So Close & So Very Far Away [OPEN]
Nov 30, 2014 22:24:28 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Nov 30, 2014 22:24:28 GMT -5
![](http://i.imgur.com/pZAU8DC.jpg?1)
[Dreaming] | |
District 11 | ---- |
I like the cornfields best in the fall, after the proper winter chill has set in. The earth chomps when I step my boots along the rows, with cracks of ice forming in the frozen puddles as I pass. Stalks sit, their bodies broken over their own weight. I like to twist the cracked yellow leaves between my hands. I give a good pull and then with all of my weight, I’ll heave them, root and all, up into the darkness of the night. You can sit, listen and wait for how long it takes for the thing to fall out of the sky. Then, you start all over again. Feet against the hard earth, hands on the dead and broken stalks and a good, swift heft of life up and into the air again. My brother Benat used to take me on these walks at night, half to help with clearing the fields, half to ramble on about his theories of the universe to someone that was eager to drink up his words. We’d sneak back into the house just before sunrise, and wake with heavy black bags tucked in with secrets underneath our eyes.
Tonight it’s just me and the white of my breath in the air. Deval’s gone traipsing off to ripred knows where; mother and father are sound asleep in their bed. People are swallowed up by the feverish dream of the games. Now and again in town I’ll catch word that our tributes are still alive—though the boys are wise enough to know that any mention of the games around me will set me off. I don’t need to know what sort of weapon killed so-and-so, or if we have any chance of bringing someone home. I’d rather slice my neck with a thresher than have to spend two minutes talking about the boys and girls in the games. And it’s not because of my brother, or my cousin. That’s too easy of a reason for me to hate the Hunger Games, though it’s good enough that it should have riddled me silent on the subject by now.
I come to the edge of the orchards, right where the creek runs up to the shore. The water has frozen over along the edges, and in another week will be frozen solid. Here I begin circling, setting down broken pieces of stalks of corn, thistles, and other pieces of bramble into a pile. They must have expected me to fade off into silence, to just fall into the shadows like the rest of the boys and girls did. Not that they was wrong—I ran off, into the woods and far and away from the District. I was half dead when I managed to get back through the wall. The lie that was told and stuck was that I was too close to death for anyone to much care whether I could work. They’d dug a grave and made a marker for me, and told everyone that little Sampson had gone and passed from a terrible fever. But it was grandmother that took the fall—the one that had hidden me away, nursed me back to health until I was well enough. Her lie was forgiven, for as much as a senile old woman could be. She was taken at night from her home four months ago. We ain’t seen her since.
With steady hands I start packing loose pieces of wood into a pile. On top I put the stalks of dried corn along with rotted out husks. Clumps of weed come next, and I press these into the bottom spaces between the wood. There has to be enough rubbish at the bottom of the pile because there has to be something for the fire to give life to. Even if you have enough to burn, you won’t get a proper fire without the right starting materials. I set down close against the cold earth and between cracking the flint and stone together. A shower of sparks flies. They nip at the exposed dried weeds, and after three tries, smoke begins to exhale out the base. I press my face in close, my mouth breathing in the crispness of the ashes before I give a slow whistle of air. The smoke builds and I give another whistle. Crackling through the loose timber, a flick of flame climbs out of the base.
It’s nice to watch the flames. The warm light dances out along my face and lights up the water along the brook. I listen to the quiet of the world. It’s easy to think about how loud your own world is, so much so that it blocks out all the silence that’s been begging to be taken in. When I was outside the walls, I could spend hours listening to the world. Being part of the trees underneath a sky full of stars has a certain way of making you small. Not the sort of small that I would spend hours turning over in my head, when—at thirteen—I found my hands too little, my muscles too feeble, for anyone to love. The sort of small where you wake up and realize that there’s no use wasting a breath on hating your body, or your eyes, because we’re useless playing on that. The real truth in the world is only found when we can look past what’s inside our little bodies for something more. Not saying I can just yet—but it’s a thought I can keep in my head, to keep both of my feet on the ground.
And so I sit, watching the little fire crackle and the stars dance above. Waiting and watching—and listening for the next crack of ice in the distance.
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HAYANA OF CAUTION 2.0