Kelly Quinn D5 {FIN}

Name: Kelly Quinn
Age: 16
Gender: Female
District/Area: District 5
Appearance:

You own a small grocery store in the fifth district of Panem; just one of the many places to which meat and other edible products are shipped from the lower districts to be sold. It is an honest living, if not a very rich one. Your store front is colored a faded shade of blue; the weather of the past two decades have stripped everything of its luster, from the awning above the entrance to the rusted door clacker that jingles every time someone enters or leaves the shop. As you are restocking the fruit stands that stand straight and militant in the front of your store, you spot one of Panem’s law enforcers loping around and staring at everything in a quizzical fashion. Ever the helpful citizen, the thought strikes you to inquire as to what he is searching for, and whether or not you can be of any assistance. The man seems tired, the bags under his eyes speaking to you of a sleepless night and an unfruitful search. You ask him if he has tried drinking herbal tea to settle himself for bed, to which he shakes his head and declines the offer of a beverage.

However, he thanks you for your input, and after a throaty ill tempered sigh, informs you that he is on the lookout for a young girl around the age of sixteen who answers to the name of Kelly. This is pretty vague, as any number of young women could share that name and age. You ask if he would be so kind as to give you a better description of the Kelly he is trying to find, to which he willingly obliges, launching into a rather long-winded explanation; perhaps to make sure that there will be no way for you to confuse his quarry with anyone else. He starts by describing her flaxen hair, which is kept at a short length for more aerodynamic running. The color of her golden strands is often marred by a rebellious streak of color, sometimes a blue and at other times a shade of green. It is not hair dye, as such products are rather hard to find in this district, but actual acrylic paint that her locks have been dipped into. Why she would do such a thing remains a mystery that only Kelly herself can answer; that is, if she could be found.

He asks you if you have sold any paint recently, or if any cans have gone missing of late, to which you point out the grimy yellow words that adorn the space above your door that spell out grocery. You only sell things of the edible nature and things with which to prepare or cook said things of the edible nature. The closest thing you have to a paint can is the shelf full of rice cookers fresh in from district three; but the officer is not interested in those. he goes on to tell you about the the color of her mischievous eyes, which happen to be a shade of blue. There is nothing special about the shade, which is neither icy nor pale. Nor are they like two sapphires set in her face, they are simply blue, her golden brown brows waggling in amusement above them when babbling about the latest news or mouthing off to a superior; whether this superior is an officer like him, a teacher or even her own parents makes no difference.

You try to make a joke about the color of her eyes in regards to the color of your stores awning, but the peacekeeper is not amused, barely giving your comment thought, and continuing to conjure up an oral sketch of the girl. She has a pert nose, one that she scrunches up like a rabbit whenever she is thinking deeply about something. She’s even capable of wiggling it back and forth independent of the rest of her face, which can sometimes be construed as funny, even amusing under the right circumstances; circumstances that would not include the current situation. Her nostrils flare whenever she finds herself upset about something, in perfect synchronization with the curl of her flat lips. Kelly will sneer a lot too, usually in contempt for authority. Though often times, she just finds fun in making faces at other people, especially when the situation is completely serious.

Ah, the fearlessness of youth you think, as he goes on to tell you about the clean teeth that hide behind those lips, very white and evenly spaces, with the exception of one of her front two, which overlaps its neighbor in a slightly crooked manner. The keeper mentions that she has a strong chin connected to high cheekbones. Her diet can only be nutritional as her face is neither thin nor plump, merely full. The voice that come out of her mouth can only be described as light, perhaps even musical, pleasant to the ears, even when she is being snarky or rude. You remark that that’s all fine and good, but that he has neglected to tell you about anything other than her facial features. At this, the man shoots you a meaningful glance and you decide it is probably in your best interests to cease interrupting him. You motion for him to continue,which he does after glaring at you for an uncomfortably long amount of time. It is possible you have annoyed him to some degree. You silently resolve to do better around authority figures from this point on.

He then lets you know that she is around five foot and eight inches tall, the perfect height for her kind of activities; At this, he pauses for a moment, having realized that he never exactly told you why he was looking for Kelly in the first place. He explains that the girl in question has the peculiar hobby of attempting to beautify other peoples buildings, which includes defacing Government property. She calls this art. Implying that you should be satisfied with this clipped explanation, he takes the time to describe her normal attire, saying that she can most commonly be found wearing a plain t-shirt with a plaid overshirt, worn jeans that have holes in them around the knee as well as frayed edges around the cuffs, and a pair of muddy sneakers on her feet, which often are flecked with splashes of the materials she uses to create pictures. You assure him that you have not seen anyone matching that very exact description, but that if you were to see such you would take the time to notify him of their presence.

The keeper nods in feigned gratitude before inspecting your wares. Much to your surprise, he pulls out his wallet and purchases a small basket of strawberries. You thank him for his patronage as he strides away with his fruits, munching contentedly on a juicy one as he continues on his patrol, peering inside a nearby alleyway at first, and muttering something under his breath as he moves away from you. You are too far to hear what he said, but it is really of no consequence as his business is really none of your concern to begin with. You have more pressing matters to attend to; like making sure that the interior of your store is well equipped for the influx of students that are sure to stop by to seek out after school treats. Heading back inside, you fix up a rack of chocolate bars and other confectionary sweets. Many will be looking for something dainty with which to tickle their tastebuds around this time of day, especially at this time of year.

Though you are not directly connected to this year's tributes, you are well aware of the pangs that come with losing a loved one or a friend; as well as being aware that a lot of people choose to drown their sorrows by eating various comfort foods in an attempt to fill the hole in their hearts. For example, there is always a spike in the sales of chocolate and plain vanilla flavored ice creams around this time; though it seems that the detachment of peacekeepers that wanders about enforcing the required viewing of the games is partial to having orange sherbert at the end of their shifts. You make a mental note to stock up on cones, as you are currently out and the season of summer has yet to end, but while you are checking on the contents of your stores freezer, you find that you cannot dismiss the mental image of the girl that the tired peacekeeper took so long to describe. You find yourself wondering what the girl is like, what her motivations are, and why she would choose to deface buildings, and above all else, why the officer had known so much about her and why he held such an interest in finding out her whereabouts.

Surely there must be weightier matters to consider, and actual, harmful criminals that warranted far more attention than her. In truth,sixteen year olds were not all that dangerous, barring the exceptions of the ones in the arena fighting for the right to come back home. But even then, as the first of the middle districts, there was no desire to train children for the arena; it was highly discouraged. Rather, the young ones were generally pressed to find a job in the industry of power; whether that be on an oil crew or in the labs researching new technologies for power, or even simply as an electrician. None of these were appealing to you, nor did you have any natural inclination towards anything of the sort, which is why as soon as you were no longer reaping eligible, you took over your families business of running the small store. The next few hours are dull for you, as you try to solve an old crossword puzzle that you found on a dusty shelf in the back room.

You sit idly on the stool behind the counter, gnawing contentedly on a fresh apple as you await an escape from your boredom. However, there are never many customers before school lets out; probably due to the location of your families business being so close to one of those institutions. An elderly couple stops by to peruse your wares before buying three loaves of bread and an equal amount of cheese. They inform you that today is their eight year old granddaughters birthday, and they plan to make many grilled cheese's for her and her little friends. The next person you see is a middle-aged man, who quietly purchases a bottle of whiskey, fumbling for his money as he stares at you balefully with red-rimmed eyes. He is a frequent customer, who rarely buys anything other than hard drink. It is possible he lost a child to the games one year, or perhaps he is merely lost to anything but his own wants. After him, you do not see anyone for quite some time. That is, until you see a steady stream of people passing by which marks the end of the school day. You remember to switch on the dirty screen that hangs from a corner of your shop to display the games.

A large number of youths enter your store within a matter of minutes. You hear them chattering loudly about the contents of their school day and what they planned to do afterwards, as well the latest developments in the arena. You scan the growing throng for any sign of a girl matching the peacekeepers description, but to no avail. Several of the kids make their purchases rapidly, tossing candy and drinks on the counter haphazardly. Others seem to have more filling purchases on mind; some even clutching what appears to be grocery lists. At any rate, this is the busiest time of the day for you, and you must pay much attention to the goings on to avoid getting swamped and to make sure that none of the young patrons have sticky fingers.


Personality:

Eventually, the constant jingle jangle of the door knocker peters out, as does the large groups of people that mill about your store. To your chagrin, you have failed to see anyone that matches the picture the peacekeeper painted for you. But then the door sings again, and a pair of young girls enter. One of them is an olive skinned brunette, who is talking rather loudly about her schoolmates. She is a petite girl with a flat nose and a small mouth that turns up disdainfully as she prattles on about one of her acquaintances that she does not like. You shake your head knowingly; children could be so cruel sometimes. But then you stop. Her companion is a blond around the height that was given to you. Could this be the Kelly that you've been wondering about?

You eye her suspiciously, noting the length and cut of her hair,as well as the plaid over shirt that she is wearing. But as the pair moves around you can see that this girl has green eyes. The fact that she is not Kelly is further cemented when the olive skinned girl refers to her as Brittany. However, as they search for things to purchase, you hear them mention the name Kelly. Your interest piqued, you listen in on their conversation while looking down at your crossword. They say that this girl named Kelly cut class again today. Evidently, it is something she does quite often. She has gotten in trouble with the teachers on several occasions for refusing to pay attention and for disrupting the class with inane chatter and speechifying about her feelings. Asking strange questions like what the chalkboards full mineral composition is and whether or not dogs are capable of having dreams.

Brittany's friend implies that Kelly is a weird one, maybe even mentally unstable. Always coming to class in clothes that she's "modified" herself for any number of specifications that no one can really make heads or tails of. They finally come towards the counter with some eggs, milk, and flour and frosting. It appears that they are going to make a cake. The brunette starts to pay for what she's grabbed, before uttering an oath. She is short by just a little, which will prevent her from buying the latter item. She asks the other girl to use some money to get the can of frosting, before bundling up her items and heading for the door, telling the other to not take too long as they have places to be. Throughout all this the blond girl has been staring meekly at the floor. You ask her if she is going to pay for it, to which she sadly replies that she has no pocket money, her friend doesn't know this, but she's had to take out extra tesserae this month.

Your heart melts for the girl and after a moments debate, you hand her the can of vanilla frosting. Telling her not to let anyone know what you've done, and putting some money of your own into the register. After all you do have capitol appointed quotas to meet. She thanks you quietly with wide eyes and a nod and runs out after her friend. You remember the days when you had to buy tessarae of your own with a mixture of distaste and disgust. Forcing children to increase their chances of being reaped in order to pay for things they did not have the money for was something that has never sat well with you. The door jingles again, and this time, it is a trio of boys that enter. They are loud and full of youthful exuberance. Two of the boys are making fun of the third. The largest of the group is tall and rather wide, if not overweight. Unruly brown hair cascades from his greasy forehead in unkempt ringlets that seem to have a mind of their own. There is a burn scar on his right hand that looks like it was caused by sparks.

The second boy has such a slim frame that it reminds you that the less fortunate far outweigh the well to do. Dark almond eyes glance at you before going back to his friends. He has dirty hands that he wipes on threadbare pants that are far too short for his lanky legs. The third, and the one being made fun of, is a redhead with a little bit of dirt smudging his freckles. He repeatedly puts his hands up as if he doesn't know what to say. While the large boy paws through a selection of snacks, the lanky one loudly recounts a misfortune that had befallen the pale one. Apparently the redhead had had a chance to hang out with his crush, buying frozen treats fro himself and her group of friends. Drinking his milkshake through a straw had proven to be an ill venture as he had taken in too much and choked, spraying his crush with foam and bits of soggy cookie. Embarrassed, he had excused himself post haste and hadn't hung out with her since.

This had taken place a few days ago, but his friends were still ribbing him about it as young men were wont to do. The freckled boy replied that they just didn't understand why he found her so special. this was meant with a fresh eruption of laughter and questions concerning his manhood. He said that she was a free spirit, to which they answered that she was out of his league. The girl had a motormouth and talked far too much for her own good about things that were nobodies business. But he was enthralled with the way she simply spoke whatever popped into her head without any thought, and all of the little eccentricities that formed her person. Like the way she brushed her hair with a toothbrush in the middle of class, or how she had fun hopping down the hallways on one foot to improve her sense of balance.

His argument was that her unpredictability was what made her cute. The other two shake their heads in disbelief as they pay for their food. As they leave, the large boy snickers that his friend is attracted to a girl that weird. What was her name again he asks? As he exits, the redhead mutters that his crushes name is...Kelly. that causes you to perk up your ears and you wonder if it could be the same Kelly that the others were talking about or if its just that phenomenon you read about once, where you learn something new, and suddenly you see evidence of its existence everywhere you turn, when really, its been there all along. It might be nothing. You busy yourself about wiping down the counter with a damp wash cloth. There is really no grime to be found as you make it a point to clean it often, but the repetitive movement is lulling, and usually helps take your mind off of things.

You decide it would be best to stop thinking about a person you've never met; though you can't decide whether or not that's a good thing at the moment. There is a sound at the door, and an older woman enters casting her gaze over the interior of your shop with a practiced eye. In a short amount of time, she collects enough things for a full course meal, including meat, assorted vegetables, a variety or three of noodles and two jugs of milk. As you ring up the things she places on the counter, she begins to talk to you about her life; something customers do quite frequently, though you are not really sure why they would choose to do so. She talks about a girl she caught spraying paint on the side of her house the other day. Instead of calling for the authorities she had decided to invite the girl in for tea and cookies.

The young blond had seemed rather skeptical at first, as if she wasn't used to acts of kindness or of a good nature. Though hesitant, the girl had seemed to make up her mind after only a few scant minutes and proclaimed that she sensed no ill will to her immediate knowledge and told the the older woman she'd be delighted to have an afternoon snack with her. The woman explained to the bubbly young girl that her own daughter had been an artist for some years before being electrocuted to death in a power failure. Not in the same vein as her guest, but an artist all the same. The street artist apologized for the lady's loss and offered to draw her a picture; which she did, a picture of a bird that even now was hanging in her dining room. She then explained to her host that art was a type of freedom for her; it offered her an escape from the claustrophobic grip her home life had on her.

Most people don't listen to her where she lives when she has something to say, because they say that she always has something to say. She doesn't mean to be rude, but when a thought crosses her mind, she is hard pressed to keep it there and not let it come spilling out of her mouth as soon as it has come into existence. She had then clammed up after that, as if she feared she had said far too much about herself, changing the subject matter rather rapidly between several different things, such as why hair changes color when a person gets older, and her personal thoughts on the annual hunger games. Ms. Quinn said, as she had begun to call herself for her hosts sake, that tea and cookies were all very nice and good, but there were kids dying in the arena right now, and they didn't anyone to share such nice things with. Did it make anyone else sad to know that twenty-three families would not see their children again except as mutilated corpses? Ms. Quinn had then apologized profusely for bringing up such a delicate yet gruesome subject matter and had started talking about the reproduction cycles of rabbits instead.
She's a unique one; the woman says as she finally leaves your store. A unique one is that girl named Kelly Quinn.

You are tired now, the work day coming to a close. It is nearing six o clock, and you decide to close up early, as most people will likely be enjoying dinner around this time. That sounds like a splendid idea to you, and you mentally prepare to cook dinner for you and your spouse as soon as you actually get home. First you check on the temperature of the freezer to make sure it will keep until the next day, before moving on to straighten up the stuff that has been knocked over or misplaced by questing hands. The last thing you will have to do is wheel in the carts of fruit that decorate the outside of your workplace. As you do so, you whistle a merry tune, eager to expedite things so you can finally go home.

As you lock up the door, you realize that you neglected to fold up the awning, which requires you to re-open the door and push a button to make it retract. As the mechanism clicks and whirs, you hear a scuffling noise coming from above. Confused, you watch as a backpack lands with a thud on the ground and a pair of thin legs swing themselves over the faded blue cloth, followed by the rest of a person as they drop down in front of you. Your brows go up in surprise as you take in the blond hair with a streak of purple going around the edges, and the blue eyes that stare at you thoughtfully as the girl cocks her head to one side and taps her pointer finger thoughtfully on the side of her cheek."Hiya."She says to you. "I didn't know you were going to close now or I would left a while ago. I was just watching the clouds go by and wondering if they have little cloud families that they go home to when we can't see them."You are not sure how to answer an odd statement like that, but the girl continues to talk.

"I heard you talking to my Uncle Jim earlier. Nice guy, dresses like a peacekeeper? Because he is one. He's really a big softie, but I think I made him mad because I told him I was going to stay in school this whole week and I didn't. He was telling the truth about my pictures though. I really do like to draw on other peoples things. I'm Kelly!" she finishes as she offers you a hand. You shake it as you stand there dumbstruck, unsure of what to do in this situation. But when she sits down in front of your store door and offers to tell you a story about herself, how can you say no? You've already heard so much about this girl. Sitting next to her, you look at her expectantly as she begins her tale.


History:

"Once upon a time...All the good stories start off that way you know? The ones with the royalty and the castles and fairies and the stuff. But this isn't really one of those stories. Well it is. It's just not always a very happy one. And I'm no princess. Can you imagine me in a dress? Wait no, I take that back, don't imagine in one of those horrible pink things with the bows like my parents make me wear on reaping days, I can't stand those frilly laces, they just get so constricting sometimes. What's that? Oh right, I was supposed to tell you about me like I said would. Well, you're probably wondering about Uncle Jim, so I guess I'll start with the part of my story that happened before me. You don't mind that do you? No? Good.


Anyhoo, like most people, my dad is involved in oil drilling. He's tried to explain his job to me more times than I can count, but I always lose interest before he's done. Something about making sure the pumps run correctly for the for the people that actually drill. I think he repairs them. That is, he fixes the pumps. Not the people. But like I said, before me. My mom is a homebody, but I guess she used to be kind of a wild one, not like her older brother Jim. he was always looking out for her, keeping her outta trouble as he trained all military like in the hopes of catching the approving eye of one of the districts recruiters. Guess his hard work paid off, because they eventually sent him off to two to get some real training. Mom always tells me he became real serious after that, even more serious than he used to be. My mom calmed down after that, maybe she didn't want him to have to choose between his career and his family.

Tough luck there, because once I started getting up into things, he decided he needed to keep an eye out for me, before something bad happens. I don't see what the problem is, I don't hurt anybody and he follows me like a shadow. See that one over there? That shadow looks like a turtle, but really it's just the elongation of the water fountain making it look like that. Though I can't figure out what's making the shape of its wee tail. Hmph. Oh I'm sorry, did I go off about something else again? Where was I? Oh right. So my parents got to liking each other and got married, though I get the feeling Uncle Jim doesn't care much for my dad. He doesn't say anything, but I've seen enough tense stare downs between them during special occasions like my birthday to know that something is up.

When I was five years old; that's my favorite age by the way, matches up with our district, and I've always felt that its a lucky number. So the year I turned five was the first year that I ever got in trouble for drawing. I love it, can't get enough of it, and my mom noticed that. She bought me some crayons and markers and paint and stuff around that time. She'd put up all my pictures around the house too, Goodness knows they were terrible then, but she encouraged me all the same. My dad did too, until I ran out of paper and my little five year old head decided it'd be a good idea to take some of daddy's. How was I supposed to know those papers were work-related? Drilling Permit forms look better with fish on them anyway. It was after I was scolded for that that I looked elsewhere for material. I do't know why my parents were so surprised when I started drawing on the walls. I mean, paper is white. The walls were white. Put two and two together folks.

Around the year I turned nine, after three years in school, I had already gotten in trouble with the teachers multiple times. What can I say? I was an inquisitive child. I wasn't satisfied with just sitting down and learning math problems or reading capitol literature about the pre-games wars. I wanted to know what the books were made of and whether or not I could color them. I wanted to open the window and let the bee that kept smacking into the glass inside so he'd stop banging his poor little head on his search for flowers. And most of all, I did not want to sit still. Tapping my feet and composing little marches in my head eventually turned into me stretching my legs around the room when I thought that the teacher wasn't looking, or taking as many hall passes as I could; and some that I wasn't allowed to, in order to roam the empty halls and occasionally make the walls look nicer.

When I was twelve, I was introduced to my first bottle of spray paint, and boy did we ever hit it off. I started with my ceiling, and by the time that was done, I had already made up my mind about painting wherever I felt like it. I do that a lot, making my mind up quick. Though I do paint wherever and whenever I feel like it too. But when I say quick I mean it. And I never go back on a decision. I think that's another thing that makes people mad at me sometimes. It's their loss! They can't figure me out, but I decide if I want to be around a person or not. If I think they are nice, then yay! I have a friend. If I don't then whatever. You seem like a chill person though, I'm glad you've decided to listen to what I have to say. Not a lot of people have that kind of time to spare.

I think it was two years ago that I started high school. Yup, that sounds about right, seeing as how I'm sixteen right now. Now that my friend, is a whole other animal in of itself. I've always known that I like to do things differently that most people. Like how I brush my hair with a toothbrush. I really don't see the problem there. It's a time of brush, and even though it takes much longer it really gets in between the the strands and makes my hair a lot more silky smooth. But like I was saying, high school sucks. If the looming threat of being selected for televised death wasn't enough I have to deal with all kinds of people telling me I'm weird. Well they don't really say it to my face, but I know what they mean when they look at me and then shake their heads in confusion.

I guess it bothers me sometimes, but I try not to let it get to me. There are way more important things out there to be thinking about than what other people think of me. Like that pebble over there by your foot. How did it get there? Was it chipped off of a bigger rock, or was it in fact a big rock that got smaller and smaller because of the rain and the wind. Do you think rocks are alive? I wonder sometimes. Maybe they are just really secretive and don't like moving because they always feel threatened. Or maybe they are moving, its just that they move so slow that we never really see them doing stuff. Unless I offended it. Hey! You! Pebble! If you're upset because I threw those two rocks into the pond the other day, I only did it, because I wanted to see if I could throw them fast enough to make them float, and I only just thought now that your species might have feelings. I'm sorry.

You probably think I'm weird now too don't you? Well, maybe you don't. You're just kind of nodding and not laughing. It could be that I'm weird because I just talked to a rock, or maybe you're the weird one because you haven't. It's all a matter of perspective really. I think its weird most people seem resigned to learning how to drill oil from nine to five. That's just not me. If I'm doing something, it needs to be something that makes me feel alive. I think you might understand me, because you don't drill oil, you sell food. You see? There's so much more out there we could be doing, and people have conniptions whenever I leave a reminder of our worlds beauty on the side of a wall or five.

That's what I like to draw. Animals and birds and trees, something to get us to forget the oil fields and power plants that are just everywhere, if only for the time it takes someone to get out a bucket and a sponge or a hose and turn my art into nothing but a fading smudge and a fading memory, just like their dreary lives. excuse me for not wanting that kind of mundane existence. Do the other districts even now what we do here? I bet they don't. No one really knows anything about our home. We're the middle child in this family. I'm an only child myself. Have I mentioned that? No? Well I am. Sometimes I think It'd be nice to have a little brother or sister to pal around with, but then I'm reminded of all the sobbing that happens when a sibling gets reaped, and I count myself lucky for having parents that only wanted to bring one child into this world.

So I'm sixteen now. Yay! You actually listened to my own personal timeline of me being me! I haven't really given much thought as to what I want to do once I graduate. Assuming I do in fact graduate. I might not. You know. Cause of the reaping. Or jail, if Uncle Jim gets tired of trying to keep me out of trouble. In any case, I'm glad you wanted to hear me talk. I know I do quite a lot of that. By the way, I was hiding up there because I painted a picture of an orchard on the schools back door. They didn't like that. Well then! If you take anything any from this conversation, I hope you think about the fact that everyone's a bit strange in their own way and that normal is really what you make it. So make it. Or something. I don't know. I'm not a philosopher, I'm an artist."


The girl jumps up to her feet like she's been stung and runs in a little circle before picking up her backpack and slinging it onto her back. "Gotta get the blood moving."She vanishes around the side of your store into the alleyway, and after a moment, she reappears astride a bright green bike. "Huh. I thought my uncle might have spotted this earlier today by the way he looked down in here. Guess not. Goodbye grocery person! We'll have to do this again sometime! Or not! I'll let you know what I decide at some point!" She waves goodbye as she begins to pick up speed on her vehicle. As she turns the corner, you think you hear her shout the words "yes we can."

You have had an interesting day, and you are not entirely sure what to make of it. You make a split second decision to not inform that peacekeeper about having seen Kelly around, after all you were a youth once yourself, and hearing the girl talk about her life so nonchalantly has invigorated you and even made you feel young again. You stretch, before beginning the long walk home. You have much to think about, and a story to remember.
Codeword: odair
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FC is Jenna Mcdougall