Vella Sugare - District 1 [new:swinubble]

Vella Sugare
"Wake up here we go, Jam it down my throught. Stomach so full, I wish I could choke."

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Vella Sugare
Aged to 16
Assigned occupation: Fashion Model
Residency:
165 Glazier street, District 1
Model Avenue, Apartment 2568, Weshire Building, Capitol

Jail Records:
1. Carrying/using of Opium, June 14, 55th year of the hunger games






No pictorial or sculptural combinations of points of human loveliness, do more than approach the living and breathing human beauty as it gladdens our daily path.



Curly Hair, the color of gold. Curling around her head, forming a haze of intricate webs. What, what, what does it see? A crack in the mirror, a blaze in the hair? What? What? Fire? Of course not, just hair. More blazing yellow hair. An explosion, perhaps. Just like you would persume. A crown of black? Dyed, of course.

A rounded forehead, curling in. Out, in out. It curls itself upwards, then straight down to the eyebrows. Curving snakes of a kind. Dark, furry snakes. Framing the eyes. Thick, no, dark. Like the color of chocolate, perhaps.

Steely blue eyes, with lashes to frame. Oh, beauty, inporportionate to her face. Dollike. Pristine, eerie. Comprable to the eerie eyes of the dolls that eyes open in horror movies. Horror movie eyes. Sunken eyes.

Simple nose, lines of cold. Dainty, almost. Pixie like, just like she were to steal it from an ethreal being. Ethreal, maybe not. Pondering is nessecary. Ethreal. Does the word roll off the tounge? No, not at all. It dosen't curl either. It makes the nose comprable to something? Yes.

Curved Lips. Light Mauvey lips. Drama lips. Falling, falling, falling. A smile unfrowns. Falling, frowning? No, not at all. A light Mauvey lip, like a butterfly touch.

Skin of peaches and cream, peaches and cream nothing better than peaches and cream. There, here, there, here. Burns on the tips of encircling skin. What? Yes, what. Pinkish, fading in and out to light skin tones. To turn pink again. But under the surface, yellowing skin. Skin that turns itself into folds, droops, sags.

Her neck is nothing to stare at. Thin, normal, if anything, on the shorter side. Paler than the rest of her skin. Nothing special.

Thin body, nothing much. Like grasping for breath.. Skin and bones, but what to say? Nothing more, anyway.

Long. Spindley. Legs. Pretty much the only words that come to mind. Spidery, perhaps. Nothing more. More yellowing skin.

Glittering nails, simple nails. Pretty nails. A gasping noise erupts from their tips. A claw on a table. Clawmarks leave on them. A sad noise erupts their fate.

Clothes are ovverated. Clothes, clothes, clothes. A simplistic way of throwing on an appearancce. Clothes are too simplistic.

Clothes only occupy her because she believes it is nessecary.Nessecary is not the clothes. It is instead her drugs.



We should bear in mind that, in general, it is the object of our newspapers rather to create a sensation - to make a point - than to further the cause of truth.

A model. Not nessicarily a fabulous one, but one noneless, with the glares, the pouts and the meltdowns. If a bit unstable outside of socialization, think of when her modeling comes in the way. If she is put amongst so many people, she cant exactly think straight through the whole processs of her career.

Addiction. The bane that lays on top of her own mind, her own heart. She is obsessed with the drug that brought Edgar Alan Poe to his own insanity: Opium. Poppyseeds, really. She loves the stuff, the hallucenations that come hand in hand with it. Why? She is secretley stressed from her job, which she cannot quit for obvious reasons. She could be sent back to district 8, forcing her to make cheap copies of what she once wore. She swears she would never do that.

Afraid of people since she was young, she has a cautious tale to weave infront of the ideals she calls her scared. She is truley terrified of people. Not in a panic disorder, just more of an insane twist and turn to avoid them. Largely, she has had this phobia since around the age of one, but it gets better with less people around.

Suprisingly, she is a fairly good chef. She can bake better than cook, but she can make wonderful recipes. She tries to copy dishes she sees in the capitol, and even improve on them. The capitolities dont exactly know this, but she enjoys a capitol quality meal every night she is in district one. Instead, of paying large fees, she gets meals she loves.

If you could fear one animal, what would you fear? Possums might not be high on that list. But, Vella has an unnessecary obsession with them. In a bad way. She is as scared as you could be towards the creatures. Their ugly bodies. Well, maybe she dosent like things with a beating heart. People, animals, anything. Well, maybe she likes something living, at least.

She likes rocks. Rocks are not living, but she likes them. Their patterns, their intricate webs of pattern, the fact that the rocks existed before the hunger games. She finds it unbelievable how something can be so old, and so pretty at the same time.

Now, you must be thinking. She is a bimbo, a girl with no brain. But, yet she is. She loves thinking, problems and demonstrations of things. She is best at her writing, though she thorroughly enjoys her math equations. Math is much better company than humans, at that.

Well, this could be her opium speaking, but she is absolutley positive she sees the spirits of dead people. SHe says they taunt her in her sleep, she says the children laugh and play in her apartment and home. they play with the things she keeps, and she ulitmatley sounds crazy to her neighbors.

An extreme poet, she adores doing anything with complex verbs, nouns, and inane things that fill the pages, detracting from any beauty that may of been set forth in her poetry. Mostly, it is vivid discriptions of life and limb, creative enconters of words that fill the page can do.

She is an ink pen user. She loves working with a thick, cream paper, with black calligraphy ink. Her handwriting is sprawling and even, circling in uncoordinated loops and tucks, showing the gaurentee of nothing being exactly the same in the words.

Vella likes plants. She enjoys watching them sprawl out into curlicues, spiraling out of a control choas way. She loves watering and mending each plant, each tendril, each leaf that extends out.






In our endeavors to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember.

Time: November, 5, Year of the 40th hunger games.

Vella Sugare was born to a couple of district eight parents. The sewing district, nessicarily. The parents were young, probably nineteen in age. She was told she was beautiful from birth, just with minor flaws that fell into face subtley.

Her parents were overjoyed to add a daughter to their family, since they had already a toddler son. She was immediatley brought to center stage in her home.

Time: November 5, 41st year of the hunger games.
It all started with a simple candle. The brimming of her unsocial ways. The candle.
It sat there, on a cake. A decent cake, one made if tesserae ration flour and mollasses sugar from the market. Frosted with milk and honey mixture. With a wax tealight sitting on top. A cheer of music, the grabbing of the cake.

But not before the candle was removed. Vella knocked the candle over, causing a small fire to ignite on the carpet, throwing itself into an inferno of flames. Her parents grabbed Vella, and her brother, Gerrarde, and rushed out of the building, which was now ignited, due to the fuel underneath the building and how close the tendants were to eachother.
She closed her eyes and couldn'd trust.

Time: September 19, year of the 49 hunger games.

Eight years old. Vella sat there, her blonde head peeking out from the small rock perched outside of the sock factory her father worked in. Children were tumbling on the very small patch of grass. But, she didn't have the yearning to play.

She would watch little Vinnie, and Herald and Mimi. More children would play, catching a sock full of pencil shavings. Over and over again, she would observe, and write in detail, what they were.

Vinnie, for example, was a dark haired manifestation of inequality, yet a pretentious perfection. Sparkling eyes held upon his very pale face, the color of some liquidous medicine flavored as blueberries.

She recorded her observations in her book, showing her uncanny use of wordplay.


Time: Febuary 14, year of the 50 hunger games.

Paper hearts were in her backpack. She walked home, her smiling eyes anticipating the candy that she would make that afternoon. She was dissapointed to find that her parents werent home that day.
Or the next.
Or the one after that.
Finally, after a week, her older brother called the authorities and took them away to a group home, but first, examining them for potential in anything.
The fashion director for the Hunger Games believed that Vella had potential for a fashion model. They took her brother to military training in district 2, and she was taken to try to be photoshot for modeling.



Time: April 8, year of the 54 hunger games.
She made it, of course. And at age fourteen, she discovered something regrettable.
Well, not really.
She discovered Opium.
Poppy seed drug.
She loved it at first try.
Hallucenations followed.
Her happiness came.
She showed up for modeling appointments.

Time: June, 14, Year of the 55 hunger games.
They found it. The cops, of course. They found her stash, her possession of it.

Guess what, baby?

Jail time.


"mid-day concrete burning up my feet. Too many cars on the street. The noise around me here, makes me wanna scream"[/font]


Codeword: muttations

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Thoughts and actions CCCCFF
Words 4D4DFF
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