Rock Me Momma (Kheft)

cyrus
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Rock Me Momma (Kheft) May 21, 2012 23:52:22 GMT -5

Post by cyrus on May 21, 2012 23:52:22 GMT -5

Montgomery Parrish

When I’m in the studio, it’s like nothing else matters.

Sculpting has become my newest pastimes, and I while away hours in the room set aside for me. You see, my parents have enough wealth that we don’t worry too much about everything else going on—it’s nonsense to think anything else would matter in a creative span. When you’ve got flow, you’ve got flow, and it needs to be exacted, extracted, and made into something. So when I get the urge, I go to my art and I make it with my hands. Man, I love the feel of the clay and molding in my hands while I create. There’s nothing that training has on it.

I see it as building something up rather than tearing it down. That’s all that this training really is for the career districts, right? We build ourselves up to be able to destroy our opponents. But with art you get to create. You get to be who you truly are, and you get to twist your vision toward something that you want. I’m thankful that it’s started to come more naturally to me, now that I spend so much time trying to perfect whatever talents that I’ve had. That’s the problem with this place, too. Too many people are living unfulfilled lives trying to be something that they’re not. If we had more artists and less killers for hire, maybe we could have a better society.

But of course people say that I’m a little crazy for that. Even my parents like to hush me when I get up on my soap box and start talking about the need for art, the need for peace, and the need for building up society rather than burning it down. I guess I am a little too much of a rabble rouser lately, but it’s hard when all you see are these guys building their bodies and attacking each other for fun. That’s not the way I want to live, man. Not me, no way.

The reaping did just happen. I suppose I’m happy that I didn’t get picked but I didn’t think my odds were too good anyway. It’s not like I put in a lot of tesserae, and I know that I’m probably the worst choice to represent this district. I barely know how to fight as it is, and I’ve been in my studio more than I could ever say I was in a training center. The only time I’ve ever been in there was when I was young enough to not know better, and the few times I’ve gone to visit my friends. Now I try to stay away as much as possible.

I start scraping away the bits of clay to reveal more of the bust that I’m creating. The features are a bit rough, but I know that I’m just learning, and it takes practice and precision to get better. I scrape a bit more of the clay off and look at the nose that I’m creating with a sly grin. Well, perhaps it’s not going to go up in a museum anywhere, but it’s starting to look less creepy-creature and more like a human being. I sighed as I shifted on my stool and moved my hands along the clay. There was such an energy I felt when I got to connect to the material. I felt like I was finally understanding why my father liked to make shoes, or my mother jewelry.

There were plenty of people in the district that didn’t understand my family. Granted, we were kind of cooks in comparison to everyone else. I mean, capitolites are outrageous by I liked to think of my parents as the vanguard when it came to pushing the limits with their clothes. There was something admirable about it, too—the fact that they could just be themselves and crazy as h—l without thinking about being fashionable. They were just that cool. I’m just hoping to be half as trendy, really.

And so at last I sit back from my work and take it all in, for better or worse. It’s been a few hours since I’ve done anything else—the sun is still shining outside, but what time is it? I move to the window and look outside. It was mid-afternoon, the time when some would be coming home from training, others from school, and still others going to jobs. I wondered if I would see anyone I would know, and wonder what they would be thinking now that the reaping had happened. It would be another long year before any of them would be eligible. And some of them would have missed their golden opportunity. I suppose they could call it that.

I moved back toward my stool and took a seat. Life was good. I hadn’t been sworn to a game in which I would have to kill anyone, and I was comfortable enough at home that I got to do what I loved. I suppose I could say that I was content. But part of me searched for a better word. I don’t know if I was content just yet. It felt like something was missing.

Kheft
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Rock Me Momma (Kheft) May 24, 2012 12:39:04 GMT -5

Post by Kheft on May 24, 2012 12:39:04 GMT -5

Brutal. It was a good description of todays training session. Brutal…and maybe idiocy…my own, of course. When would I ever learn not to jump into a match that I was dreadfully outclassed in? If you asked my trainer, Bantu, he would likely throw his hands up in despair and claim that mountains would turn upside down first. He might be right, sadly. Reaping day came and went, my name wasn’t chosen, and no one heard me stepping forward to volunteer. It’s not as though there aren’t enough willing candidates, but I can never be certain if my father isn’t disappointed or ashamed when I stand back and let the others fight over it. After all, I am a career, and though I say it myself, I’m none too shabby.

So, why do I never pursue this ultimate goal? Isn’t it what I spend half my life training for? What is the point of a career who doesn’t fight in the Games? All good questions, and none of which I’m certain of the answers to. All I know is that the training ring is sometimes more a home to me than the four walls of my bedroom, and though I throw myself into many a losing battle…I don’t actually have a death wish. Surprised? Sometimes I surprise even myself.

Speaking of losing battles, today I had my ass royally handed to me by a girl with a quarterstaff. She was wicked with that thing, and like the fool that I am, I thought it a good idea to challenge her in a match. I’ve barely practiced with the bloody things! Suffice it to say, after today, maybe I’ll be paying them a little more attention. I only got in a blow or two, bruises, nothing more. She beat me black and blue with that stick, and got in a few strikes hard enough to nearly split my head open. My dad was so pissed off at the foolishness of my display that he left me to scrape my dignity off the floor on my lonesome.

After some half-hearted attempts at patching myself up, I throw a bloody bandage across the room and give up in frustration. The gash is still oozing, but I’ve stopped caring. Snatching up my bag of clothes, I stalk out of the Center, letting the heavy metal door slam shut behind me. I’m not headed home, there’s one place I always hide out after a particularly brutal fight, and someone I’ve been neglecting of late.

I swung open the door to Monty’s studio and hung back against the frame. He was so engrossed in the big blob of clay in front of him that I doubt he even heard me enter. He was like this, so absorbed in his creating that sometimes he forgot the rest of the world existed, we just flowed on by around him. I got it, though, it’s why we always worked so well…so opposite one another, and yet the essentials we seemed to instinctually understand. We were six years old when we met, and we pretty much spent the next ten years together. Except, that is, the last year or two…it just seems like we’ve been a little less in tune. Monty has it in his head that my training is part of some glory complex, that I’ll volunteer for the Games or some nonsense. I don’t understand how he can avoid the Center like the plague and hole up in this room day in and day out. It frustrates me, and it’s the start of quite a few arguments between us. Not that arguing is anything new, we’ve always fought like cats and dogs…we just knew that the other person was still the one we wanted to talk to after the argument. That’s the thing, Monty’s always the one I want to talk to after something hurts. So here I am.

I’m in the mood to be obnoxious, so I slide silently across the room, and then hop up on the worktable beside him, jostling his elbow enough that he has to loose his grip on the clay for fear of damaging the sculpture. Yeah, I’m an ass.

“Making more statues of me? You know, if you wanted me to model for you naked, you just have to ask.” I smirk. We might have shared one kiss together back in the fifth grade, but since then Monty figured out that he plays for the other team. I’m not sure if no other girl compared to me, or if I just put him off kissing girls altogether. I usually stick with the former. So, it’s become something of a running joke for us.

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Rock Me Momma (Kheft) May 24, 2012 17:14:35 GMT -5

Post by cyrus on May 24, 2012 17:14:35 GMT -5

Montgomery Parrish

[/b]

It took a lot to drag me out of a state of flow. When I was in the zone, there was little that could get me to look away, unless of course there was an earthquake or a siren or something like that. No, I really wanted this piece done right, I’d been working on it for so long that it was starting to consume me. I guess there was something to be said about that, the hope that maybe with all this passion I might be able to get somewhere. I might even be able to get some sort of private tutor, or better yet, some kind of master in the arts to take me on as an apprentice. But such were dreams of capitol kids. I doubted there was anyone in District One with the slightest inclination towards the fine arts besides my parents.

And so I felt something on my arm as I grasped the clay carefully, and it wasn’t until I felt my own arm moving at the beheist of someone else that I finally whipped my head to the side. “Can’t you see that I’m bus—“ I started off with a naturally pissy reaction. I had to be more careful about that. I hated being disturbed by anyone, and I suspected it might have been my parents or my brother, who had a habit of coming in at inopportune times. I hated when they interrupted me as though they couldn’t wait a few more minutes to be done with what I was doing. It was as if they didn’t understand my time was valuable. Pffft.

But no, this was not them. This was Nyx, the wandering warrior, come to interrupt me from my work. I stood from my stool and immediately caught sight of the wound dripping blood onto the floor. “ Hey, careful! You’re going to get bloodstains everywhere! Come on, Nyx, really?

[/b]” I can’t help but have this be my first reaction. My studio is littered with old pieces of work, most of them pretty terrible, but that didn’t mean that I wanted her to get her battle wounds all over them. Although that would probably improve some of them and provide for an interesting concept later on. Still. “What the h—l do you think you’re doing?[/color]”

Of course I was concerned that she had dragged herself into my studio with an open wound. She worried me more and more with the serious that she took this training. I’d worried when she hadn’t been called that she would volunteer, but the moment hadn’t come and now I guess this was the result. I wondered if she was training even harder because of the fact that she wasn’t the lucky one to go into the arena of no return. Sigh. It was something I would never understand. Just… battling and fighting… it never appealed so much to me.

“Here, let me clean you up…” I say as I run to grab a damp rag and call out behind me, “But don’t touch anything while I’m gone![/color]” I grab my pants which have slipped down some against my skinny frame and rush to get the needed supplies. I felt as though she was just fine, but this was something I had to do for her. If she were ever hurt, physically or mentally, I was there for her. I guess you could call her my best friend. We’d known each other since we were kids, and even though I was seeing her less and less lately, she was one of the only ones I could really talk to. I admired her for that.

I returned with an arm full of items that would hopefully mend whatever was happening on her head. I handed her a damp rag and began to get out the disinfectants. “You mind telling me just what happened? Is this another one of your battle scars or are you just that upset you didn’t get picked this year?[/color]” I say this as a mocking jab, but in truth I mean it. In the past couple of years that our paths have diverged, I wonder just how far she’s willing to go for glory. I give a cheeky grin. “And by the way—you know you’re welcome to invite some of your training center buddies to come and pose for me any time…[/i][/color]” [/blockquote][/size]

Kheft
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Rock Me Momma (Kheft) May 24, 2012 20:35:47 GMT -5

Post by Kheft on May 24, 2012 20:35:47 GMT -5

There’s something nice about having someone else patch up my wounds for once. He was always good for that, always trying to keep me from getting myself killed. Not that I’d ever admit I enjoyed the fussing. I gave a snort as Monty fluttered around me like an old mother bird. I let him, obediently pressing the damp towel over my laceration and holding it there, trying not to drip on anything that looked artistic. Although for all I knew the towel on my head could be designer. It was something that irked my best friend to no end, that I couldn’t tell a ‘work of art’ from finger painting. What bothered me was that Monty never fought back when kids in school hassled him for being different…not a career…uninterested in training. I didn’t give a flying f—k what Monty wanted to do, if it made him happy, then I would beat it into everyone else’s head.

I’m never sure if he even knows I stick up for him, though. I think it would be demoralizing, so I try to do any extra curricular ‘education’ after school or times when I know he won’t find out. He had this thing about peace and being against violence, he’d quote it at me when I got particularly exasperated over his disinterest in fighting back. So, I got tired of the argument, and took it on as a side job. A few bloody noses, fat lips, one broken finger, these days people mostly left Montgomery Parrish alone. Of course, he congratulated his peaceful ways for the state of affairs. Eh, what the hell…I just let him continue to believe that.

“Now don’t go all hot and heavy on me, Parrish. Last time I invited a career around here I had nightmares for weeks about bare butt cheeks and…OW! goddammit! I thought you had artist hands! You paint the way you clean wounds? I pity the clay…” At least he’d managed to get the bleeding to stop, even if I felt worse now than when the wound was given.

Despite ignoring his insinuation that I had wanted to be in the Games this year, I knew it was a serious matter for Monty. One that we really don’t discuss, in a silent agreement. “Chick with a stick. She knew how to use it to, beat the sh—t out of me. I probably deserved it. If you weren’t such a pacifist, you’d probably enjoy doing the same, and don’t pretend you wouldn’t.” I hop down from the bench, a small groan escaping as my feet hit the floor and remind every muscle in my body just how much they ache.

It might have been the blood loss, a concussion, certainly it wasn’t sentimentality…never that. But it hit me pretty hard how much I’d missed him. My best friend, sometimes I thought he was my only friend. I don’t like people much…people don’t like me much. Anisse says it’s the sharp tongue I keep. Monty can match me snipe for snipe, he can keep up, pass me sometimes. I don’t know why I’d allowed this gap to grow between us; training had just been really busy lately.

Resting my chin on his skinny chest, I stared up the gangly frame and stuck my tongue out. “Thanks, Monty…if you weren’t such a bad kisser I might demonstrate my gratitude.” I’m returning his cheek, reaching out to make sure my friend is still there.

Last Edit: May 24, 2012 20:36:20 GMT -5 by Kheft

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Rock Me Momma (Kheft) May 25, 2012 11:28:40 GMT -5

Post by cyrus on May 25, 2012 11:28:40 GMT -5

Montgomery Parrish

I dab at her wounds and shake my head. There was a worry inside of me, a worry that with every cut and scrape Nyx might be pushing herself a little bit too hard. Though I knew that I was not inclined to fight, I could at least try to understand her passion for it. It was something I’d at least tried to do when I started seeing her less and less. Locking oneself up in a room for hours at a time had a tendency to do that to a person. I’d sit there, working on pieces, thinking of people and places. There were moments of clarity that I’d get from this, like that I should be proud that Nyx was such an amazing fighter and so dedicated to her art, but then she showed up at my step as a bloody stump and my thoughts shifted to her being the stupidest human being alive.

“Now, if you really wanted to hurt yourself why don’t you just jump from buildings? It’s safer for you—hold still—and it takes less time. I swear Nyx one of these days they’re going to send you to the hospital,

[/color]” I dap the cloth in some disinfectant and press it to the wound. I let out a sigh as I stare at her face. This was the little girl that I had once pushed over because she wouldn’t get out of my way, back before I understood that violence was never a good solution. She was the one that had lasted through it all, though I wondered just how much of it she could take. It was one thing for us to see each other from time to time, but it was another to still be best friends.

Not that I could care too deeply about such things. I had other things to occupy my time. Still, I wondered about the natural progression, of what we were to do when we turned into adults and then opportunities truly opened for us. When one no longer had to worry about death every year, there were a lot more freedoms granted. And I wasn’t quite sure of what she wanted to do with her life, now that she’d taken on so much of her time training. Did she want to follow in her father’s footsteps and run their training center? It might be the best solution… I worried that she might get swept up into something else less familiar to me.

When she mentions our kiss—man, how long ago was that—I let out a snort. The two of us had shared a tryst back before I knew that boys could like other boys, and it seemed to pop up every now and again. I’d had a few trysts since then, but never anything more than fleeting. District One was still a rather difficult place for a boy who both hated fighting and liked other boys. It was rather hard to find someone who liked one of those two things, not both. At the very least I could count on Nyx for some understanding. I move a little closer and inspect her head again.

“You know I’d give you such a wallop if I could, Nyx…” I say as I put some salve on her wound. I step back for a moment and give her a once over. I manage a smile as I cross my arms over my chest. I clear my throat and raise my eyebrows, stuffing up my nose to sound as haughty as possible. “It was a difficult subject matter, and while not entirely the most becoming of models, I do believe that I have produced something most would consider memorable, if not haunting.[/color]”

I laugh at myself (a bad habit of mine and return back to my stool). “You’re welcome, by the way,” I sneak out as I start looking over the clay again. “You know, I was just trying to put some finishing touches on this… maybe scrape off some more clay and put it in the kiln. You think she looks aged enough? I was trying to do this old woman I saw out at shopping the other day, but I’m not sure if I really got what I was looking for…” I trailed off, running back and escaping into my piece as though that was what Nyx would want to do, too.[/blockquote][/size]

Kheft
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Rock Me Momma (Kheft) May 25, 2012 14:06:10 GMT -5

Post by Kheft on May 25, 2012 14:06:10 GMT -5

"Not the most becoming of models?" I fake some indignation. "For an artist, your taste in beauty sucks. I am a raaaare beauty." The word is drawn out with a comically exagerated tone and a long flutter of my lashes. "Most boys would kill to patch up my wounds, and you get to do it all for the low, low cost of...well...the medical supplies I guess."

Monty only laughs at me...himself...whatever, and returns to admiring the half-finished ball of clay on the workspace. The next few minutes are filled with an eye-glazing recital of particulars for this newest creation, and I'm trying to pay attention to it. But the weariness suddenly pours over me, like a river bursting past a dam, adrenaline fading from the battle I now feel like I could fall asleep on my feet. There's a stool beside him, and I pull it out far enough to wedge my frame beneath the desk, letting my upper body flop across the only cleared surface space. Analyzing the sculpture from this angle is probably not what Monty had in mind, but he'll have to take what he can get.

"Mhmm, mhmm..." I agree with him dumbly, trying to find whatever detail he points out to me. "If you gave her a big wart, she could be the old witch from the fairy story your folks used to read to us. Remember that one?" I smile, but it's dissolving into something less like my cheeky self, because I can see that I'm losing him back into the fascination of the clay at hand. It's been a struggle lately, I'll admit, he's always so...absorbed, and with less time to spend trekking around with me. Sometimes it feels like the only attention I'd get is if I arrive wrapped in canvas. He's expressed before that I'm always at the Center training, but the road runs both ways. I'm here now, and I can tell that in another five minutes, if I don't do something, he's going to have completely forgotten my presence.

"There's this big career at the Center that has been on my case lately. I guess I sort of...uhhh...broke his jaw on his first day of training." My lips purse, uncertain if I feel guilty over this fact or more like laughing. "So he started following me around after hours the other night. He hasn't jumped me yet, but I wouldn't blame him if he wanted to. Big guy, muscular, you'd like him. Maybe I should invite him around some time..." It looks like I've already lost Monty's attention, and now I'm just rambling to a deaf room and the unattentive artwork. "Or you could just hook up with him at my funeral, you know, after he's put a spear through my skull or some such. Parrish, are you even listening to me?"

Apparently not, and I shove the stool back, forcing complaining legs to straighten and carry me towards the doorway. "I think I'll go see if your mom has anything for me to eat, at least someone in this house still appreciates me." I'm about to huff my way out the door when a half-covered easel catches my attention. There's a sheet draped over it, but I can see part of my own face staring back from the patch of exposed canvas. Me, but a much younger me...hair in two braids, a flower stuffed behind one ear at some cockeyed angle. I know the picture, because it's modeled from an old photo snapped years ago. It's one of Monty and me on the tree swing behind my house. I'm sitting, with him pushing and making a goofy expression over my shoulder. The original 4x6 is pinned to one corner, and I pull it free, tucking the photograph into my pocket.

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Rock Me Momma (Kheft) May 27, 2012 16:27:59 GMT -5

Post by cyrus on May 27, 2012 16:27:59 GMT -5

Montgomery Parrish

There was a moment where I could hear the muffled speech of Nyx in the background, but not really hear what she was saying. I had a terrible habit of pretending to be paying attention to someone, and then failing miserably to have heard anything that they’d just said. Lately I’d been consumed with myself, I’ll admit, and separating from the world to be able to create. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that I felt like I was on the verge of something great, or at the very least, at some new breakthrough that kept pushing me further and further onward. I didn’t want to stop for much of anything, even when my oldest friend had come to spend time with me.

Nyx had a way about her that calmed me. Sometimes I didn’t want her to talk, just to be there with me in the background. I’ve never really told her that. It just seems like she pops up at the right moment, when I need to get a fix of her. Too soon she disappears and I don’t see her, at least, until she’s banged herself up badly or is infuriated by something at the training center. I remember having promised her that I would at least try to root for the games this year, but to be honest I don’t even remember the names of the tributes from our district… which may be horrifying, considering I was there to see them dragged away to certain death.

But that’s just how it is sometimes, I guess. When you really want something, the only way to go about it is to keep going—to keep striving until you reach that point of satisfaction. As I finally carve away the last little bits of molding I turn around to see that Nyx is not behind me as she once was. I rub my eyes and give a whistle, realizing that she’s just come back now and is staring at a work that has been giving me trouble for some time. I frown, not having wanted her to see what I was working on, but I’m not too upset. It was meant to be a surprise for her, after some special event or day or something like that. As much as I wanted to tell her she should quit fighting forever, I knew how special it was to her. At the least I could be supportive, and show her what I really cared about, too.

“You know, it doesn’t seem like that long ago that the two of us were up to no good,

[/color]” I say as I cross my arms across my chest and come up behind her. I smirk as I remember us getting into trouble, whether it was pantsing some big dumb lug at school, or carving our names into the trees behind my neighbor’s house (even with a little heart on it, as disgustingly sappy as we were back then). I put down my tools on the table and brush them off carefully, taking my time. I’m nothing if not focused on what needs to be finished.

“So when is the next time I can watch you get your head smashed in,” I say, revealing that I’ve not heard a word of what she’s said to me. I’m certain that she must’ve left the room at some point, but I’m not quite sure exactly where she had gone. “You know how much I like to dress up for your special events and sit in the front row and not cheer on whoever’s winning.[/b]” As much as I can be dragged to things that I’d rather jump off a bridge for, I’ll still give some sort of affirmation. I look at her wound and raise up to give it a gentle tap. “Feeling any better there, by the way?[/b]”[/blockquote][/size]

Kheft
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Rock Me Momma (Kheft) May 28, 2012 23:57:33 GMT -5

Post by Kheft on May 28, 2012 23:57:33 GMT -5

“Don’t get all mushy on me, Parrish.” The snide tone is so easy to summon at hand, slickly covering any trickle of nostalgia that threatens my mood. I’m here, Monty’s here, what’s the point in waxing emotional? I snort. Must have gotten hit in the head harder than usual. It’s not like me to fret over things like friends being busy. You’d think I was a jilted lover or something. Then I really do laugh, because the idea of Monty as my lover is ludicrous beyond believe. If I mentioned it out loud, he’d likely turn a pastel shade of green.

“I’m starving, and I bet you missed lunch working on that blob.” I swat away the probing finger and ignore his jibes concerning the few ring matches he’s managed to stomach at my constant nagging. “It’ll be better without you prodding at it! Come on, I’ll let you fix me some dinner.” My smirk feels more comfortable and natural, settling onto lips that could almost be permanently fixed in the expression.

The Parrish house is a nice one, nothing to our own enormous estate, but a creatively decorated and arranged place that always felt more like home to me. I’d nearly grown up in these rooms, occupying them as constantly as their owners did. I could have guided us to the kitchen with my eyes closed and both hands tied behind my back, one leg too. I know the accuracy of this, because I did it once when Monty bet me that I couldn’t without running into a wall. I think we’d both been astounded when I accomplished the task. We’d been nothing but trouble back then, from hair brained schemes of starting our own mining business out of a cave we discovered in the woods, to racing one another on the two enormous wolfhounds that belonged to my father. Our respective parents hardly knew what to forbid us doing next. Because riding the dogs like small horses wasn’t something that had occurred to them prior to our attempts.

Monty always towered over me these days, and I spun his lanky frame around, propelling him out of the art studio and through the narrow house halls. The house, like its unusual occupants, possessed unexpected turns and twists, small nooks and crannies stuffed to overflowing with bits of collected artwork and furniture that displayed someone’s fascination with asymmetry. The kitchen was another world in itself, glass mosaic tiles set in imaginative murals transformed domestic functionality into a childhood utopia. Here I deposit myself into a sculpted chair and quirk expectant brows at Montgomery.

“What sort of friend would you be to patch up my wounds and neglect the needs of my stomach?” I lounge insolently in the chair, occupying it with a lazy air that I know will infuriate my friend. I don't know what it is that makes him such an easy target for my tormenting. He gives it back in spades. I cross my legs and grin at him like a cheshire cat.

Last Edit: May 28, 2012 23:58:11 GMT -5 by Kheft

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Rock Me Momma (Kheft) Jun 1, 2012 21:42:06 GMT -5

Post by cyrus on Jun 1, 2012 21:42:06 GMT -5

Monty Parrish

“I can’t help it… I just have so many feeeeelings…” I throw up my arms as I get down on my knees in front of Nyx. I look down at the ground and stare up at her with a goofy grin upon my face. This—this is exactly what I’ve needed for so long. Cramped up in a room like that can make you forget you’re human, and there’s no better medicine than some gentle fun between friends like this. There were too many kids nowadays that took life so f—king seriously. It was like they thought the world revolved around them and that things would never get better. Things always got better. And if they didn’t get better, then you were probably dead.

When her arms grabbed onto me I yelped out a noise—getting touched was one of those things with me—and I growled like a strange beast and threw my head to the side, not putting up much struggle. Nyx was probably as strong ~~or much stronger~~ than I was at this point after all her training. Physical strength was something that I had of course left behind in my pursuits of the highest realm of art. I looked back for just a moment, wondering when I would be able to get the clay in the kiln, but reminded myself that maybe she did have something to the fact that I hadn’t eaten in a while. I had a tendency to forget to eat, which was a poor habit of mine considering how hungry I already was.

“How very forward thinking you are, Ms. Nyx, and respectful of your gender that I may fix you dinner,

[/color]” I say as we rattle past one of my mother’s statuettes and a strange fern-like plant that scales up the side of the inside wall like ivy. As we round another corner I let out a laugh—it’s so easy when she’s around—and at last we’re a few steps away from the kitchen. I break from her hold and rush my way toward the fridge. I whip it open and bury my head inside of the cold, metallic beast. “Now let’s see just what I can poison you—I mean feed you with…[/color]”

As usual, I gravitate toward the things that are the most unhealthy that my parents have. Being as close to vegetarian as possible—they still liked to cheat and eat fish and have white meat in the house—I pilfer some turkey bacon and grab onto the bread. Mayonnaise is next, and already I’m whipping up some of my world famous turkey bacon sandwiches. We never have to worry about food here, though it’s never been the most important thing to us, either. As I press down on the toaster and let the bacon sizzle, I turn around to face Nyx and put both of my elbows down onto the counter.

“To be honest I think you could stand to go hungry a bit,” I say sticking out my tongue. It’s terribly mean but I don’t care, she must know I’m only joking. “I hear that this year’s latest fashion is to look like a District 12 waif and doll yourself up in country folk fashion…[/color]”[/justify][/size][/blockquote]