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Ivana Vox [Chime]
Merchant

140 POSTS
last seen Dec 20, 2013 19:21:19 GMT -5

a path to trace » clover Jun 11, 2013 23:19:51 GMT -5

Post by Ivana Vox [Chime] on Jun 11, 2013 23:19:51 GMT -5

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Thud, thud, thump.

No, that wasn't quite right. There were no words to explain the rushing in Linden's ears, no onomatopoeia for the way his heart was beating up against his chest, pushing and pushing, wanting his ribs to bend out, to open up his torso for all the world to see. His grin was crooked and boyish, his hair sticking up at odd angles from his hands running through it and spreading sweat from root to tip, his cheekbones flushed pink with sunlight and something else that made him glow.

Most people would think he looked happy. He wasn't. He was euphoric. The way he could only be after doing something dangerous.

Something a lot like crawling under the fence at District 5, where pollution was smeared onto windows and everything had a sheen of oily grime. You could probably pick up the fingerprints of everyone who had ever touched any doorknob in the square, layered one over the other with their sickening rainbow lustre. It was absolutely disgusting. To be honest, the area around wasn't that much better. The fumes extended too far. They spread their deadly fingers up, up, up into the sky, and in that moment, they were turning the horizon into a symphony of the most beautiful colours the world had to offer. Rich, warm oranges blending into crimson red, like the feathers woven into the hair of the most flamboyant in the Capitol. Subdued pinks layered over soft lavenders that circled and swirled with powdery blue, fading away into the aquamarine of the untouched area above.

Funny how pollution does that. It chokes your lungs and makes your eyes water, but then it gives you a reason to keep filling your lungs with a gasp as you take in scenery that belongs in a gallery. It's a perfectly trained killing machine, giving you exactly what you want so you don't realize as it crawls under your skin and lets you drown.

Linden loved it.

Sure, sometimes he couldn't catch his breath, but it was never to stop and smell the roses. He had to keep going. Where? He didn't know. Did it matter? No.

"Didn't you go to work today?"

"Damn." "Of course I did."

"Aren't you tired?"

He didn't even know who this girl was, just that he really wanted him off of his back. So he dropped her a wink and shrugged, giving her a small, two-fingered salute. "I never am, little girl." And then he was off again, rushing against the setting sun.

Market first, then he could go home. He was supposed to be back hours ago, in time for dinner. He never was, but most of the time he at least made an effort to come up with an excuse. He didn't want to be rude, he just didn't want to be caged.

Once he got to the square, he couldn't help but stroll around for a little while. He wasn't really lost in his own head, he just wasn't paying attention to what was going on around him. He was on a runner's high still, and the fact that he had a few handfuls of berries and tubers tucked away in his book bag just added to that. He'd have food to bring home to his family, something to support them. Not that his father couldn't. Just that the peacekeeper didn't care. So that was why he didn't really click into something bad happening until he heard a yelp.

When he turned, he already knew what he'd see.

Or maybe he didn't, not exactly. It was that girl, the one that had stopped him on his way past the fence, and a peacekeeper speaking in an eerily calm, even voice. Even as she snatched the girls drawstring bag off of her arm and dumped out a few handfuls of... Oh.

Wild things. Evidence that she'd been out past the fence, when he was almost certain she had never once seen past District 5.

Don't get any ideas, Linden is not heroic. He's just beyond caring.

Which is why he pushed through the crowd and, facing ~~one of his father's friends~~ a burly, dark-haired peacekeeper head on, asked in a voice too loud for the hush that had fallen across the crowd:

"Is there a problem here?"

When he reeled from the slap across his face and tasted copper flood his mouth, all he could do was smile.

Thud, thud, thump.

it was books that made me feel that perhaps i was not completely alone

florentine, d4b ❁
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a path to trace » clover Jun 12, 2013 4:41:38 GMT -5

Post by florentine, d4b ❁ on Jun 12, 2013 4:41:38 GMT -5

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arwen

[/color][/center]

it just takes a second
for my world
to come crumbling
d o w n

The window is foggy on the inside; a lone droplet of water snakes it's way down the pane, rushing toward the ground in a frantic escape. I draw my name in loopy writing, cursive letters intertwined. The heavy mist that lingers here is the result of our lungs - Silas and I, drawing breath after breath through the endless night. A fleeting hour has passed since morning's harsh arrival, and still the boy tangled within his sheets does not stir. Gently, my fingers begin to tap at the glass. Knock, knock, knock. It seems like a desperate plea for escape, and so I pick up my skirts, run my hand through my tangled hair and make for the door. There, I pause for a moment and glance back at my saviour. He sleeps on, and I leave him.

Still, the blackness seeps down from the attic staining the walls of the hallway and splashing dark stains in my heart. Even now, I can see the flames caressing my delicate body, hear the crumbling of my world. The taste of ashes is the one thing of which I am certain. I pause on the landing, unsure if I can hear Lilith downstairs. The baby cried a little while ago, so undoubtedly darling Lilith is awake and ready, building perfection for the day ahead. It's a goal she always fights for and never quite achieves. Nonetheless, I hold my breath and sneak into Ara's empty room. From here, I can clamber up onto the window seat, unlatch the grand double-windows and make my way somewhat ungracefully onto the old sycamore tree that gave this house it's name.

I fall the last few feet, landing in the mud. Leaves from last fall scatter in my wake, and the memory of Ruth sketching them, eyes almost closed in concentration, brings a smile to my lips. One last, paranoid glance over my shoulder reveals that I am alone. Without direction, I begin to walk. Morning dew weighs down upon the unruly wheat, it's dried, dead weight brushing against my bare legs. For a moment, I contemplate letting myself collapse into it, and hiding there out of sight until somebody stumbles across my bare bones. Eyes down, keep walking, I tell myself sternly, for although I left my home without a plan, one has developed in my mind as I walked.

I need to be as far away from here as possible. Although I know very little of the district - (a direct result of hiding away on the hill with a family of orphans and a lost old woman) - it's easy enough to tell where the center is. Last time I ventured this far was reaping day, when my hands grasped each other tightly and my stomach knotted and I began to believe in love again, if only for a morning. A cloud of smoke lingers over the main streets, painting our own secluded corner in a rare, positive light. At least here, in our own broken-down sanctuary, rolling hills give way to fields and trees, backed by an ugly, chain-wire fence. Inside, though, is the best place to be.

These days, I try not to think of my first family. Rosy-cheeked angels with halos of golden hair haunt me only in my sleeping hours, while my new circle of heros tears at my heart while I'm awake. Long walks toward the rising sun, however, seem to pull sadness from the depths of any heart. On my fingers, I count them. Each stolen life, a child who better deserved it than me. This, like every other train of thought I have the stupidity to follow, leads me back to the fire. No matches, just me and the sunlight. And then the jet-black, charred remains of what once was. The even more bitter darkness in the eyes of those who I love most; the emotion called blame. They might not believe me, but I understand that more than any of them.

Beneath a tree, a little way from the center of town, I stop and rest. It's almost midday by now - my sore feet and heavy mind have considerably slowed my pace. Shortcuts do nothing for a girl with a day to kill and only one District to explore, and so I take the long way around. In the shade of the elm, I inhale the whispers of truth left by factories and machinery. The smog is proof that people value money over beauty, a painful life over the calm of death. I am the worst of these. Despite not caring for gold coins or luxuries, I am endlessly greedy, helping myself to people I do not deserve. Without thanks, Lilith and Edgar protect my soul and my dignity, while Silas battles for my scarse smiles. They are not alone. In spite of my countless wrongdoings, Sycamore House holds eight people who let me reside within their walls. The walls I destroyed.

There are endless words I could spill to describe to them my gratitude - but I am Arwen, and my chosen method of thanks is sneaking off at dawn and spending the day drowning in my own sorrows. Perhaps it is for the best that my mind is cleared. For me, thoughts upon thoughts lead to mindless panics, with flailing arms and tears that only Silas can calm. He whispers to me, and I crave that. Either way, I strive to avoid the implosion of pain upon my temple, the regrets stacked so high they cannot help but fall.

It is late afternoon when I awaken. My first thought is not for my family, as I know it should be. Instead, my mind flickers to the destination I have not yet reached. My eyes flicker upward, and I hazard a guess that I might have another couple of hours before sundown. Again, I begin my determined trail toward the town, eyes resting heavily on the ground. Quickly, Arwen. Soon, my toes no longer press into grass and pine-needles, but concrete and stone. The square approaches, not looking nearly as foreboding as it did the last time I ventured this far. Enveloped in people with downturned eyes and hurried shadows, it looks almost welcoming. Suddenly, I am aware of my torn blue dress and the mud that streaks my cheeks. Nobody notices me.

At first, this irritates me. Then, the idea that I could be anyone and anything, with no haunting past and broken future, greets me. Here, I am simply a girl covered in goosebumps, shivering and without a jacket. Strangely, I like this. "Is there a problem here?" the voice of a boy snaps me from my useless daydreams. In my mind, I begin to answer his question. There are endless, countless infinite problems here. All around me, stretching far beyond the District edge, there are problems. In the end, aren't we all just problems ourselves? It takes the harsh shrill of a slap to focus my attention on the boy himself. He's muscular and beautiful, staring a Peacekeeper in the eye. Beside them, a small girl cowers over an open bag. I don't know the details, but they are easy enough to guess.

Mostly, I try to avoid other people's problems. I have enough of my own. Today, though, far from my fellow orphans and absolutely not home in time for dinner, I am free. Free to do and say what I please. (Although, if you ask Laila, I already do and say exactly that.) "I told you you weren't to run off again," I scold the boy, grabbing his arm and yanking him way from the Peacekeeper. I nod as politely as I can muster, simultaneously trying to flatten my wild hair with my free hand. "As you were." My tone is sour, condescending. So perfectly Arwen it is almost as though the fire didn't snap me in half and burn me right to the ground.

We are overtaken from the crowd, separated from the scowling Peacekeeper by a few feet. Already, she has turned back to the girl and forgotten about my charge. As soon as I can, I bite my lip, turn to him and declare his ignorance. "Are you a complete idiot? You deserved that slap."[/b] Even I, rebel-queen of Sycamore House, knew when to keep my nose out of official business. Apparently, today wasn't one of those times.

words by clover.
plot by clover.
template by clover.
faceclaim is cari ann wayman.

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Ivana Vox [Chime]
Merchant

140 POSTS
last seen Dec 20, 2013 19:21:19 GMT -5

a path to trace » clover Jun 14, 2013 1:31:42 GMT -5

Post by Ivana Vox [Chime] on Jun 14, 2013 1:31:42 GMT -5

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I reeled from the slap across my cheek, feeling the tingling sting left behind on my skin. It felt like a thousand tiny pinpricks, heating and glowing against my face. I didn't think she would wind up that much, but it's been so long since I've gotten myself mixed up in official rule breaking, the kind that I actually let myself get caught for. I never can be proved guilty unless I want to be, and then it's for minor breaches. The kind I can get out of, maybe with a pout of my soft lips or a few snappy comebacks; sometimes even the wide eyes of ignorance and the scruffy look of a boy that didn't know any better. I could plea for help now, I suppose. I could say that I just wanted to help, that I was doing it out of the goodness of my heart. That this little girl I didn't know reminded me of a cousin that I didn't actually have, and it broke my heart to see her in trouble.

No one expected any of that from me though. Not me, not the boy who didn't back down from anything, no matter how dangerous. I could hear the mutters that rippled through the crowd with me the rock in the centre that got thrown into the water. I started all of this, caught all of these people's attention even when they tried to look away from the stranger pickpocket. I could hold this kind of power in my hands, and it filled me with a sense of elation so great I could float away. I'm always far away though, somewhere between this world and one where everything is a great adventure, even the tiniest feats of strength and violence. I tick to my own rhythm and tell the time of a destination that doesn't exist. No one's allowed in my realm.

Not even the crowd that surrounds me as I stare the Peacekeeper head on. I cannot let them think even for a second that I could fear them, not when I don't do anything of the sort. They rule all of Panem based on their own arrogance, but I know that it doesn't run deep. My father is a coward, more or a coward than anyone who really lives in the districts. He runs away from everything he can't control. He ran away from my family because he couldn't figure out how to program us to not have a free will, he couldn't convince my mother that we needed to train just like the Careers. I always said it would take the fun out of the Games to already know what to do and what to expect, that they wouldn't be anything at all without a little bit of risk. That was when I was five. He already knew I was something unique then, and he hated that. He hated me. Now he's standing feet away, his eyes drilling into the back of my head. I can feel his gaze more heavily than my fire-red cheek. It makes my head tilt up higher and my smile widen across my face. Let him see. Let him see what I became without a second of his help.

I open my mouth to say something else, to get these Peacekeeper riled up from where she's already fuming. She doesn't like that I've recovered so quickly and she hates how I'm looking at her, but she can't put me on trial for that alone. She might be able to whip me for treason, but even that she wouldn't have enough evidence for to do anything serious about. It's a fine line we dance between rule and revolution. They can't push the districts too far or they won't ever be able to take back the consequences, and they can't try to explain away that risk. If this Peacekeeper starts something big she'll wish that she had killed herself instead of battered and maimed me, trying and trying and trying to get me to break. I hope distantly that the way I'm looking at her tells her all she needs to know about exactly how fragile I am. I hope she can see that I'm made out of the diamonds that are so sought after in the Capitol.

I mean to speak, but I'm silenced by safety in the form of a wild-haired girl, the third stranger to touch me that day. It has to be a record; most people avoid my skin like fearlessness is a disease that can be caught by contact and burns you away from the inside out. For a second, I almost tell her to screw off, that I don't know her and that I refuse to go anywhere with her, but then she might get drawn closer into the circle formed by the crowd and I'm not sure if I could let two innocents suffer in one day. I won't admit it, but the shock of being grabbed makes me stumble away without my mind's consent. Once I actually realize what's happening it's too late to do anything.

"I told you you weren't to run off again," the words run through my mind as I turn my head, saluting the Peacekeeper before pressing my hand to my lips, waving just the tips of my fingers as I'm dragged away. I can see the colour rising in her face, her cheekbones turning a blotchy red-purple-pale that reminds me vaguely of a rash or some kind of flesh-eating illness. If it were possible to spontaneously combust from anger, I'm sure she'd be swallowed by a column of flames right now, screeching and letting all of those she'd wrongly punished free. It's definitely for the best that I've found my feet under me and I'm still moving towards the mystery girl with fiery locks of hair, keeping so close behind her that I can feel the fabric of her clothing against my shirt, scratching together with dirt and the harsh fibres that were meant to last longer but just made me itch. I wonder who she could be, but more than that I wonder why she cares. Or why she has the authority to drag me away and no one thinks twice about it, even though it's obvious we're not related with my tan compared to her porcelain.

Then suddenly we've stopped, my body lurching as I fight propulsion to keep myself from falling headfirst into her shoulder. It's not until I catch my balance until I can reply to her outburst, a perfectly true statement even though it's largely unnecessary. More like stating the obvious than any kind of true scolding, but she doesn't know me or the things I do. She hasn't seen the scars that mark my body or the bruises that fade all over my shins. I can forgive her for her own oblivion, though I doubt she'll forgive me for my perceived idiocy. In fact, I think myself a bit of a genius. I know exactly how to get what I want, and what more do you need?

"I'm not," I start, because I refuse to let her call me names, even if she's supposed to be my hero. She's not a guardian angel, and if she is I want her gone. I don't need someone to protect me, I need someone to let me run free and do whatever I want, no matter what the consequences to myself may be. "But you're right, I did." I know that my eyes are glittering now as the skin on my cheekbone starts to turn an even angrier shade of pained and the flesh starts to swell just a bit, enough to tell me that I'm going to bruise. Maybe even have a bit of a black eye. It won't be the first given to me by a Peacekeeper, and it probably won't be the last. Sometimes I think they get a kick out of playing with me, like a cat toying with a mouse before it finally catches it and eats it alive. But the difference is they'll never catch me.

Now it's my turn to lead, and I take her gently by the wrist to pull her to the grass, away from parading feet of people who don't stop to think of ways to have fun, only ways to keep on living a life that consists only of working and dying. "You didn't have to interfere," I remind her gently, sitting down in weeds that crackle under my weight. The heat has dried them to something brown and unrecognizable, though they look like they might have once been dandelions, probably the kind that someone made a wish on that never came true. "I would have done fine on my own. Probably. It's that probably that makes it worth it. The chance that I wouldn't.

I tilt my head as I consider her for a second, and then ask quite plainly, "What do you want from me, anyways? I may have never asked for what you did, but I should probably repay you anyways. I can do just about anything-" then, with the over exagerated drop of a wink and drawling words meant to shock "-or anyone, if that's what you're after."

it was books that made me feel that perhaps i was not completely alone

florentine, d4b ❁
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Pronouns: she/her
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a path to trace » clover Jul 13, 2013 6:39:31 GMT -5

Post by florentine, d4b ❁ on Jul 13, 2013 6:39:31 GMT -5

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ARWEN

S YCAMORE

[/color]
the girl who wanted [/b][/size][/color][/font][/center]

i don't like strangers
people on the streets with curious eyes
they look at me and i can't tell what they're thinking
i don't know who they are
do they like the colour blue?
at night, do they lay restless, between dreams and consciousness?

when they look at me, i don't feel like they are wondering the same things
is she homeless?
why is she not wearing shoes and why doesn't her mother fix her hair?
i haven't seen her about before
what's a young think like her doing out at night, alone?
why is she crying

maybe they care, and maybe they don't
more than likely they're simply preoccupied
with intruding into the business of others
because their own lives aren't good enough
to satisfy their craving for mystery

i should have them know that my life is mysterious
many questions haunt me
and i wont ever find the answer
i think the people on the streets should have a go at looking
and then decide if they really want to pry

silas says i am too wary of people
that smiling and saying hi wont kill me
and i laugh and think about the fire
and the children in the house who coughed at the smoke
and think that perhaps
i am not worried about killing myself
but causing their deaths, instead

today i broke my golden rule
to keep my eyes on the pavement
unnoticed and untouched
tangled myself where i wasn't wanted
if only to wrestle with the bordem that is winning in the battle with my mind

nobody is yelling
nobody is calling me names or laughing
there is a boy standing before me
and i get the feeling he isn't a stranger anymore
because i just saved him from something
whatever that something was
and he's grateful
and i am glad

but when i look at him, the first thing my mind does
is compare him to the other boy
the one i left at home
silas, with his dark hair and dark eyes and knowing smile
although sometimes i wonder
if he knows anything at all

if silas knows anything, it is me
and the boy i am staring at is the exact oposite
he doesn't know that i lit my house alight
and almost perished in the flames
he can't see the scars that cover my body, not in this fading light
to him i am a girl
and to me he is a boy

and maybe he will be enough to take the pain away
i doubt it
but the yearning in my heart
threatens to bring tears to my eyes
and once they start
they do not stop
besides, i need a place to stay

he makes his offer
and he winks
and inside me something stirs
i remind myself he is not silas
and then it occurs to me that he may be exactly what i need
not silas
not anybody i know
a night; a stranger; something to numb everything

i nod, grab onto his arm again and grin
"i can't say i have anywhere else to be tonight"
i lie
i left the house without letting anybody know this morning
and by now dinner will be on the table
and hopefully they will be worrying
but probably not

"and it's awfully cold out"
i smile, sickening myself
and then i remind myself
i can do anything i want to do
and be anyone i want to be
because i am not arwen

i stick out my hand and lean toward the boy
"i don't believe i've had the pleasure"
i smirk
"i'm lana"
with each word, it's easier to pretend
and suddenly, it doesn't feel like i'm pretending anymore

. . .

thank you chelsey for the template

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Ivana Vox [Chime]
Merchant

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a path to trace » clover Jul 18, 2013 13:08:03 GMT -5

Post by Ivana Vox [Chime] on Jul 18, 2013 13:08:03 GMT -5

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I don’t know this place or the people in it, not the way some do. I can’t name the cats on the street or the girls that tear at their mothers dresses, can’t find a face in the crowd and be able to list ten interesting facts about them. I don’t know who makes like a shadow in the night and darts along the paths of the Peacekeepers or anyone with a few coins to spare, anyone with a warm house and a warmer bed. I don’t know anything about the ghosts that haunt the corners of this place. I can’t even tell myself my own name without my head spinning a bit, wondering if I left it back somewhere, way back in a pool of my own blood or a gasp for air as I went skidding across the ground. Sometimes I wonder if with every injury and reckless mistake, I’ve left little Easter egg Lindens strewn across the land.

It doesn’t matter anyways, because there’s a girl. A girl who may have saved my life, the life that I use as carelessly as a cigarette to be smoked and thrown on the dust, stomped out into a flickering ember then nothing at all. I’ve flared up and died down a thousand times, but this stranger decided to stir the last few sparks and bring me back instead of let someone else stomp me out. I owe her my life, and the thought hangs heavy in my head. What good is my own life to a girl who doesn’t know me, who might be insane or a killer anyways, who could be anything in the world, but certainly not in need of a boy who doesn’t know that there’s a line to be crossed, or, at the very least, is blind to the mark in the sand? But I intend to repay my debts, even if I don’t know how.

But the sun is playing it’s game of hide-and-go-seek, and the moon’s already started counting down from twenty. It’s almost time for the stars to come out, and I know that we should go separate ways like strangers do. My debt will not be repaid today, or maybe not ever, for this stranger should be a stranger to me always. Another figure cast in the crawling, creeping shadows that will soon swallow her whole in my mind and make her just another game, another offer that I didn’t think through or take seriously. A little itch that in a few months that I’ll mistake for a thirst for a new adventure, a new excuse so I can go searching into the dark and look for all the gnashing teeth and growling monsters that are said to haunt the forests.

Instead she’s touching me, holding onto my arm, and suddenly I don’t know what to do. It doesn’t show, not with the grin on my face or the careless way my free hand goes to reach into my hair, running through and making more of a mess than before. I don’t know what she’s playing at, but I can’t seem to care, not when a closer look shows what was already suggested in the fading light, not when I notice that she’s beautiful and I don’t have a single responsibility that I care enough about to shy away. This is not a way to make a payment, but maybe it’s a start, or maybe it’s at least enough that I won’t go to sleep feeling sick knowing that I owe someone more than I can conjure.

I’m intoxicated by her smile, and can’t help but start walking, leading now instead of being led. This is a different kind of danger to the ones I chase, the kind that comes with links and cares and a need to live in the hope that someone else will care. I know I should turn away.

"Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to follow criminals home?"

Somehow I’ve turned my body, shielding her from the summer night breeze and the murmurs of the crowd we’ve left behind. I don’t remember the last time I brought a girl home, don’t remember why I did it or where we ended up or how we got there, and suddenly the edges of the present are blurring so I’m acting in a way that I don’t want to. Or maybe I do want this, maybe I want the thrill of doing something that won’t just affect me. I’m using this girl like poison and I know it, a toxin to seep under my skin for just one night.

But the stars are waiting to start their dance across the sky, and for once I don’t want to be alone with them and the moon. Still lonely, even if she’s pressed against my side, but not alone.

There’s something wrong with the way the girl says her name, something about the way her lips curve around it or her tongue twists to make up the vowels. It’s still all soft edges and floaty syllables, close to luna and moon and the night is calling and I can’t stop myself from answering as I take her hand and pull her close.

"Linden."

My breath is on her forehead and one hand is still wrapped gently around her wrist, the fragile collection of bones that I know are too easy to snap. I know it’s wrong when I gently brush her hair away from her face, but I stay for a minute too long before tearing myself away and instead flashing her a careless smile. A warning or a challenge, I’m not sure which it is. Either way I’m tugging at her, trying to get her to run before someone catches up, before we’re chased by Peacekeepers or a familiar face. There’s a different kind of glee in my voice when I speak, something not born of adrenaline or pain, a tone that sounds a bit like a laugh or a child screaming "you’re it!" as they play a harmless game of tag.

"Catch me."

And then I’m running, blindly hoping that she follows.

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Last Edit: Jul 22, 2013 12:30:00 GMT -5 by Ivana Vox [Chime]

it was books that made me feel that perhaps i was not completely alone