Let me out : count me in -- open!
Sept 30, 2012 12:18:43 GMT -5
Post by Raseri on Sept 30, 2012 12:18:43 GMT -5
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Even though the summer had almost drawn to a close, the sun was shining defiantly in the cloudless sky, unwilling to let the district go a day without being warmed by its rays. Some of the citizens wished it would allow them at least a little relief from the heat, but not Alaric; he loved the summer--the warm sun on his back, the dark tan he got from it, and the feel of the water when you stepped out of the heat and into its icy embrace. Today's weather was especially ideal--his father would say it was good fishing weather. Alaric disagreed; there was no such thing as good fishing weather, because fishing was a terrible way to pass time, it didn't matter how nice it was outside. Why anyone would ever want to sit still and wait for a stupid fish to eat a worm on a fishing line, Alaric had no idea. He would rather go swimming, and enjoy the weather.
Sadly, he could only do so through the small window of the family store. The old wooden counter creaked in complaint as Alaric leaned up against it with a nasally sigh, absentmindedly twirling one of the little rotating countertop racks with his index finger. As the packages of fishing hooks spun with their holder, they made a light jingling sound that helped to break the silence, almost soothing the uncomfortable feeling in Alaric's stomach but still doing nothing to cure his nerves or his boredom. Standing here, alone in his mother's tackle shop, he was a time bomb, ticking away his last seconds, ready to go off. This wasn't what he was bred for--he hadn't spent half his life training, straining his muscles, sweating, and bleeding to stand behind a counter all day, just hoping for the satisfying creak of the shop door's hinges, longing for the customers that he knew would never come. Waiting for the clock to move, to hurry up and fast-forward to five o'clock so that he could leave.
Business had been slow lately--with the Reaping just finishing up and the Hunger Games having begun, it didn't seem like people had much time to visit the little shop. As a result, Alaric had to wait behind the counter in complete silence from one to five until his mother came to take over his shift. He hated it, this sound of absolutely nothing, not even a natural quiet like the hush of the ocean or the rustling in the trees' leaves when the wind blew--no, just the stagnant, cold sound of emptiness, a silence that rang in his ears and threatened to drive him insane. Once the clock struck five, though, he would be out of there, dashing out the door as fast as possible, running or jumping or swimming, doing something, anything that involved moving around and breathing air and listening to something other than this vacant, urelenting silence. But for now there he stood, leaning against the counter, for hours--his mother didn't have a single chair in the whole damn store, because she thought "sitting on the job" was unenthusiastic.
The clock ticked along, but it seemed to Alaric to be getting slower as the hour hand grew closer to the five, just to tease him--as he watched with anxious eyes, he knew that, contained within each tick, there was a shrill, evil chuckle, laughing cruelly at him, knowing he was trapped. When finally it did reach that number--that glorious number--he jumped up and bolted to the door, letting it slam behind him, wanting to jump with joy at the realization that he wouldn't have to open it again for three more days. He inhaled deeply, breathing the fresh air, his saviour from the hell that was his mother's tackle shop. Without taking the time to run home first, Alaric broke into a jog and headed straight for the beach. He needed to run, he needed to move, he needed to do something, because he was free, he was a Career of District freaking Four for crying out loud and he was made of better stuff than a tackle shop cashier. That was alright though, because someday, he would win the Games, and people would remember him as a victor, not as a boy who stood behind a wooden counter from one to five on Tuesdays through Fridays.
He ran all the way to the beach without stopping, his happiness at his freedom changing quickly into the adrenaline rush he always got when he was running. When he felt his tennis shoes smush against the sand, he kicked them off carelessly and pulled off his socks, freeing his toes so that he could wiggle all nine of them around in the warm sand. It seemed to take his body a minute to register that he was out of breath, but when it did he rapidly sucked in air, breathing in with his nose and out with his mouth like the training instructor had taught him to do. Before long his heart rate was back to normal; he ran so long and so often that he could usually breathe rather easily while running. When he stopped running, however, when the adrenaline slowed to a halt, that was usually when he became short of breath.
Alaric picked up his shoes and carried them with him as he walked towards the ocean, dragging his feet through the sand until he felt it grow heavier near the water. His shoes dropped to the ground and his shirt was pulled over his his head, revealing his muscled torso. Wading into the sea, he let the water rise against his ankles, then his knees, then his waist. In the distance, he saw a wave building, rolling along the surface and snowballing towards him as the undercurrent pulled from behind him, trying but failing to drag him out to sea. Once it had almost crested, he lifted his arms over his head and dove into it, cutting through the water and resurfacing on the other side with the taste of salt on his lips. As he waited for the next wave, Alaric blinked the water from his eyes and ran a hand through his short brown hair. When it came close enough, he paddled into it and extended an arm above his head with his palm out, straightening his legs behind him. Soon he was traveling with the wave, on top of it, and it carried him towards the shore with so much force that it almost pulled him beneath the water. But it didn't--instead, he was flying, soaring towards the land on blue, salty wings. Once it had carried him to the shore, the wave threw him on the sand and retreated back out to the ocean, its blue tentacles losing their interest and creeping back down to meet the ocean again.
Pulling himself into a sitting position, Alaric spat into the sand to get rid of the salt in his mouth. As he sat brushing the wet silt off his bare skin and ruffling it out of his hair, he thought he saw someone approaching him and he watched them expectantly, wondering if they would speak to him.
OOC: Open to all, but I would appreciate a good quality post, 400+ words or so. I'm open to anything, I'd just like to develop my character more.text
thoughts
speech
lyrics
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