The Strongest Emotion Is Curiosity (Chevi)

The Strongest Emotion Is Curiosity (Chevi) Jun 18, 2016 13:33:30 GMT -5

Post by shxta on Jun 18, 2016 13:33:30 GMT -5

Elle Maynard | District 12
Says, Thinks, Does

One, Two, Three, Drink

I used to think of daily deeds as waking up, getting dressed, and eating breakfast. But as I get older, life evolves. I don't eat breakfast anymore, I traded it for tension. Nearly every morning nowadays Nana and I fight. Usually about my bad habits, but sometimes it's about mom. I hate it when she talks about him, and she knows it, so she does it to get under my skin. I wish she'd let me go with dad. I'd go on my own but my memory of him is so vague, I'd never find him.

This morning was bad, she slapped me. She always threatens it, but she's never done it before. I didn't react well, I never do. I threw a plate at her and get her bad shoulder. It smashed onto the ground, and left it for her to clean up. I left, Beer in hand for the allies. It's still early in the day, so I didn't take much. I want to get home without being noticed. I'm not planning on getting arrested today.

I got to the allies and drank it quick, so I could still get a buzz. It wasn't enough to make my surrounding blurry, I could still see the trash and the details on the brick, but I was dizzy. I kept pacing around in aggravation, tripping over my own feet at times. Eventually, I decide to just go home and take a nap. If Nana tried to talk to me, I'd ignore her.

I stumble out of the ally way into the community. Everyone is out and about today, heading to the mines, or just trying to survive. Everyone around these parts has it rougher than I could ever dream of having, and I'm not even well off. I take in an assessment of my surroundings just to make sure I know my way home. That's when I see her. Usually, in a drunken state, I wouldn't even notice something so strange, but I'm not wasted.

She was standing there alone, looking at nothing. It's strange, she isn't even staring off into the distance, her eyes are open, but are transitioned onto nothing. And, she's talking. That is even stranger, because there is no one within twenty feet of her.

Against all better judgement, I decide to approach her. I have to make sure she's okay, at least. Any human would do that. I have to remember to keep my distance, though, so she doesn't smell my breath, who knows if she has ties to peacekeepers or not.

I walk towards her, and once I'm an average body length away, I speak. "Hey missss, ar-are you good?" I slur. And immediately I want regret the approaching her, I don't really like conversation. But, it's too late.

I wanna swing from the chandelier. I wanna live like tomorrow
doesn't exist.

Chevi

The Strongest Emotion Is Curiosity (Chevi) Jun 19, 2016 3:44:06 GMT -5

Post by Chevi on Jun 19, 2016 3:44:06 GMT -5

PENNY THISTLE

DISTRICT TWELVE

It is the busy time of the day; people around me are going to work, going about their business, taking care of themselves and each other and their families, making the day roll along with a million tiny tasks and odds and ends jumbled together. No one is idle; I have never felt this District idle, even for a second. Everything has to keep moving. If we don't move, we die. Like those large fishes in the ocean.

I move too, although slowly, I allow the stories to carry me along. I trace the walls of the buildings with my fingertips, they tell me where I am, and keep me out of the way. This was the house where my great-grandmother lived until she could not pay the rent anymore, and then she sold her hair, she had long, thick dark hair, and they made a wig from it for some lady in the Capitol that she saw on TV during the Games, she said it was her hair she recognized it, but no one believed her and the Peacekeepers ended up beating her for impertinence. I turn a corner, a tree used to be here, it dried out a while ago, it was a nice tree, an elm, it had no fruit but people liked the shade. They say a boy hung himself from it after the girl he loved got Reaped and he couldn't volunteer, but no one can agree who the boy was, and who the girl was, and whether she lived or died. Maybe it was many boys, maybe it was many girls.

I turn onto a bigger street, stories are more scarce here, lots of people walk this way, they tread on the stories and wipe them away. I stop here, finding a place to sit, I'll sit here and maybe sing, or tell some stories. My grandmother used to do the same, it is a place for our own story.

>>"Hey missss, ar-are you good?"

I stop talking to myself and tilt my head to the voice. I am sure it is talking to me, the words are a little slurred, but she is close enough that I can smell alcohol, my senses are keen enough even without the slurring to notice. And I have been talking to myself as I walked, some of my stories came out loud, Granny tells me that is not good, people may think I am crazy. Which is why she is asking me if I am good.

I am good. I am good. I am good at a lot of things.

"She was dancing on glass shards and she still cared for the other girl" I mutter, it reminds me of a story I can barely remember "She was in pain and never told anyone, but she did not wish it on them either. She had family she could not go back to, and people who thought she was trouble..."

There was ocean in that story too.

"I am good. I am good at telling stories. Are you good?"

(506 words)

BY CHELSEY