Words in the wind (Torvan/Penny)
Jun 10, 2016 14:33:09 GMT -5
Post by Chevi on Jun 10, 2016 14:33:09 GMT -5
PENNY THISTLE
DISTRICT TWELVE
Penny sat, with her legs folded under her, in a patch of grass just outside the town. She enjoyed the tickling sesnsation of grass on her palms, so different from the rough material of her dress, as she smoothed her skirt down. It was a spot that she took often; people came to expect her to be her on certain days of the week, or at certain times. Granny always told her that a performer like her - that was how she said it, 'performer', Granny never would have called it by any lower term such as 'begging' - a performer like her had to be dependable, do that her audience could find her, and learn to expect her.
They will come to eat out of your hands. Your voice is a balm for tired souls.
Her voice was not that good really; no one even trained her to sing, not like people sang on television. And the only person eating out of her hands was herself, whenever she could get something to hold in them at all.
She could hear people walking by, and she hummed to herself softly, swaying with the light breeze. It was a beautiful evening, the air cooling down after a long day's warmth. Most of the songs that Penny knew were ballads, full of longing and love and tragedy. They did not taste right in the warmth and the breeze.
She could hear toddling steps and giggles; some kids were coming by, young ones, years away from the Reaping, careless and tripping over themselves. A soft smile lit up Penny's face as her hand tapped the rhythm on her knee.
"FWOGGY!" one of the kids giggled, and Penny chuckled along.
Frog went a' courtin' and he did ride,
Rop-strop-by-mister-gammble
With a sword and a pistol buckled at his side,
Rop-strop-by-mister-gammble.
Hee mo hi mo keemo kimo
Rowdy rowdy ray, oh rop strop,
Pennywinkle flannel doodle yellowbug
Rop-strop by mister gammble.
The children squealed with laughter and toddled on, repeating the jumbled words into the wind.
Not all songs were rewarded with money or food.
(348 words)
They will come to eat out of your hands. Your voice is a balm for tired souls.
Her voice was not that good really; no one even trained her to sing, not like people sang on television. And the only person eating out of her hands was herself, whenever she could get something to hold in them at all.
She could hear people walking by, and she hummed to herself softly, swaying with the light breeze. It was a beautiful evening, the air cooling down after a long day's warmth. Most of the songs that Penny knew were ballads, full of longing and love and tragedy. They did not taste right in the warmth and the breeze.
She could hear toddling steps and giggles; some kids were coming by, young ones, years away from the Reaping, careless and tripping over themselves. A soft smile lit up Penny's face as her hand tapped the rhythm on her knee.
"FWOGGY!" one of the kids giggled, and Penny chuckled along.
Frog went a' courtin' and he did ride,
Rop-strop-by-mister-gammble
With a sword and a pistol buckled at his side,
Rop-strop-by-mister-gammble.
Hee mo hi mo keemo kimo
Rowdy rowdy ray, oh rop strop,
Pennywinkle flannel doodle yellowbug
Rop-strop by mister gammble.
The children squealed with laughter and toddled on, repeating the jumbled words into the wind.
Not all songs were rewarded with money or food.
(348 words)
