lillian birchett d7 | fin
Jan 16, 2016 18:29:36 GMT -5
Post by Lyn𝛿is on Jan 16, 2016 18:29:36 GMT -5
For the Lost Kids plot[googlefont="Architects Daughter:400"]
Lillian "Tiger Lily" Birchett
fifteen. district seven. female
fifteen. district seven. female
Interlocking gears and twisted wires, every part in its proper place amidst the unceasing whirring of the factory machines.
tick-tick-tick...
The clock ticks down the hours until the end of the workday, until Father returns home with dark circles under his eyes, dead fingers shuffling to shove the nearest bite of food into his mouth.
"Father, I wanted to ask you something."
"Father, I got my report back from the teacher."
"Father, please, talk to me..."
Father nods, a brief grunt escaping his lips before the house is silent again, the tick-tocking of the kitchen clock a steady drumbeat against the still air.
"Looks like we'll make quota this year."
And he's got nothing else to say.
Interlocking gears and twisted wires, every person in their proper place amidst the unceasing bustle of the factory floor.
Father wanted a boy but got me instead, and he's insistent that any child of his would be prepared to take over his job as foreman when they grew up, everything else be damned.
I grew up with screws and drive-shafts at my fingertips, clockwork schedules of school and the factory and lonely nights of silence. Long thin fingers raking over metal edges with a delicate touch until I could feel the malfunctioning parts at a glance, knowing exactly what needed to be fixed.
"You must know the machines, but not be captivated by them. Just as you must know the workers, but not be swayed by their pleas."
Interlocking gears and twisted wires, where every worker must know their proper place amidst the unceasing drudgery.
Amidst the workers I look so very prim and proper, collars and dresses marking my status as higher than the lowly factory men. Straight black hair is combed neatly back from wide eyes, lips as red as blood softened by a layer of baby fat around my cheeks.
I must be a leader, Father tells me. I must be proper and down-to-earth, pragmatic and calculating.
I tell him I know how to calculate, from the angles of the gears to the volumes of the machinery, but he scowls before telling me no, not that kind of calculating.
And that is where I falter, for I cannot muster up the ruthlessness that Father demands. Father stomps his feet across the factory floor and all the workers are intimidated.
Father stomps his feet across the hardwood floor of our house and I tense too, expecting another lecture.
But I am not an interlocking gear in his grand plan. Instead of staying in my room I sneak out and roam the wide forests, pine resin replacing the dark machine oil underneath my fingertips.
Under the canopy of leaves, I am free.
The forest is one of those things I never realized I'd missed until I stepped outside the little town for the first time. It is where I dream, where I live, its pristine beauty a so much deeper pleasure than mere clockwork.
Quiet eyes watch me, a pair of ears perked up with curiosity and fear at the visitor to its territory.
Gently, I step closer, the animal still transfixed, until I can rest a hand on the baby lynx's soft fur and free her from the trap that encircled her paw.
She gazes upwards and purrs at me, sniffing expectantly at my pockets until I empty them for her to nibble at the food within.
Her eyes seem to stare into my soul.
The once-interlocking gears slowly begin to shift out of place.
I wanted - no, needed - a friend, if a friend meant someone I had no fear of being judged by, someone who showed me things instead of trapping me in a bubble.
By that token, Peter and his companions are friends, perhaps, ever since the day I'd met them in the woods on one of my many explorations. They are wild like the untamed forest, a sense of adventure about them.
They are like smooth wood and fragrant resin; I am sharp metal and acrid clockwork.
I want so desperately to belong to the forest, knowing that I never truly do, that my home is among gears and gizmos, among cold footsteps and calculated words.
My visits become more frequent as the seasons pass, autumn becoming snowy winter before turning back into spring.
I have never been good at allaying suspicion, and my father's scrutinizing eyes narrow with every day, every time I come home with sticky hands and a look of excitement in my face. All he knows was that I was finding a passion in something, it had nothing to do with the factory, and he didn't like it.
I'm too old for childish daydreams, after all. Romantic notions are for fools, to be replaced by pragmatism as I grow up. To be sharp, not soft; shrewd, not gentle.
Sometimes, it takes a great deal of strength to set right a dislocated gear.
He sees me on the edge of the forest with those boys, and his words tear into me. I am silly, he says, appreciating nature over man's great accomplishments, expanses of woods over the intricacies of clockwork.
I had once enjoyed puzzling over complex mechanisms, but now the interlocking gears only remind me of my unwanted destiny, of a factory I never asked to lead and a tone I never want to speak in.
Now that Father has seen evidence of my illicit outings, my freedom is restricted. I must not go off to the forest, must not associate with riff-raff from the streets, must under no circumstances tarnish his respectable reputation.
That, instead of me, is what he has cared for all along.
I am stuck. Four walls I had once happily tinkered away in becomes my prison, day after day ticking away with unending surveillance and routine.
The routine breaks with a worker's scream as blood reddened the factory floor, and it's my last straw as I race outside, tearing into the darkness despite the chill wind and hard snow nipping against my skin. The path to the forest is well-worn in my mind.
It's not long before I make my way to the woods. My locks fly wildly in my face, and the jacket I've thrown on is worn but still serves its purpose. I stand tall, gazing into the darkness.
Truth be told, I missed the heated comfort of Father's house. But not as much, never as much as I missed the forest during those weeks of confinement, dreamed about its open air and sturdy branches.
Another few steps and the light of a cabin shines in the distance, the crackling glow beckoning me forward until I stand at their doorstep, shaking the snow from my hair.
I'm finally home.
tick-tick-tick...
The clock ticks down the hours until the end of the workday, until Father returns home with dark circles under his eyes, dead fingers shuffling to shove the nearest bite of food into his mouth.
"Father, I wanted to ask you something."
"Father, I got my report back from the teacher."
"Father, please, talk to me..."
Father nods, a brief grunt escaping his lips before the house is silent again, the tick-tocking of the kitchen clock a steady drumbeat against the still air.
"Looks like we'll make quota this year."
And he's got nothing else to say.
Interlocking gears and twisted wires, every person in their proper place amidst the unceasing bustle of the factory floor.
Father wanted a boy but got me instead, and he's insistent that any child of his would be prepared to take over his job as foreman when they grew up, everything else be damned.
I grew up with screws and drive-shafts at my fingertips, clockwork schedules of school and the factory and lonely nights of silence. Long thin fingers raking over metal edges with a delicate touch until I could feel the malfunctioning parts at a glance, knowing exactly what needed to be fixed.
"You must know the machines, but not be captivated by them. Just as you must know the workers, but not be swayed by their pleas."
Interlocking gears and twisted wires, where every worker must know their proper place amidst the unceasing drudgery.
Amidst the workers I look so very prim and proper, collars and dresses marking my status as higher than the lowly factory men. Straight black hair is combed neatly back from wide eyes, lips as red as blood softened by a layer of baby fat around my cheeks.
I must be a leader, Father tells me. I must be proper and down-to-earth, pragmatic and calculating.
I tell him I know how to calculate, from the angles of the gears to the volumes of the machinery, but he scowls before telling me no, not that kind of calculating.
And that is where I falter, for I cannot muster up the ruthlessness that Father demands. Father stomps his feet across the factory floor and all the workers are intimidated.
Father stomps his feet across the hardwood floor of our house and I tense too, expecting another lecture.
But I am not an interlocking gear in his grand plan. Instead of staying in my room I sneak out and roam the wide forests, pine resin replacing the dark machine oil underneath my fingertips.
Under the canopy of leaves, I am free.
The forest is one of those things I never realized I'd missed until I stepped outside the little town for the first time. It is where I dream, where I live, its pristine beauty a so much deeper pleasure than mere clockwork.
Quiet eyes watch me, a pair of ears perked up with curiosity and fear at the visitor to its territory.
Gently, I step closer, the animal still transfixed, until I can rest a hand on the baby lynx's soft fur and free her from the trap that encircled her paw.
She gazes upwards and purrs at me, sniffing expectantly at my pockets until I empty them for her to nibble at the food within.
Her eyes seem to stare into my soul.
The once-interlocking gears slowly begin to shift out of place.
I wanted - no, needed - a friend, if a friend meant someone I had no fear of being judged by, someone who showed me things instead of trapping me in a bubble.
By that token, Peter and his companions are friends, perhaps, ever since the day I'd met them in the woods on one of my many explorations. They are wild like the untamed forest, a sense of adventure about them.
They are like smooth wood and fragrant resin; I am sharp metal and acrid clockwork.
I want so desperately to belong to the forest, knowing that I never truly do, that my home is among gears and gizmos, among cold footsteps and calculated words.
My visits become more frequent as the seasons pass, autumn becoming snowy winter before turning back into spring.
I have never been good at allaying suspicion, and my father's scrutinizing eyes narrow with every day, every time I come home with sticky hands and a look of excitement in my face. All he knows was that I was finding a passion in something, it had nothing to do with the factory, and he didn't like it.
I'm too old for childish daydreams, after all. Romantic notions are for fools, to be replaced by pragmatism as I grow up. To be sharp, not soft; shrewd, not gentle.
Sometimes, it takes a great deal of strength to set right a dislocated gear.
He sees me on the edge of the forest with those boys, and his words tear into me. I am silly, he says, appreciating nature over man's great accomplishments, expanses of woods over the intricacies of clockwork.
I had once enjoyed puzzling over complex mechanisms, but now the interlocking gears only remind me of my unwanted destiny, of a factory I never asked to lead and a tone I never want to speak in.
Now that Father has seen evidence of my illicit outings, my freedom is restricted. I must not go off to the forest, must not associate with riff-raff from the streets, must under no circumstances tarnish his respectable reputation.
That, instead of me, is what he has cared for all along.
I am stuck. Four walls I had once happily tinkered away in becomes my prison, day after day ticking away with unending surveillance and routine.
The routine breaks with a worker's scream as blood reddened the factory floor, and it's my last straw as I race outside, tearing into the darkness despite the chill wind and hard snow nipping against my skin. The path to the forest is well-worn in my mind.
It's not long before I make my way to the woods. My locks fly wildly in my face, and the jacket I've thrown on is worn but still serves its purpose. I stand tall, gazing into the darkness.
Truth be told, I missed the heated comfort of Father's house. But not as much, never as much as I missed the forest during those weeks of confinement, dreamed about its open air and sturdy branches.
Another few steps and the light of a cabin shines in the distance, the crackling glow beckoning me forward until I stand at their doorstep, shaking the snow from my hair.
I'm finally home.
