Locked out of Heaven // Bradley

The cycle of the seasons never halted the labor in the southern-most district of Panem. As the heated season of summer, yielding it’s luscious melons and ears of corn, began to fade away, a diverse selection of crops seemed to suddenly appear for the autumnal waiting to be reaped for the Capitol. It was a never ending cycle; Cantaloupes turned to apples which turned to pecans which turned to blueberries and peaches and the cycle repeated itself. We, the vocational employees of District 11, were never free from the tyranny of the seasonal changes and the work it entailed. Our master, the Capitol, watched precariously over the labor that we endured each season with no sign of fatigue. We, the slaves, would whistle our tunes to pass the time and gather the crops that we knew we could never afford to purchase ourselves. The only thing that seemed to not change with the transition of nature’s seasons was the sweat that leaked from our pores as we labored diligently. The spring rain masked our sweat during small showers and drizzles while summer exposed our entire beings to the elements of the fiery sun. This harvesting season, in particular, doomed the vocational employees of District 11 to a full shift in the fields that wouldn’t end with the descent of the sun.

Today was no different from the days before that and the days before that. The sky lacked normal saturation, the grayscale of the clouds glowing faintly from the glow of the sun behind them. The air was becoming more crisper with the distant cold season. My feet were independent of my body, trekking through the hard, southern ground. The grass was blanketed with patches of condensed dew shining elegantly like diamonds or pearls on blades of fauna. A barely visible, faint wisp of breath escaped my mouth with every step I had absent-mindedly taken, the grey scale of Panem slowly causing my mind to become congested with worries and other thoughts. It must be nice to not have to wake up every day and worry about people you love. It must be nice to not have to care about anyone. It must be nice to be you.

My mental being snapped back into reality the moment a beveled stone in the frozen dirt on the dirt road had come into contact with my heavy foot. I restore my balance just as quickly as I had lost it; my feet continuing their fast pace journey to the field. The moment I had snapped back to reality, it seemed that all of my senses had returned with my mental being. The slight drop in temperature kissed my skin with its frosting embrace, the color of my cheeks turning a crimson red. I could hear every day commotion that suddenly rushed back into my ears – the distance rumble of Peacekeeper vehicles and my own footsteps stomping against the ground. As my journey came to an end, I could see the field that I would be laboring in for that day. Wheat stalks and other various agriculture stood closer to my direction, while orchards with bountiful trees and vines were nearly invisible in the lengthy distance.

After checking in with guarding Peacekeeper’s whom had been keeping track of the workers who had entered and left the fields, I headed straight towards the waiting hall towards the entrance. I usually found myself as a harvester or crop retriever, using tools to remove crops from their earthly homes and stalks. However, the guard Peacekeeper had alerted me that I would be assigned to Sector Three for today. Apparently, a few members of the sector had been caught smuggling pecans from orchard trees towards the north of the plantation and had been severely punished – too punished to attend work the next day, I suppose.
The television screen in the waiting room was the first thing I had noticed, the faces of the mere children in the Quell winding towards the finale of the games. The arena this year reminded me of a sickening joke to the Districts – an alarm who’s message was just as loud as ever. We’re all tributes in the Capitol’s games. I divert my attention from the screen the moment the two commentators of the televised games begin their rift about the tributes this year and focus on my duty for the day. I find a canvas sack in which to place the harvested crops into and struggled to find the loops. It was so alien to me that my arms couldn’t find the holes created by the fabric traps until the second or third attempt.

Once successfully equipped, I looked around the room. Another male, standing a few inches shorter than myself, had the same canvas satchel on his posterior as I did. It didn’t take me more than a few moments to identify the body as Rocky Mead’s.
We were both seventeen, meaning we were in the same classes during our education in District 11. Everyone in the general same age group had become somewhat aware of one another, though they had not been previously introduced. Another thing I knew about the boy was that he was a regular for Sector Three during the regulatory work days. Working as a harvester or crop retriever, you become familiar with the gatherers who’s faces you see every day. I walked up to the boy and gently slapped his back in a friendly greeting. “Hey there, buddy!

The other boy reassures me that the discomfort caused by these malicious, fabric satchels would become unrecognizable as time eclipsed. I’m not entirely sure that I believe his words, the thick straps pulling directly on my underarm skin. With bent elbows, I rotate both respective arm to stretch and relieve my shoulder blades of any stress or tension that had become entrapped within my joints and muscles. The soothing sound of popping escapes from my body, my arms falling in a relaxed state by my side. The moment I began to relax myself for the laborious duties that awaited us, my vocational companion states how the Peacekeepers would begin to rush us away from the preparation area and out towards the fields of golden grain.

I hated them – the Peacekeepers that is. What gave them the right to force us to collect, cultivate, prepare, and plant their crops and their fruits? Who gave them the right to use deadly force whenever one individual refused to do a certain task? Who gave them the right to own me and him and everyone else in this District? These questions, though most likely running through a majority of the worker’s heads as quickly as they were my own, would never escape my lips. I’ve witness too many public whippings in the Town Square and too many deaths for the most mundane of reasons. Though it would be impressive to be a symbol of change in the district and speak out against the oppressive force of the Peacekeepers, as well as the Capitol, it would also be a death wish. I’ve seen it happen too many times already in my short eighteen years of life here. Even a whisper or mumble of rebellious energy or thoughts causes the Peacekeeper to get, as Rocky would say, “ antsy.”

”You’re too right. I would never want to be late to a party like this.”

I give the boy a little sarcastic wink and a chuckle, lightly slapping him on the shoulder once more. We begin our journey to the fields and plantations, stepping underneath the double archways that connected the two different areas together. We began to traverse through the trails that were going to lead us to our daily duties of collecting the harvested crops. The sun was still hiding behind the blanket of grey clouds in the sky, but it’s illuminating light emanated well enough. Everything was as bright as usual, but the saturation of color seemed to be missing from the District today. I don’t necessarily mind, to be honest. Those days in the hot, sweltering summers with the bright sun beaming on all the flora and fauna was enough to make anyone nauseous and sick from seeing the myriad colors. Though, in the saturated summer glow, the colors were beautiful and vibrant, the layers of salty sweat individually dripping from one’s eyelashes that seemed to find their way into your gasping mouth seemed to block their beauty. No, a day like today was perfect for now.

Suddenly, the boy breaks my wandering mind with words of his own. It’s not uncommon for people to forget other’s names here. In all honesty, I knew a majority of my coworkers by nicknames or descriptions of their morphological features. When your world becomes immersed in harvesting and collecting, you begin to let all the other details of life slowly leak from your conscious mind. I look at the boy with my green eyes and chuckle a little bit. “It’s Evan. Evan Santucci.”