Forging Memories {Stand-Alone}

It was cold in the district, but in the blacksmiths shop it was searing hot. Steam rose and beaded Kirk Marshall's forehead with sweat. The rhythmic clang of the hammer on metal filled his mind and cleared it of anything else. It was the day after reaping day, which meant that he had an important work to do, a work that he had committed himself to doing ever since his boss had decided to allow him to use the forge after business hours. Every year he made a pair of nameplates embossed with a little something special. It was too early in the games to know what he was going to put on them just yet, but he had the names, and that was what was going on as soon as possible. It had taken some time to hammer out the two rectangles of metal, but they were more or less the same size as all the ones he had made in the years before. Kirk stopped for a moment to catch his breath and chug a bit of water from his jug. While he did so, he glanced at the nameplates he had made just the previous year and had hung on the wall opposite the anvil. Bae Fescue and Motel Hunt. One was embossed with flowers and the other with a pattern reminiscent of the pattern one would see on a milking cow. Neither tribute had made it very far in the games, but both were now a part of district history and Kirk felt it was his job to let people know that.

And every now and then, people agreed with him. Why, just take Mace Emberstatt for example. The victor had won a few nameplates at the county fair a few years ago and appeared to rather cherish them. The Mayor had even come by once or twice and commended him on what he was doing. Feeling it might be time for a real break, Kirk pulled up a chair and pulled out a pail with his lunch in it. It was simple fare, but filling and good. A roast beef sandwich with cheddar cheese and mayonnaise and an apple on the the side. He munched on the food, letting the flavors swirl around his tongue before swallowing. It was a good life in district ten. Open fields, the sounds of livestock, the smell of hay. It wasn't like in the career districts where it sounded like everything was artificial. No, district ten was a little slice of reality complete with horseshoes, big hats, and sweet potato pie. Yessir, Kirk decided he had him a good life, and for sure, none of the other districts knew how to make them a decent sarsaparilla. Or a shepherd's pie. No, it was the humble backyard cooks of his home that knew how to make real food. If it was an animal then it could be barbecued and nearly every family had their own secret sauce.

There was a real sense of community that Kirk felt people would be hard pressed to find in other places. Polishing off the last bits of his lunch, he dusted the crumbs off of his pant legs and stretched before picking up some of his tools. He started to engrave names on the pair of new plates, taking great care to make them nice and neat. In the space of about an hour apiece, Mantel Scoff and Saffron Rowe had plates just like all the other past tributes he had made. He just hoped that he'd be able to melt one down the way he did when Mace won. It was his hope that he'd only have to put one nameplate on the wall for the sixty-fifth hunger games. Shrugging some doubts away, he set the name plates aside and starting working on some of the weeks orders. It wasn't much considering that not a lot of work was done while the games were in session, but there were still a few things. Old man McCready needed a new bell for his prize cow, and another shipment of novelty horseshoes was wanted by the Capitol. Kirk decided to do the cowbell first because the idea of novelty items was quite frankly, an insult to his skills. In fact, it was more of an insult to the entire trade and the district itself.

The items they sent to the Capitol were usually cheap, because it was just something for capitolite children to use as faux tokens as they cheered for their favorite tribute. As such, they were made to break easy so that they'd have to repeatedly buy new ones. Supply and demand. But they were really quite awful and made of the shoddiest tin painted shiny to look nice. Kirk counted himself lucky that he only needed to pound out the shape; that the painting was either done in another district or the Capitol. He wasn't really sure which one. One year, they had wanted little leather saddles at a size for pet dogs to wear. That had been a small nightmare to make based on their designs because they wanted a one size fits all deal. Whatever the case, whatever the job, Kirk always felt it was secondary to getting his nameplates done, because unlike those cheap toys, the nameplates were a little slice of home, and that was what mattered. The hiss of water meeting hot metal filled up the room, and Kirk used a pair of tongs to pull the cowbell out of the water. It had set nicely and the hole for the rope and halter hadn't closed, so he wouldn't have to redo anything. Setting it aside, he took a look at the order for the Capitol again. He was far from the only blacksmith in the district, but he still had a large quota to fill, and so with a grunt, the sound of a hammer striking metal was once again the only sound to be heard.