Dolli Tsonga, District 3 [Done]
Jul 4, 2013 15:45:28 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jul 4, 2013 15:45:28 GMT -5
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She curses the thought of taking care of herself. More because she thinks work is more important than her looks.[/color] Books and fixing are her passions—axel grease is more of an accessory than any pair of earrings could hope to be. Thick, black goggles are on her face for long stretches of the day. Dirt clings underneath her nails. The smell of smoke has never left her clothes, not in the long years she has turned to making the machines for the capitol. It’s a wonder anyone has ever taken notice of her at all. She knows the value of smelling like a hard day’s work.
She likes some things—little things—that make her a woman. That her father says she has her mother’s eyes. Looking into eyes is the way into the soul[/color], she says. Her tongue is long enough to stick onto her nose. All her teeth are in her head, and straight, too. Her complexion has never been bad—despite not washing all the time. A spitting image of Layla, her father says. But she’s seen pictures. There is more of her father in her, and very little of her mother remains. That she stretches out toward the clouds is the last gift she has left for her daughter.
The knobbiness of her knees bothers her. She hates her lips—Dolli says they are too big. That she can’t have the hair of the women in the capitol, what she would give to be so luxurious[/color] . It’s a contradiction, but only in the way she wished life could be so effortless. Aren’t all of us hypocrites[/color], she says. They are all so beautiful, without having to worry about soldering a piece of metal or constructing another thingamajig. To have someone take care of her like the stylists did for tributes every year would have been a blessing. Even someone to brush her hair before she went to sleep at night, and remind her she was beautiful, even when she wasn’t. Was that so much to ask?
She says little unless she’s asked, and even less when she’s not. There’s too much chatter in the world. People never say what they mean[/color], she says, you have to dig under the surface to find the truth[/color]. Think about how intricate a clock is, she likes to say. There are the tiniest of gears, piece by piece, that twist and turn. They work together to turn the hands. They tell us one thing, nothing more, nothing less. And underneath all of that glass, underneath all of the simplicity is a beating, breathing thing. A beautiful bag of bolts turns into one fantastic piece of machinery. To her, the simplicity is beautiful.
It’s the difference between other districts—they have their freedoms, if you could call it that. The way the lower districts roam the outdoors, fresh air, wide open spaces. But here the world is a shower of sparks and a twist of molten metal. Dolli walks through smoke and fire; she smells sulfur on a daily basis. But instead of shying away from the dark, she embraces it. Because there is beauty—watch her at a work table with her tiny forceps. A small turn of metal and one tiny piece becomes all important. It is different, to have so much put into one little thing[/color] she says, but without it, the piece is meaningless.[/color]
Missing pieces.[/color] At times, she feels there is a part of her that’s not all there. Not that she’s crazy, or immensely sad. But where the others have a fullness—an understanding of just who they are, Dolli still struggles to find her own identity. Is she a tinkerer? Could she be an engineer? She will never leave her father, not while he has taken to further and further removing himself from the world. He gets cold sweats at night, and walks with a cane now. Her life is her work, and the small sliver of family that she has left takes the rest of her time. There is no life here outside of what has been given to her. She is forever grateful to be alive, but what an aching yearning to find her place[/color].
Frederick and Layla were childhood friends. Born to poor families, the both of them grew up only children. They took to studying bits and pieces of electronics. Their first kisses were in the workshop of a junkyard along the edge of the district. They pledged that their love would last as long as the stars shone above; they told each other things that couples in love are want to do. Their wedding bands were twisted pieces of silver, inscribed with messages of love along the inside. Frederick made both of them out of a soldered piece of important metal. He used the scraps from a project to make them. Layla said yes, and the rest was history. Dolli likes to think of the story, all taking place in the little district of three, where the world is small and the people smaller still. There is so much talk of the careers, of districts with wide open spaces. But they have a victor, and love, and life, too.
Little things are surprising. She was born after thirty-six hours of labor. She wasn’t supposed to come so soon, but (as her father said[/color]) there was too much life in her. Her mother held on only long enough to christen her with the name Dolli—both after the machine that helped carry materials and did all the heavy lifting, and the name of the most beautiful little doll she’d had as a child. Too much blood left her after that. She didn’t wake. Her father never left her side the entire time, and whispered to her after she’d closed her eyes. Dolli thinks that was the start of his health issues. After all, with a broken heart, it wouldn’t take much for the rest of his body to break too.
She didn’t have a woman’s touch. While her father taught her the best way to solder a circuit or to turn a loose bolt, there were no dolls or hand holding. He wishes that he could’ve been better so that she wasn’t so out of sorts around other girls her age. Dolli likes to say her eyes might roll out of her head if she has to be around other girls for too long. Hemming and hawing about clothes or boys haven’t ever interested her. Finishing her work and keeping it just perfect excite her more than anything. She wants to be the best engineer the district has ever seen. This means she doesn’t have time to get distracted by the little things.
Now she spends most of her days in the workshop. Day and night she’ll toil away at a project, her nimble little hands gracing over tools with precision. She doesn’t care much for the world around her—the games are noise in the background, the sounds of birds or wildlife foreign completely. She barely eats, and she and her father stay hidden from most. Perhaps her confidence betrays her quiet stoicism, but she doesn’t fear much. Everything is solvable, and for now she’s fairly certain that she’s where she wants to be.
{Word Count} 1359
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[/color]
{Name} Dolli Tsonga
{Age} 15
{District} 3
{Gender} Female~~~
Does beauty grow in the darkness? Between the bits of grime and smog, or the billowing clouds of black that fill the sky, can anything hope to survive this place? They didn’t think she would—born two months early, mother passing, body all bundled up with no one to love—but Dolli wouldn’t give up on the world so easy. Her father says she has a face of glass—so pretty, but fragile enough that touch it and it might break into a thousand pieces. She’s well aware of her differences from the rest of the district—darker skin, longer frame, coarse hair. But there’s a beauty in this place—a beauty in her she won’t deny. Because fragile is beautiful, when all else is so threatened as not to live.
She curses the thought of taking care of herself. More because she thinks work is more important than her looks.[/color] Books and fixing are her passions—axel grease is more of an accessory than any pair of earrings could hope to be. Thick, black goggles are on her face for long stretches of the day. Dirt clings underneath her nails. The smell of smoke has never left her clothes, not in the long years she has turned to making the machines for the capitol. It’s a wonder anyone has ever taken notice of her at all. She knows the value of smelling like a hard day’s work.
She likes some things—little things—that make her a woman. That her father says she has her mother’s eyes. Looking into eyes is the way into the soul[/color], she says. Her tongue is long enough to stick onto her nose. All her teeth are in her head, and straight, too. Her complexion has never been bad—despite not washing all the time. A spitting image of Layla, her father says. But she’s seen pictures. There is more of her father in her, and very little of her mother remains. That she stretches out toward the clouds is the last gift she has left for her daughter.
The knobbiness of her knees bothers her. She hates her lips—Dolli says they are too big. That she can’t have the hair of the women in the capitol, what she would give to be so luxurious[/color] . It’s a contradiction, but only in the way she wished life could be so effortless. Aren’t all of us hypocrites[/color], she says. They are all so beautiful, without having to worry about soldering a piece of metal or constructing another thingamajig. To have someone take care of her like the stylists did for tributes every year would have been a blessing. Even someone to brush her hair before she went to sleep at night, and remind her she was beautiful, even when she wasn’t. Was that so much to ask?
~~~
She says little unless she’s asked, and even less when she’s not. There’s too much chatter in the world. People never say what they mean[/color], she says, you have to dig under the surface to find the truth[/color]. Think about how intricate a clock is, she likes to say. There are the tiniest of gears, piece by piece, that twist and turn. They work together to turn the hands. They tell us one thing, nothing more, nothing less. And underneath all of that glass, underneath all of the simplicity is a beating, breathing thing. A beautiful bag of bolts turns into one fantastic piece of machinery. To her, the simplicity is beautiful.
It’s the difference between other districts—they have their freedoms, if you could call it that. The way the lower districts roam the outdoors, fresh air, wide open spaces. But here the world is a shower of sparks and a twist of molten metal. Dolli walks through smoke and fire; she smells sulfur on a daily basis. But instead of shying away from the dark, she embraces it. Because there is beauty—watch her at a work table with her tiny forceps. A small turn of metal and one tiny piece becomes all important. It is different, to have so much put into one little thing[/color] she says, but without it, the piece is meaningless.[/color]
Missing pieces.[/color] At times, she feels there is a part of her that’s not all there. Not that she’s crazy, or immensely sad. But where the others have a fullness—an understanding of just who they are, Dolli still struggles to find her own identity. Is she a tinkerer? Could she be an engineer? She will never leave her father, not while he has taken to further and further removing himself from the world. He gets cold sweats at night, and walks with a cane now. Her life is her work, and the small sliver of family that she has left takes the rest of her time. There is no life here outside of what has been given to her. She is forever grateful to be alive, but what an aching yearning to find her place[/color].
~~~
Frederick and Layla were childhood friends. Born to poor families, the both of them grew up only children. They took to studying bits and pieces of electronics. Their first kisses were in the workshop of a junkyard along the edge of the district. They pledged that their love would last as long as the stars shone above; they told each other things that couples in love are want to do. Their wedding bands were twisted pieces of silver, inscribed with messages of love along the inside. Frederick made both of them out of a soldered piece of important metal. He used the scraps from a project to make them. Layla said yes, and the rest was history. Dolli likes to think of the story, all taking place in the little district of three, where the world is small and the people smaller still. There is so much talk of the careers, of districts with wide open spaces. But they have a victor, and love, and life, too.
Little things are surprising. She was born after thirty-six hours of labor. She wasn’t supposed to come so soon, but (as her father said[/color]) there was too much life in her. Her mother held on only long enough to christen her with the name Dolli—both after the machine that helped carry materials and did all the heavy lifting, and the name of the most beautiful little doll she’d had as a child. Too much blood left her after that. She didn’t wake. Her father never left her side the entire time, and whispered to her after she’d closed her eyes. Dolli thinks that was the start of his health issues. After all, with a broken heart, it wouldn’t take much for the rest of his body to break too.
She didn’t have a woman’s touch. While her father taught her the best way to solder a circuit or to turn a loose bolt, there were no dolls or hand holding. He wishes that he could’ve been better so that she wasn’t so out of sorts around other girls her age. Dolli likes to say her eyes might roll out of her head if she has to be around other girls for too long. Hemming and hawing about clothes or boys haven’t ever interested her. Finishing her work and keeping it just perfect excite her more than anything. She wants to be the best engineer the district has ever seen. This means she doesn’t have time to get distracted by the little things.
Now she spends most of her days in the workshop. Day and night she’ll toil away at a project, her nimble little hands gracing over tools with precision. She doesn’t care much for the world around her—the games are noise in the background, the sounds of birds or wildlife foreign completely. She barely eats, and she and her father stay hidden from most. Perhaps her confidence betrays her quiet stoicism, but she doesn’t fear much. Everything is solvable, and for now she’s fairly certain that she’s where she wants to be.
~~~
{Word Count} 1359
Odair
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