62nd Reaping [D11]

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Lulu
Retired Staff

[M:2982250]

3,114 POSTS
last seen Nov 24, 2023 13:45:22 GMT -5

62nd Reaping [D11] Sept 7, 2012 23:12:06 GMT -5

Post by Lulu on Sept 7, 2012 23:12:06 GMT -5

The escort of the district stepped out onto the stage, a smile plastered across his face as he stared into the cameras that surrounded it. It was time once again to choose two children to compete in the Hunger Games, and it was his job to do so.

"It is time," he said as he stood over the impatient people of the District, "To once again send two of our own children to the Capitol to compete in the Hunger Games. Let us begin the Reaping!"

He did not look to see the reaction of his district before reaching into the glass ball that held the names of the female children. "Ladies first," he announced, pulling out a slip of paper. He unfolded it and read out to the crowd, "Heather Elliot!"

[/color] He then reached into the other ball. "Guy Montago!"

OOC- RPing is allowed. If you wish to volunteer, let the tribute post first either accepting or stepping down from their place for volunteers, and then post. If the tribute doesn't reply by Tuesday, September 11th, a staff member will post saying that volunteering is open. Please do not post until you see this staff message. FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE.

Tributes, please do not make your acceptance or denial of your spot in character; instead, please leave an ooc note at the end of your post stating whether they accept or are stepping down for volunteers.

Also, and this is really important: If you have been selected as a tribute and plan on going into the arena, we HIGHLY SUGGEST you take some RP Tutoring lessons ASAP. It doesn't matter what level RPer you are; everyone can use a little help. RPing a tribute is a PRIVILEGE; if you're not going to put the time and effort into making your posts the best they can be then you can count yourself among the dead.. It's not a requirement, but please please please just consider the lessons. They'll help even the most advanced RPer. [/blockquote][/size][/justify]

{lulu's cast}

chelsey
District Mayor

[M:-650]

728 POSTS
Pronouns: she/her
last seen Jul 2, 2016 17:22:46 GMT -5

queen of inactivity

62nd Reaping [D11] Sept 8, 2012 13:26:46 GMT -5

Post by chelsey on Sept 8, 2012 13:26:46 GMT -5

Shadows settle on the place, that you left.
Our minds are troubled by the emptiness.
Destroy the middle, it's a waste of time.
From the perfect start to the finish line.

“Heather Elliot.”

I am four years old the day I fall in love with the sky.

The moist soil beneath my bare feet sinks under my touch, and the sweet scented atmosphere parts as I cut through it. Stalks of wheat emerge in neat rows from the rich grounds, and in between the columns, the morning sunlight filters in. The brilliance of the sun glazes over my vision, paints the world in the magnificent innocence of yellow hues. I embed the earth beneath me with childish foosteps, but, I still don’t notice the land, today. Aunt Meryl always tells me to keep my feet planted to the ground and my head out of the clouds - “Love the earth, child, the sky is an impossible feat.” Today, though, I race against Time in these vast yellow orchards - arms stretched out wide as I soar. I can fly, I think, as our laughter rings down the empty fields. When Uncle Dorian’s voice calls out my name, I race back towards him, the feather thuds of my footsteps a heartbeat echoing down to the earth’s crust - just another pulse to this world’s core. I run towards him as he opens his arms to me, picking my porcelain body up, up, up - and spinning me around until the only thing I see are shiny blurs of yellow and gold. Today, the sky is not an impossible feat - because I know for a fact I can fly.

[/justify]

And if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones.
'Cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs.
We're setting fire to our inside for fun.
Collecting pictures from the flood that wrecked our home.
It was a flood that wrecked this home.

[/color]

"Heather Elliot."

I am eight years old the day I learn to sing.

Aunt Meryl tells me I sing like a bird. “You mean my voice is beautiful like a bird?” “I mean your voice wakes us up in the morning.”

[/i] I cross my arms, roll my eyes like the big girls. She laughs, pats my cheek with her rough palm, and kisses the top of my head. “Sing, Heather Elliot.”

And I do sing.

Something I could never name always swelled itself inside of me, lodged next to the place where my lungs, my ribs, and my heart are. And when the pounding of my heart drummed in the canals of my ears, the humming of that “certain-something-I-could-never-name” timidly droned behind it. It sounded sweet, like how the color yellow or the taste of honey or the feeling of feathers would sound. One day, Uncle Dorian takes me to the roof top of the bakery, points out to me the orange colors bleeding from the horizon. He grasps my hand, and pulls us all the way to the edge of the roof.

“Ain’t it beautiful, sweet heart?”

The bakery isn’t tall, but it sure felt like I was watching the world in God’s eyes in that moment. The orange sky was glossed over Eleven’s ominous landscape - every bird in every nest in every tree visible to my eye. I told Uncle that, and he laughed, patted my cheek, kissed my head. “You got an imagination, dear.” So, I open my arms and lift them until it’s parallel with the orange sunset.

“You think I can fly, Uncle Dorian?”

“I think you can do whatever you want to.” [/i]

I smile, part my lips, and the swelling in my ribs releases as the first notes slip out of my mouth.[/justify][/blockquote][/blockquote]

We are the reckless.
We are the wild youth.
Chasing visions of our futures.
One day we'll reveal the truth.
That one will die before he gets there.

[/color]

"Heather Elliot."

I am twelve years old the day I think I can fly.

I find out that the branches in the trees are taller than the roof top of the bakery; and so I climb, and climb, and climb, and climb, and climb. Thick throngs of brown foliage surrounds me in this autumn afternoon, accented with even darker, brown barks. “Heather Elliot,” drift the singsong voices of four year old Ava and Atimia all the way up to my perch in the tree. I see their bodies far below mine, an ant in comparison to the giant beauties of this layer of the cool atmosphere. I playfully wave down at them, laughter stemming through my chest as little Ati places her hands on her hips. “How’dya get so high up?”

“I’m a bird, Ati. I can fly.”

Ava shakes her head, “You’re no bird, Heather Elliot! You’re a girl, and you can‘t fly.”

I smile and look up at the gray sky that peek-a-boos through the withering leaves of the trees. “I can fly.” I tell them, my voice wistful. “Just not right now. Maybe tomorrow, but not now.”

When my lips part to sing, I feel freer than I felt the day before.

[/justify]

And if you're still bleeding, you're the lucky ones.
'Cause most of our feelings, they are dead and they are gone.
We're setting fire to our insides for fun.
Collecting pictures from the flood that wrecked our home
It was a flood that wrecked this home.

[/color]

"Heather Elliot."

I am sixteen years old the day I choose to run away.

This morning Aunt Meryl lets me eat fresh bread and Uncle Dorian kisses my head. “Two more years, Heather Elliot, only two more.” When we walk to the square, eight year old Atimia and Ava hold onto my hands, scared to let me go, as if when they do let go, they know I'll drift away from them like helium and never come back. They’ve all always known I wanted to fly away - to fly far away from this abyss I’m shackled to. Life sings in the treetops for me, and at those heights I’m no longer chained to the earth I’ve always been taught to love.

“Love the earth, child,”

[/i] Aunt Meryl tells me. “The sky is an impossible feat.”

But, still, my own feet spring from it’s bindings and crave for the weightless grip of the free atmosphere. My wings are unfurled and unused, but, after today, these pristine feathers will delve down into the heavens; sink under clouds and graze over cities; billow against the creamy yellows, oranges, and browns of an intangible sky. Heather Elliot will be the first ~~girl~~ bird to touch the sky.

“Ladies first.”

After today, I will finally run away to the home I’ve always searched for. [/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify][/color]

Well I've lost it all, I'm just a silhouette,
A lifeless face that you'll soon forget,
My eyes are damp from the words you left,
Ringing in my head, when you broke my chest.
Ringing in my head, when you broke my chest.

[/color]

My wings shrivel at the sound of five meaningless syllables, folding themselves into the cuts between my rootless collarbones. “Silly Heather Elliot,” a voice inside my head taunts as the sea of people create the walkway leading to my inevitable crash landing. “Silly, silly Heather. Why are you sad? You’ve always wanted to see a world beyond Eleven, isn’t that right?”

For the first time in my life, my feet stay planted to the ground.

“Go, silly girl, the world is watching.”

The eyes of my audience singe into the fabric of my dress, thousands of daggers grounding into every goose bump of my freckled skin. My feet, stumbling underneath my weight, grow heavy as I try to make sense of what's left and right and up and down. Wings are of no use today. What matters in this moment is if I can conquer the battle over a guilty conscience and blood red hands. When I walk down the gravel, next to the girls and boys I've known my whole life ~~(because that's all we are, just girls and boys killing so we won't have be killed)~~

[/s][/color], the choruses of their whispers send violent tremors down the ivory cracks of my spine. “That’s Heather Elliot,” [/i]a wave of whispers ripple through the crowd, “That’s the girl who thought she could fly.”

But, the stairs leading up, up, up to the stage are mournful as they guide me away from the ground, and for the first time in my life, my body anchors itself like cement to the dry earth because - today, no, I do not want to fly. Each heavy step closer to the stage, my wings wilt and waste away into gullible debris floating in this red morning’s atmosphere. I blink, and redredredred is all I see - the red glare of the ascending Sun behind the soft films of my eyelids, the red ground of a Cornucopia littered with twenty-three corpses, the red hands of a girl who learned how to kill but never learned how to fly, the red smile of a stranger as they lift their dagger and plant it in my -

The strings of my heart still it’s familiar throbbing rhythm when I face the crowds of relieved faces. I find Uncle Dorian, still as Death, with his blank eyes averted to the ground. Time rewinds to eight years ago, and I’m standing on the ledge of a towering and decaying bakery, arms stretched wide with feathered illusions dangling down from them.

“You think I can fly?”

His impossible words echo in my ears as I disappear into the muted scaffolds and haunting shadows of the Justice Building.

“I think you can do whatever you want to.”

He lied, of course, because no bird can fly without wings. [/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify][/color]

And if you're in love, then you are the lucky one,
'Cause most of us are bitter over someone.
Setting fire to our insides for fun,
To distract our hearts from ever missing them.
But I'm forever missing him.

[/color]

[Heather ~~is peeing her pants~~ accepts]

[/size]

"Isn't this the point of being young?"

^ bless avalon's soul ^

Snakebird
Merchant

[M:-316]

224 POSTS
last seen Aug 7, 2016 1:03:23 GMT -5

I am Quetzalcoatl

62nd Reaping [D11] Sept 9, 2012 19:02:37 GMT -5

Post by Snakebird on Sept 9, 2012 19:02:37 GMT -5

Death comes for everyone, but not for the Montagos of District Eleven. Guy proved that a long time ago, spitting in the face of death as he fell from the tree. Death almost got to him, trying to take him by the infection that followed his shattered leg. The child was resilient, and survived his brush with the Reaper. It changed him though, made him angry and resentful. It was too difficult for him to play with the other children, his limp constantly interfering with their games. So he stayed by himself, working on his mind. He became stuck inside his own head at times, zoning out from the world while deep in thoughts. Today was different, the day he had to be exposed to the world.

He walked to the square, dressed in plain clothes. He owned nicer clothes, but saw no reason to be dressed up for such a short affair. Guy stood with the other people his age, straining to see the stage, as the majority were much taller than he was. He just wanted to leave, in any way possible. Was it too much to ask to not have this a huge public thing, were everyone had to be crowded in a huge group of B.O?

The girl's name was first, a name that was unfamiliar to him. That wasn't strange, he hardly knew anyone in his own District. They didn't want to talk to Guy, the short guy who sat inside for days on end. The smell of body oder filled his nostrils, and he wished again that he could leave. The boy tribute's name rang through the square, and Guy's wish was granted.

He slowly made his way to the stage, stumbling every few steps. This was unfortunate, not the way he wanted to leave. It got him away from the family that hated him. He took his place opposite the girl, and shook her hand. It was time to win or die, and on the train he would have plenty of time to sit. He would sit still, and think about his plans. They wouldn't notice him, he wasn't a threat yet. But Guy would be.

[/size]

(Guy accepts his spot)

Alexandra:"Matta, how many girls your age do you know that like to read about big british guys licking owls"

Cameron: hahahhaha let's all go to the holy masturbatorial