, so I just end up playing the surprise as slight embarrassment, and I beam at Colton, squeeze his hand and snuggle up closer to his body, grinning at the crowd as if I'm sooo happy to be here, in the Games, with Colton. Dream come true. I play the part of princess, dazzled by the ball, while deep down, I know that I've actually dreamed of making this place burn. It's strange to accept the cheers of people whose homes you would destroy, and they're all so excited and loving that you can't help but buy into the whole thing for the moment being. <br><br>The Ceremonies end soon but not soon enough, and I'm feeling exhausted already. I don't know how I'll even be able to compete in the Games, if this wears me out. That thought scares me, but then I remind myself that this is tiring because I wasn't allowed to be myself, not even a little. I couldn't even look like myself. I'll still be part puppet in the Arena, but not all the way down to the bone. After arriving at the Training Center, we're given almost no time to relax before dinner. Usually, I find meal time a great time for unwinding, always finding comfort in my father's cooking, but today, not so much, because there's two people across the table who I know would have been willing to kill me if the circumstances were different. And who I would kill, too. It's unnerving, but I keep on reminding myself, Dad's here. Colton's on my team. I'm as safe as I could possibly be. <br><br>It's quiet, and I glance over at Colton, guessing that he wants all of us to start getting to know each other, and guessing that that's what my dad wants, too. But looking at the Career, only one thought crosses my mind. It's probably crossing Colton's too, but he's better at controlling himself. I wonder if Kasha has any similar thoughts. I stare at Ashlar. <br><br>Are you crazy? <br><br>Training for the Games. Wishing to take part in it. Was this what you wanted? Even with the extra risks? Or are you just so confident that you don't think there's any chance that you'd lose? Well, I guess the latter would be good for me and Colton, because confidence seems to help on the battlefield, and with the Career's assistance, we could win this, but my childish thinking gets the best of me. After everything that's happened recently, I can't hold back any longer. <br><br> "So," I start, my fork poised above my plate, a small mountain of creamy mashed potatoes with cheese weighing it down just slightly. I glance at the Career, and I can already hear my dad in my head, trying to stop me from what I'm about to say next. I can't help it, though. You look at his muscles, you know this is what he's been waiting for. Wanting. I can't understand it at all. "Are you having fun yet?" My lips quirk up slightly in a whisper of a friendly smile, as if this question wasn't entirely directed to hurt, although I'm pretty sure that even this guy who spent his life pumping iron can detect the underlying note of sarcasm and a pinch of disdain. I don't get him. <br><br>But isn't this a good thing, though? Asking a question, trying to get into my teammate's mindset? But heck, I'm not even fooling myself. I know that I just want to yell at him, to take my anger at the Games out on someone. It's not fair that I chose him, and yet, I find him a lot more blamable than anyone else in this group seated around the table. Even Razziel. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Feb 9 2012, 03:18 PM Post #7 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>I'm distant, from everything and everyone. My eyes are hard, maybe even darker than usual, because I don't want to show anything. I can't show myself until I am situated with my group, the ones who's trust I must gain and build. Though we are in the same group, and we can win all together, some rogues may want all the glory for themselves. I don't know these people, but I have seen plenty a Tribute betray, or snap and go mad. That would not be me. <br><br>Though surrounded, I feel like it's invisible hands that poke and prod at me as I am fixed up in the remake center. My eyes stare up blankly at the ceiling, the wall, or the floor depending on what position on him, blocking out their incessant chatter. The waxing they perform on my entire body is nothing compared to the punishments I have to endure, so sitting through it isn't an issue. I hear them talk about my scars, saying how they would have me get treated, so that they would be no more, but unfortunately there's no time for that, for the Opening Ceremonies are tonight. Instead, they paint and spray me with stuff that blends it all in, so that you have to look really close to even notice the raising skin of my welts. They seem so ecstatic that there are no scars on my face, as if I've done them a favor. <br><br>My hair, usually pulled back in some way or another, is made to cascade down my shoulders and back. It reaches the small of my back, and they rave over the length while they disapprove of it's condition. They fix it in no time however, making the midnight locks as soft and flowing as if the night sky itself was crying. They do my nails, teeth, and a few other skin treatments before they release me with the other girls. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I hardly recognize myself. <br><br>We soon stand together so that we may be assigned our groups at random. My name is not called until we get to Group 8, and I must join Aven Mellark. I know the girl, simply because she is famous for being the daughter of the two time Victor Peeta Mellark. I am glad to be on her team. The amount of sponsors she will receive will be astronomical, I am sure. I step towards her with confidence, but the harsh look does not leave my face. <br><br>The first boy is called. It is a Career Tribute from District 2, by the name of Ashlar Slate. He is of a remarkable height, and it would probably take four of myself to add up to his dense mass. I feel my heart thump harder in my chest as he stands beside me, unnerved to be beside a Career. They are intense players, ones who usually volunteer to be in the Games if they are not already called upon. They train their whole lives to win, even if it's technically illegal. I am glad to have him in my group, but I wonder what it will do for the team, with the other members so far being of Districts that are usually on the losing side. <br><br>One last boy is called, and to Aven Mellark's luck, it's Colton Fletcher, the man who is always by her side when I spot her, and the nephew of Katniss Everdeen, Peeta Mellark's Tribute partner in the 74th Hunger Games. We look to be a strong team, and my hope in my fate, as well as my family's, rises considerably. There's a chance. There's an actual chance. I have to keep believing that. <br><br>We don't have time for introductions as we are whisked away to be prepared for the Opening Ceremonies. No other than Cinna and Portia, the famed stylists of Aven's father and Colton's aunt, are the ones who will be working with us. They want to revisit the 'fire' theme of that 74th year, and I wonder how in this country they will accomplish such a thing when my district's specialty is agriculture. <br><br>Cinna is a very smart man however, and he comes to me with a shimmering dress that looks to be made up of artificial chili peppers. The bright reds nearly seem to glow they are so bright. It's a bushy dress, flaring out in artistic ways that make my body seem fuller than it really is. It's an extraordinary garment, finished off by a black belt that sports engravings of subtle flames. It's perfect for me, for I have gathered chili peppers on many occasions in the past, and the most extravagant thing I have ever worn. I'm proud to be wearing it, to be representing my district. <br><br>I have to sit beside Ashlar in our chariot, and I don't fail to notice Aven and Colton's affectionate way of sitting. I wonder if they are more than just friends, but I don't question it. I have found myself relaxing however, my face taking on a more friendly look as I subtly wave to the people of the Capitol. At one point, I scoot back some, hitting myself right into the side of Ashlar, but I quickly fumble an apology and move away from him. <br><br>The Ceremonies go off with a hitch, and soon we're in the Training Center on the eighth floor. The dining room is exquisite, and once again we are served mountains of delightful food, made of things that came right from my district. I'm hesitant to eat, still unable to believe I have access to so much food. It seems surreal. Instead I find myself examining my team members (While avoiding a glance towards the Avox people, as they give me the creeps and make me want to cry, on top of it all), and I try to evaluate who they are. <br><br>Colton and Aven seem like they could be good people, going by their relatives, and the way they hold themselves. Ashlar, however... He seems to be glowing with pride and I'm not sure if I am impressed or disgusted. I lean more towards the latter. As I take a sip of hot chocolate, something heavenly I could never have access to in District 11, Aven is the first to speak up. She asks Ashlar if he's having fun yet. <br><br>You could hear a pin drop. My dark eyes grow wide, and I suddenly feel that sitting beside Ashlar was not a good choice. Careers are famous for being hotheads (Ironic considering our theme), and a blowup is not something I care to be around, despite the fact that I am not as cool as mint leaves myself. <br><br>I finally find words rising to my mouth, and it almost feels like the first time I've been present while I've spoken. I can't help myself, because I suddenly feel anger towards Aven. Why would she ask that? Why would she want to anger her fellow team mate like that... Or at least, why would she make the first move? I feel like trials and tribulations between us are unavoidable, but could I have at least hoped for a peaceful dinner? We were suppose to make alliances, not enemies. With the sharpness of a rattlesnake my eyes zip towards her cornflower orbs, "Is that necessary?" I spat, but despite the need to speak, I know it will not help anything in this situation. She has lit the fuse of a bomb. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Feb 9 2012, 06:09 PM Post #8 |
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[align=center]![]() [/align] [dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> Being reborn. That's exactly what I needed. But how come everything I want never quite comes to me the way I want it? I wouldn't think that being scrubbed of my skin was really the way to go about it, but who am I to question the brilliant Capitol? It's not a painless procedure, but I make sure not to make any complaint, making small chat with the crew, seeing if they'll buy into my act. They do. And when they finish, I move over to the mirror, examining their work, and then giving them applause for it. I really do look like a new man. You'd never guess I spent a good chunk of my life, bathing in soot and dust at the quarry. I looked like I lived in a gold mansion, with servants tending to me at all times, and every bit of me, from my last hair follicle to my toenail. I like it and I hate it. The old me is doing the latter. <br><br>Then it's time to form the groups. I can only hope that I don't get stuck with a bunch of cowards. Sure, I'd look great in comparison, but in the end, I still need capable people to help me win. To make sure nothing happens to my family. So really, it's good luck that I end up with two practical stars of this industry (based on their parents and all) and a girl from District 11, Kasha, who looks pretty promising. She'll pull her weight…though that's probably a bad expression, considering what a meager weight it looks. Still, I can't complain. I did notice Colton and Aven sort of mooning over each other or something though, and I can only hope that's not going to be a problem. This isn't one of those love-dovey gameshows they air in the Capitol. But either way, my group look like they're going to give me my best chance, but I'm not willing to tell them so and risk sounding like an overenthusiastic idiot. <br><br>I don't even get a moment to say a word, because the next thing I know, it's off to the stylists. We get Cinna and Portia, and I think I know why. Another advantage. These people actually knew what they were doing, so I didn't have to worry about that. Typically, I never worried about clothes, but when they could get you more fans, they mattered. They wanted to do something with fire again. Still clinging to that whole Katniss Everdeen propaganda I guess, but she was a crowd favorite, so I can see where that would have the appeal. I'm dressed swiftly, and then I turn around and look in the mirror, slightly hoping that there will be just a hint of my District. So I don't forget who I am, and more importantly, that they don't. <br><br>My expectations are exceeded. The suit looks as if it was carved from granite, and when I move, it has the effect of a flint striking against steel, sparks producing. As I stare in the mirror…for a second, it takes me back. Where I belong. I actually mumble out a thanks. Amongst white quartz, the gray feldspar. Cutting the stone according to the grain, carefully placing my chisel and slamming the mallet down. The tears I refused to shed in front of my mother and siblings start to bite, but I hold them back down, strangle them like I will probably do to some Tribute in the Arena. That thought alone scares away the tears. I don't talk to the others when I ride the chariot, not wanting to risk getting personal and letting a single tear slip away. I barely notice when Kasha bumps into me, and I just try to keep that smug, carefree smile on my face as I wave to the crowds, knowing that the people in my District are watching, but hoping that they're really seeing. This is a boy who will make us proud. <br><br>After the Ceremonies, we gather together for dinner. This will be my ultimate test. Because if I can't fool my teammates into thinking I'm the capable guy with no ounce of fear, then I can forget about convincing the masses. As insane as it sounds, I need them to make me look better, to bring out the best in me. But after all these years, I'm not really sure what that is anymore. <br><br>Aven actually makes eye contact with me, which is a miracle, because it was hard to ignore how googly-eyed she was around Colton, and the other way around. I raise my brows, and then she asks me if I'm enjoying myself. Although it's slightly amiable, I can tell she's taunting me. Or else, why ask only me? I see it now. She thinks I'm like the other Careers…that I've always dreamed of glory. I hate her already. Or maybe I hate myself, because I know that I'll never tell anyone the truth. Maybe sympathy would help me with sponsors, but I don't care about that. I don't need them, at least not that much. I'm not bringing that story back to life. I'm not going to unearth what I've spent so long trying to bury. If they want to see me as the embodiment of the Careers, fine. That's what I'm going to be, and they would just have to deal, because like it or not, I was on their team and that didn't necessarily mean I had to be nice. <br><br>To my surprise, Kasha speaks up, but she doesn't side with Aven. I think they're expecting me to explode. I'm worse. I'm calm, mocking them. Maybe I'm immature. "You bet," I smirk at Aven, and I shovel a piece of tender beef into my mouth, chewing cheerfully, exaggeratedly before I swallow. "You guys are lucky you're on my team, or you wouldn't make it past the Cornucopia," I laugh, and then, for effect, as if to show my true prowess, I flick my spoon across the table. My hands are definitely large enough for the feat, but my skills…well…I was aiming for it to whizz by Aven's ear, but it ends up hitting her glass of juice. They must make the stemware out of pretty thin glass, or I'm even stronger than I realize, because it shatters, decorating her with nectar and crystal. The deep crimson juice, maybe squeezed from raspberries, flecks her chin and the front of her dress with vermilion. <br><br>Talk about miscalculation. I've always been shit at accuracy. But with the ruby juice looking like blood, my aim looks intentional, so I play it off as such, smiling. I go even further, glancing down at my tureen of stew. "Oh, darn, I needed that spoon," I say, completely ignoring Aven now and being more of the stereotypical Career than they ever would have dreamed of. Then, turning to rest my arm across the top of Kasha's chair, I sweep my gaze over to her. "Can I borrow yours, babe?" <br><br>But then Razziel speaks up finally, interrupting my moment with her chirpy voice. "Oh, that won't be necessary, now, Ashlar. I'll have the Avox fetch another one." <br><br>I remove my arm, lean back in my chair, chewing my tongue and shrugging with a laugh in response, unbothered. On the surface. Deep down, everything was different. <br><br>In any other situation… <br><br>If ol' Ceph was still alive, if my family wasn't shamed, if this wasn't during the Games…if we were just in some little eatery by the quarry, I would have never done anything remotely close to this. If I saw a guy splatter a girl with juice, I'd probably give her a napkin and then toss a punch the guy's way to teach him a lesson. If I saw a guy speak like the way I did to Kasha, I'd snort, roll my eyes, and tell him to back off. But I can't. <br><br>I can't be that guy anymore. <br><br>I have to be a winner. <br><br>I have to be a Career. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Feb 9 2012, 10:26 PM Post #9 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>Aven basically says what I want to say to the Career, to taunt them about their choice. I don't say it, because I don't want to start trouble just yet. There she goes though, that spirit in her finally coming through. I expect a blow up too, one which I would be happy to diffuse, but what Ashlar does is even worse. He's the epitome of a Career, with the sort of smugness I want to slap right off of his face. It churns my stomach honestly. I hate people like this. The arrogance that radiates from him is ridiculous, and his comment is horrifically uncalled for. <br><br>That's the worst part of this alliance. If we had been selected for different teams, we would have to possibly be the ones to kill one another in the Arena. It's a little hard to get passed that. I am glad this Career is on our team. It's a great advantage, especially since he's one of the biggest I've seen, but I find myself mostly glad because he won't have the privilege of killing us later on. He would definitely be capable of the job if I wasn't careful. <br><br>What he does next angers me to a boiling point. The crimson juice gets a bit on my arm, but the majority of it splatters onto Aven, basically ruining her dress. It's a good thing she's never going to have to wear it again. They can just toss it instead of putting it through some special treatment, since I can gather velvet doesn't react well to juices, black or not. My jaw clenches as I sit there, my gray eyes retreating to what looks like stone as I glare at Ashlar. He precedes to be a pig towards poor Kasha, and though I see Peeta shaking his head subtly at him, I don't hold back. <br><br>"What is wrong with you?" I growl as I slam my hand on the table, "That was not called for, Ashlar. We get it. You're amazing. We are sooo glad you're by our side." I spit at him before I turn my attention to my best friend, grabbing my napkin and helping to clean her up, along with the table in front of her. <br><br>"Oh, you don't need to do that, Colton. That's not your job!" Trills Razziel, and I ignore her until an Avox appears to help clean up the juice and the glass, immediately replacing it with a brand new one, while another gives Ashlar a new spoon. <br><br>"I just don't know what we'd do without you." I grumble sardonically as I slump back in my chair, tossing my red soaked napkin onto the table beside my plate. It's suddenly replaced by a brand new one. I take a glance over at Peeta, who sits there looking at us pensively, but it's almost like he's distant, thinking of something else, and I know he's thinking particularly about someone else. <br><br>"Ashlar." Peeta's voice is unwavering as he finally speaks, "Don't let your ego get in the way of what you have to do. It can get you, or your teammates, killed." His words are firm and insightful, and with that he dips his bread into his own hot chocolate, a favorite of his ever since the 74th Hunger Games he attended. Sometimes I wonder if it's one of his good parts about having to attend these dreaded events every year. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Feb 9 2012, 11:22 PM Post #10 |
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[align=center]![]() [/align] [dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> I watch, glowering as Ashlar grins and states how he's enjoying himself here. I don't know why I'm so angry. I was expecting it, after all. What did I want? Him to apologize, to prove himself, to say that Careers aren't as bad as we think? On the contrary, he proves the opposite, by saying we'd be helpless without him, dead from the beginning of the Games. I hate it because it's almost true. I know that Colton and me would be fine on our own, and Kasha looks capable, but I also know that Ashlar is probably our trump card in the Games. Even over me, the daughter of Peeta Mellark, and Colton, nephew of Katniss Everdeen. In the last few seconds of a fight, strength is what counts. Not fame. <br><br>Before I can even say anything in response, Ashlar picks up his spoon, and with his powerful, bloodthirsty fingers, snaps it over at me, striking my glass. It practically explodes under the pressure, and suddenly, I'm decked out in maroon and chips of glass. For a moment, I don't know what to think, but in the next second, I regain my senses, and I'm just about ready to throw myself over the table, over all the extravagant food, and throttle him like a turkey. But Ashlar himself stops me, by just turning away, like he didn't say anything, and then asking to borrow Kasha's spoon. I stare back at him in shock and loathing. My body turns rigid, my eyes like boiling saltwater, the very thing I thought was impossible before meeting Ashlar Slate. While my fury surges through my veins, Colton speaks up for me. <br><br>"What is wrong with you?" <br><br>Colton starts spitting it out at the Career, everything he had been holding back earlier for the sake of the team coming at full speed now. Ashlar doesn't seem to mind, however, posturing for us as Colton shouts, crossing his arms across his chest and smiling, as if he really is accepting Colton's words as praise. This makes me even angrier, if possible. "You jerk," I grit my teeth, shaking my head at Ashlar. "You arrogant jerk." But my rage subsides a little when Colton turns to me, and starts to help dab the juice off, which was really the least of my concerns at this moment, but his actions helps to soothe me a little. "Colton, it's oka--" <br><br>"Oh, you don't need to do that, Colton. That's not your job!" <br><br>And then I stop, not wanting to have anything in common with Razziel by giving the same order, and not liking how she just tells the Avoxes to do everything. Despite all my annoyance with Ashlar, I start to feel bad, watching the Avox pick up the pieces of broken glass, and I manage to say an awkward thank you for my new glass of juice, though I'm not thirsty anymore. I feel a headache coming on, and then my father interrupts my thoughts as he advises Ashlar to the best of his ability. He does it without sounding condescending at all. Like he's just a friend, giving his two-cents. He's so tactful, I get scared thinking about where I get impulsive ways, because I don't like to think I get any traits from my mom. I keep on trying to simmer down, but the room feels like it's spinning. Kasha and Razziel's words ring in my mind. <br><br>"Is that necessary?" <br><br>"Oh, that won't be necessary…" <br><br>And then I snap. I stand up suddenly, knocking my chair back. I wipe my chin, smearing the remainders of the juice stains against the back of my hand. <br><br>"You know what? No, it's not necessary," I say at first, just looking at Kasha, but then my gaze turns to everyone in the room. "None of it is necessary. " At least I managed to rein in some anger, enough not to talk as directly as I want to. But I'm sure they all know I'm talking about the Games. So what does it matter? "But here we are, anyway!" I fling my arms back. But as I calm down, I begin to feel ashamed for my overreaction…I started it, after all. Kasha was right. I won't be the new girl on fire. I'm lucky if I catch a single spark. I stare back at them all, and the reality of our situation dawns on me. In full blast. And suddenly, I'm struggling with myself. Thankfully, no tears come, but part of me wants to run away right now. Not away from the Games. I know that's impossible. But at least to my room, away from prying eyes, where I can sink my head into a pillow, and just let everything about my situation dissolve into dreams. <br><br>Then I remember what I'm risking. Show weakness now, and I'll ruin everything. If I run now, at dinner, not even in the Arena, there's no telling what I'll do when the stakes are high. I can't show any faults, especially not to my team, and suddenly, I realize, I really don't want to. Not to Ashlar. He'd just look down on us even more. So instead of running, I sit down, hard. Scoot my chair back in. And though it kills me, I don't make anymore trouble for the Career. If I was a bigger person, I'd apologize, but I just don't have it in me. The only thing I want to do is toss my new glass of juice back in his face and grind the shards into his smirk, so it's really a miracle I sat down at all. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Feb 10 2012, 12:15 AM Post #11 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>The Career surprises me with his calm response, and I find it nearly worse than if he had lost his temper. It's unnerving to me, his comment, because I know it to be true. He could possibly massacre me if we weren't on the same team. I suddenly feel uncomfortable, and I hate that. I clear my throat and pushed back my posture, my sharp shoulders pulling back. No. We are the same team. It doesn't matter what he can do to me, because he won't do it. <br><br>I actually gasp when he flicks the spoon at Aven's glass, shattering it and making a mess of her. My mouth drops open, but I swiftly close it. My body tenses and I glare over at Ashlar, and while there is anger and disbelief there, there's also disappointment. I had hoped he'd be a little different from the Careers, but he almost seems worse. <br><br>I hate that the attention to directed towards me as Ashlar wraps his arm around my chair, and I deliberately scoot forward. He asks to borrow my spoon, finishing off the sentence with a term of endearment I don't approve of. He suddenly looks like swine to me, and I loathe this. It seems that men are either the too friendly sort of kind, or just plain foul, whether it's in District 11 or any other. They aren't monsters. That's a title reserved for the Peacekeepers. <br><br>I grab hold of my spoon and start eating my stew in order to claim the utensil, not about to give in to him. I bet some disillusioned girls back in District 2 would hopelessly fall for Ashlar's handsome face, strong physique, and arrogance, but I am far from those girls. I'm a bit distracted for a moment as the stew runs down my throat, and I remember I have access to all this food. I start to concentrate on the food, wondering if there is time to put on some sort of weight before the Games. I must look so frail to them. <br><br>Colton and Aven blow up in Ashlar's face, to my approval, and our mentor attempts to scold the Career in a way that's actually quite friendly and calm. I think everything is diffused, until Aven finally answers my question. My eyes grow as wide as saucers as I watch and listen to the golden haired girl, as she goes on to everyone, and I realize she's talking about the Games in general. I agree with her completely, but I say nothing, my eyes going down to my food again. I hear our mentor gently say Aven's name, trying to soothe her, and the air gets so tense I think the girl just might explode and run out of the room. <br><br>Instead I hear her sit down, nearly collapse in her chair, and I let out a sigh. I sit back in my seat, as it's not occupied by Ashlar's arm anymore, and find myself rubbing at my wrists. I get the paint off of both of them with the help of my cloth napkin, showcasing the old and fresh scars along my arms. It's not pretty, but it's me, and it's my people. Finally, my eyes turn over to Ashlar, my eyes only showcasing disapproval. "You won't get far with that here." I speak of his cockiness, not feeling a need to specify. "We are your partners, Ashlar. Not your competition. You may be yourself. Not a show." I hope it's a show. I desperately hope it is. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Feb 10 2012, 01:07 AM Post #12 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> I gotta say, I'm a little amused when Kasha just grabs her spoon and starts going at it with her stew. That's definitely a new way of rejection. It's actually been a while since I've been turned down. Girls tend to forget you're the son of a technical murderer over the years and when you grow to be over six feet and you can carry quarry equipment by yourself, go figure. I was never interested in them, though, always too busy training to waste time on a girl who likes the guy I hate being. Not her fault, though. I chose this. <br><br>My interest only increases when I see the expression on her face as she eats. I guess it shouldn't be a surprise, given her thin form, that food would be a hell lot more attractive than some guy from District 2. I start to wonder what goes on in District 11, what sort of life she lived and how she even survived, doing work with apparently such little food, but then I remember, there's a lot of Tributes like that here. I'm just lucky, so they assume that I'm a Career born in great circumstances, with money to spare. That's a nice way to be described. But they don't forgive it. What they do condone, is Aven and Colton's healthy figures. You can't really blame the daughter of a victor for being well-fed, nor the close-family friend of one, with ties to one of the biggest historical figures in Panem. You can blame a Career. <br><br>Blame. <br><br>The thing I've been living with for years, and it never really seems justified. You get use to it, though. <br><br>Colton starts to yell at me, and I'm tired of my performance, but I know the show must go on. It shouldn't even really be a performance. By now, it should just be me. But I guess I'll never completely lose the loser-kid of ten years, griping about how nobody believes how amazing his dad was. I stare at Colton for a moment, taking whatever he has to dish out, knowing I deserve it but not letting him know I know that. I take a sip of my water--water, because it's something I trust to keep me healthy and strong. I don't bother to indulge. When Colton finishes, I glance up at him, my expression unchanged. Then I smile, and applaud. <br><br>"Good work, Colton. Top notch. The crowds will just swoon for you, protecting your girl. But save the energy for the cameras, all right?" I arch a brow, shifting back in my seat, relaxing as I prop my knee up against the table. Aven looks like she's ready to pounce again, but she holds herself back when her father speaks. Still beat, I don't let anyone get away without a nice dose of Slate sarcasm. "All right, Mr. Mellark," I say, but that's not the end of it. "But in the meantime, please don't forget that playing favorites won't help me, or Kasha, keep your kids alive," There. Probably went too far. But hey, everybody else was thinking it. No? Just me? Fine, that's the way it's always been. <br><br>Aven actually surprises me then, bursting out outta nowhere, but it's not about me, it's about the Games, and Razziel seems to be horrified into silence. The girl doesn't know that the Games are necessary, at least to me, but like I said, that's a story that's locked in the vault. She gets all riled up and her dad's trying to calm her down and I wonder if she's going to do something drastic. But instead, she just sits down. It's Kasha who starts it this time. I get a little distracted by whatever she's saying when she starts picking at her skin, however, revealing her scars. I realize I really don't know anything about District 11, about District 12, any of the Districts, even my own. But I don't let my surprise, or sympathy, show on my face. Instead, I sigh. "But Kasha, don't you know?" I say, and I place my hand on the table, between her plate and mine, and I look into her dark eyes, dead serious. "A show is what they want." <br><br>I then really realize what she said. Did she see through me? No, not possible. I've been doing this for too long. I know there's no cracks in the mask. She's probably just hoping, but she's going to be disappointed. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Feb 10 2012, 01:45 AM Post #13 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>My fist clenches at Ashlar's retort, hating his accusation. How dare he say such a thing? He knows nothing. He's a brainless and selfish Career. A scowl surfaces on my lips, "It's not like it's some act, Ashlar. You just don't know what it looks like to care for somebody other than yourself!" I fume at him, wishing I could tear his head off. I don't usually have violent thoughts, but he manages to provoke them in me. <br><br>He only worsens when he makes an insulting remark towards our mentor, the man who has been like a second father to be, an actual father to Aven. Honestly, who does he think he is? I'm ready to just about lose it, when Peeta speaks up. I allow myself to calm and sit back as I listen to him. He always knows the right thing to say, always knowing the perfect ingredients that form the best statements. <br><br>I can tell Peeta is hurt by the comment. He puts down the fork he was holding and rests his elbows on the table, one hand cupping the top of the other as his eyes lie upon Ashlar. His blue eyes are on fire, and I feel like I am on the edge of my seat. "I will tell you now, Ashlar, and hopefully I only need to say it once, that I am a mentor to all of you. I aim to keep each and every one of you," An obvious shot of pain washes over his eyes, but he never lets it show in his face. "And your families, alive. Aven and Colton are part of your team, and I will help you as a team. You and Kasha," When he says the District 11 girl's name, I see an odd amount of recollection in his eyes. "Are just as important." <br><br>He falls silent again, obviously not pleased with having to make that clear, and goes back to his meal. I shoot another glare towards Ashlar, hating him for everything he is and everything he wants to be. I know we definitely won't be getting along anytime soon. It's highly unlikely we'll ever be buddies. I'm completely okay with that. <br><br>I watch as Aven bursts and before I can even get her name out, Peeta speaks it for me. A faint sigh escapes me, and I keep my eyes trained on her. I know what she wants to do, because I know her too well. She wants to run. She wants to rush up to her room, possibly cry, and I want to join her. I would join her. I would follow her right up to her room and hold her. If she wanted to stand, sit, or even lay down in her bed. I would hold her close to me and strum her hair, the way I usually do when she's upset. <br><br>I can't judge her, because everything she feels, I feel right along with her. Every moment I just want to run, as far away as I can, but I know there's no where to go. It would only cause trouble. If anything, things would only be made worse in the Games. The tears seem to constantly sting behind my eyes, my throat always threatening to close on me. I think every Tribute feels like this somewhat. They must. It's frightening, disgusting, and the stuff of nightmares. I wonder if all the Victors have nightmares. I know that Aven's father still has them frequently, and nothing much helps them. All I can hope is that if I'm a Victor, if I'm plagued by nightmares, I'll have Aven by my side to hold onto. <br><br>The more we're here, the more I question my relationship with Aven. We're best friends, and yet we're beyond that. She's a part of me. I don't know what I'd do without her by my side. She's my backbone really. We're one when we're together. We work the best as a pair, no doubt. Is she more than just a friend to me? I suppose in a sense she is, but yet there's no title for it. Not one that's suitable for her. <br><br>She chooses to sit down and I reach down to touch her arm, my eyes reaching hers with an empathetic gaze. "You did good, kid." I murmur, giving her a soft half smile. I want to say something more to her, but not in front of everybody else. I can wait until we can go upstairs, where we can be alone. <br><br>My eyes flit over to Kasha as she speaks up to Ashlar. I'm surprised, especially since the girl has spoken the least out of all of us since we've gotten here. She's so calm, and she has a good point. As I start to get back to eating my food, I glance back and forth between the two, awfully curious as to what Ashlar's answer is going to be. <br><br>Of course, I'm disappointed. I roll my eyes at him, even though I know he's right. The show is what matters. Being the best in show is what gets you sponsors, what keeps you alive. I don't worry so much about that. I can be likeable. I am likeable. I just hate Ashlar, and I don't hesitate to show it. I am concerned about Aven, of how she'll be during her interview. The interview is extremely important, as it gives the people the sense of who you are, or who you want them to think you are. I hope she can pull off the act. <br><br>I turn towards her after I swallow a good dose of bread, searching her face for any signs of distress. As much as I love having her beside me, I wish she wasn't here. I wish she was back home in District 12, where she didn't have to worry about herself or her father or any of her family. I want her to be safe and snug in her house in the VIctor's Village. "You okay?" I nudge her with my elbow, my voice low, so even though others can hear, it's indicated as more of a private moment. Hopefully Ashlar can respect that. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Vidia | Feb 10 2012, 02:36 AM Post #14 |
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[align=center]![]() [/align] [dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> Ashlar's words make me think of earlier, when Colton put his arm around me in the chariot. Even though that whole thing still confuses me, every bone in my body is telling me to jump to Colton's defense. It's instinct. I don't have to, however, because Colton is already speaking for himself. He yells at Ashlar, saying what I probably would have said if I was given the chance to shout first. I don't add anything--Colton's words are strong enough to stand alone. But the expression on my face speaks for my agreement, that quickly shifts to outrage, when Ashlar directs his petty words towards my father. His words are ridiculous. My fingers clench around the knife I was using to cut my meat, and for a brief second I wonder how long it's been since I've practiced any knife throwing. I wonder about my accuracy. This thought manages to keep me from attacking Ashlar before my dad speaks. Just barely, though. A split second later, and I would have had it. <br><br>When I see him speak, and the hurt in his eyes, my hatred for Ashlar disappears, my love for the man who raised me nearly singlehandedly, who protected me for so long, overruling. I want to run over to him, throw my arms around him the way I used to do when I was five, and just hug him till my muscles ache, but I know that this wouldn't be appreciated in this setting. I don't say anything, respecting his words. I vow I won't leave the room without one hug before saying goodbyes, however, and then I just concentrate on glaring at Ashlar, daring him to say anything opposing my father's words now. I realize my fingers are still bunched around the knife, and I force myself to relax. The Games haven't even started yet. <br><br>My feelings change back and forth from hostility towards the Career, towards sympathy for my father. I know too much and too little about what he's been through, but now I feel just a tiny bit closer, because…now, I'm in the Games, with Colton. There's no one else who could have been selected who would have caused me this much emotional anguish. I can't stand the thought of losing. Not only because of what that will mean for my own family, but being dead would mean I couldn't be there to help keep Colton alive. The one who's known me, from the beginning, the real beginning. The one who's been there for all my tears, to listen to every single insane dream, to care enough about me to tell me never to talk about my disdain for the Capitol, but who understands me enough to feel the same way. Sometimes, I feel like we don't even have to move our lips. Our hearts and minds do all the talking. <br><br>But lately, his are speaking a language I don't know, because he's making me so unsure. I hate how Ashlar's words get to me, but they do. But I don't believe him, and I would never believe him over Colton. So when my best friend said it wasn't an act, I know it wasn't. But what was the motive behind it? I guess he always wants to protect me, because I feel the same, too. But for what reasons? I don't even know. He's just…he's always been there. I don't know what I'd do if he wasn't there to hold my hand, to run his fingers through my hair, whether it's as glossy as a reflection or tangled with the scent of the woods. Do I feel about him the same way my father felt about Katniss? Or…the way Gale Hawthorne felt? Is there even a difference? <br><br>After I forced myself to sit down, Colton looks over at me, touches my arm, and already, I feel a little better. Just one touch, one look. That's all it takes. But it has to be from him, only him. I can tell he knows what I was feeling, that I wanted to run. He always knows. I manage to give him a little smile back, despite feeling exhausted. I feel as if I've almost made him proud, and it's a sort of feeling I want to happen more than once. <br><br>Kasha talks again, but to Ashlar. Saying what was on my mind, I guess, but not really, because I'm not that forgiving. I wouldn't just come out and say we're partners, even if that was the facts. Colton and I are partners, that's for sure, but I don't know how much I can trust a Career, especially one like Ashlar Slate. He doesn't help his case with his reply, and I catch Colton rolling his eyes. <br><br>A show. He's right, though I don't want to admit it--I don't think I'll ever want to admit Ashlar's right about anything, though. But this is a show in every way and form. Costumes, props. Deadly props, but props nonetheless. A show that doesn't only affect the participants, but the viewers, for once, because of the crazy Quell Quarter rule. And then, suddenly, I realize something that I know shouldn't be a surprise to me, but it comes like one all the same, and I'm trying hard not to draw any attention to myself as I just try to accept it without making it a big deal. And of course, that's when Colton turns to me, quietly. I swear, he has some sort of…I don't know, a weird type of homing device or something, that lets him know when's the best time to talk to me, and get me at my most honest, most raw point. Asking me if I'm okay. I wish I could lie to him. I mean, I always do in a way, but the way lets him know the truth, so it's not really that much of a difference. <br><br>"Yeah," I reply, my hands going to grip the edge of my chair as I nod, biting my lip. "It's just that…" An exasperated laugh manages to find its way out, and I shake my head, staring at my lap. "…I just realized why my mother was crying when she said good-bye." Steady tears, like perfect pearls, sliding down her cheeks. Not in hysterics, like the other Tributes' mothers, Colton's an exception, but with good reason. "Not because she's afraid for me." I look back at him, a sad, pathetic smile on my features. "…she knows that if I die, so does she." And I would put my money on her not believing I was capable of winning, at all. I think my father was right. She really is like my grandmother. <br><br>I want to bury my head against Colton again, but I know that this isn't really the place, or time, so instead, I'm just motionless, waiting for the threat of tears to pass, but I feel them lining the bottom of my eyes like a thread of silver. Looking at Colton isn't as comforting as I want it to be, since I know that we share the same fate, and he's at risk too. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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| Gipity | Feb 10 2012, 02:52 AM Post #15 |
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[align=center] [/align][dohtml]<center><div style="width: 375px; text-align:justify;"> <BR>What Ashlar says to Peeta Mellark is horrible. Has he lost his mind? There was one point that I thought that myself, but it soon faded away. Mr. Mellark seems like a very good man. He's not a fake. I can see he wants to take care of us. Playing favorites would not get a team very far, and all in all, he doesn't think like that. I almost want to hit Ashlar or pull at the back of his hair, but hah, I'm almost not sure I can reach that high. <br><br>I don't like Ashlar's answer to my words, but I don't loathe it. I feel like there's something there. Is it possible he's really like this? At home, with his family? Does he have a family? He must. Are his parents and siblings this way? I feel as though I can doubt this. Is this all a facade he's putting on, to appear like he's the best, the strongest, and the toughest tribute here? Others might say it's working, but I can't bring myself to buy it. <br><br>I stare back at him, my eyes, the same color as the hot chocolate we're sipping, a major contrast to his blue gaze, a blue that seems just slightly tinged with green. It reminds me of the streams back home where we can collect water and refresh ourselves, where we aid our burning skin with the cool fluid. I'm just as serious as he as I retaliate, the severity in my voice laying it on thick that I will not accept any sort of joking manner as a comeback. "They are not here, Ashlar." The audience is, obviously enough, not present. Though the room may be bugged, the ones who watch us for their entertainment aren't present. "What's here are the people who are going to keep you alive." <br><br>He may think he doesn't need us, but I want him to think again. "You may be big and strong, but I doubt you know how to gain your own food, know what will kill you and what will make you stronger out there. Fuel and aid triumph over strength." With those words, I grab hold of one of the soft Capitol crescent rolls and, out of habit, I split it into enough pieces for myself and my siblings. It takes me a moment to realize my siblings aren't anywhere near here, and that all of the bread in my hands I can have for myself. <br><br>My thoughts go to them, and I wonder if they are doing all right. They must be. With one less person to feed, they are each getting a little more to eat. I find comfort in that, as well as the fact that if I do win the Hunger Games, not only does my family get to live, but we get to live well. I get to move my family from a leaky shack to an actual home in my district's Victor's Village, with enough money for the rest of our lives. We may not have to ever work again. <br><br>I eat every single bite of the roll by myself, and I don't hesitate to take another, dumping it in my stew and taking hearty bites. I want to forget about the Career, but considering his looming figure is right beside me, and his rude and uncalled for behavior pounds in my head, I know I can't shake him. I know he'll be in my thoughts tonight as I retire to my bedroom, wondering about the boy who could be so distasteful to his own team. </div></center></BR>[/dohtml] |
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