} airborne { // Tristen

let your colors burn and brightly burst
into a million sparks that all disperse
and illuminate a world that'll try to bring you down

My name is Kienna Warren, and I know how to fly.

Well, technically, I haven't really tested any of the machinary yet. Or really built it, for that matter. But I know it works - I've gone over the math a thousand times and drawn out the blueprints to the very last detail. I slaved over those drawings for hours. Now they're tucked safely away under my matress, hidden from Uncle's disapproving eyes. He tore up the last blueprints. He'd rather see me up in the gears of the clock tower than swooping through the air with my crazy flying machines. And he absolutely despises it when I talk about hovercrafts. He says it's a far fetched dream to actually pilot one. I'm a pauper, seventeen years old and fresh from the scum of District Three. What filthy rich government official would ever want me behind the wheel? It doesn't matter if, in all technicality, I actually am a Capitolite.

Although, I suppose that if someone saw me now, they wouldn't guess it. Capitolites don't tend to wear stained jeans and an oversized worn leather coat, or have multiple strange substances hardening strands of hair together, or cling to the framework of a rusty old clock tower with a staggering drop beneath them. My breath leaves a small cloud of silver on the air as I tightly grip the icy metal bar above my head, struggling to find a good, flat surface for my feet. Winter is always the worst time to be a clock tower keeper - all my handholds freeze over and become so slick that I come far too close to a sickening meeting with gravity far too many times to count. Gloves only make it worse, and sometimes I feel my fingers will freeze right off one of these days. But on nights like these, just after a fresh snowfall, it's always worth it. I wrap my arm sturdily around the bar as my feet finally find a good place to stand, lips tilting up into a smile. Beneath me District Three shimmers, untainted by the pollution and muddy footsteps that will indefinitely make their appearance in the morning.

Up this high, I swear I can hear the laughter of the stars. They taunt me, leaping and bounding just beyond my reach, glittering against the darkness. It's hard to see them from the ground because of everything the factories let drift up into the air, but up above the poison they seem so close that if I just let go of the icy rail I could hold one in the palm of my hand. (Someday I'll race a shooting star.) And yet, stretch as I might, my fingertips only brush against air, and I am once again painfully reminded of my earth-bound state. Gravity weighs me down, anchoring me to a harsh reality. I am a peasants, and peasants don't have the privilege of flying.

F. L. Y. Fly. It's the first word I learned how to spell.

There has to be a way.

The loud clanging noise from within the lower part of the tower reaches me even from up here, and I frown. It's too early for Uncle to be returning, and even in his most drunken state he doesn't cause that much of a ruckus. Years of working the tower alone have taught him as much. Adjusting my stance atop the slick surface I tug the leather coat tighter around me, glancing at the beam I was supposed to tighten for a fleeting instant before sighing and dropping down from my perch, swinging through familiar ladders and footholds until I slip through an open window and once again hit solid ground - the uppermost floor of the tower. I hear unfamiliar voices, too loud, obnoxious, and young to be anyone of importance. I glance at the table where I usually keep my tools, gritting my teeth. It happens from time to time. Stupid teenagers sneak in at night in an attempt to see the "monkey-girl" who never leaves the tower. Ridiculous stories, of course, but the majority of them aren't bright enough to figure that out. Heaving a breath of frustration, I grab a wrench. More often than not I'm able to scare them away if I stick to the shadows and keep my voice loud.

Descending the metal stairs silently, I hold up the wrench in a threatening manor, ducking my head down low and loosening my coat to make myself look bigger and wilder than I am. The voices become louder, closer. I duck through a doorway into one of our larger rooms connected to the door leading outside. Uncle must have forgotten to lock it, because I see a group of boys lingering near one corner, glancing about nervously. My lips tilt upward into an amused smile, and I slam the wrench against the wall. It vibrates and groans, an assault of noise the breaks clumsily through the eerie silence that had haunted the air just moments before. "And who," I call out over the noise, morphing my voice into something shrill and crazy-sounding, "might you be?"

a thousand heart beats beat in time
it makes this dark planet come alive
so when the lights flicker out tonight, you gotta shine