bouncing betty [open]

bouncing betty [open] Jul 7, 2015 20:34:35 GMT -5

Post by k!ah on Jul 7, 2015 20:34:35 GMT -5

h a d e s r i o t

The packet of warmth in his hand was the reason for the smile on his face. He gazed down at the freshly fried potato strips and he felt his stomach jump with anticipation, but he refrained his free hand from diving in, his self control growing weaker and weaker with every step. He told himself that he would wait, wait until he was perched on the cement wall over looking the ocean, his favourite place to eat before training. Ugh. Training. He often wandered why he put up with it, until he remember, that despite his size and shape, he was untraditionally elegant in the way that his coordination was on point. His instructor- the first time he entered the building- had rolled his eyes and said that this would be the first and the last time they would be going through this, he had said that gymnastics wasn't the sport for Hades... and it had hurt the boy, but he didn't show it, his bright eyes shone ever brighter and e had thrown his packet of crisp chips in the bin, wiping his thick hands down his shirt leaving a trail of oil. "Well lets make it fun than," he had chirped racing into the centre of the room where he performed what was supposed to be a summersault- instead he looked like a bloated cow. But never to mind cause the boy got back up, his eyes flashing with a new determination.

Rings.

Bouncing on the balls of his heels he had dashed over to the rings, his short arms reach for the loops which seemed to dangle that little bit to high- giving the impression that he was a well fed puppy eager to play. The instructor had walked over then, his face still dancing with a range of many emotions as he squatted down, wrapping his arms around the boys wide frame and lifting his off the ground. Hades fingers had closed around the rings but as soon as the instructor had stepped away the residue from his earlier snack proved to be his downfall and the boy had crashed to the ground, his legs not able to hold his weight as it came flying at him making his whole body hit the earth uncomfortably.

but it didn't keep him down for long cause the next thing he was doing was running over to the thin beam in the room. He reaches i and looks to his instructor. "Boy i don't think that is the-" but he doesnt get to finish cause hades is already climbing onto the thin pice of foam. He stands tall and is body doesnt falter as he takes a step forwards and another and another and then he spins, his usually awkardly fomr spinning elegantly as his feet move as though they had been doing the steps for years.

And that was why Hades trained. He trained because he was a prodigy. He was a nartal on the beam, his form was perfect his moved were dangerous and despite everything, he loved it. He may complain about going, he may grumble and whine but that was just a chore almost, because he loved the way his body would feel so light, it was like all his fat had just melted away.

Suddenly the chips in his hands were forgotten as he reached the cement wall. It was a rather thin wall almost like a beam, and he placed his fries on the ground before walking over to it, removing his shoes and doing his starter pose, hands in the air, smiling to all the judges, before stepping onto the beam, his body moved on its own, his hands out before him as he twirled through the air, his fat jiggeling slightly as he landed hard.

He was a swan.

bouncing betty [open] Jul 14, 2015 17:42:09 GMT -5

Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Jul 14, 2015 17:42:09 GMT -5

A T T I C U S .

The training center roars with the chatter of teenagers and the sound of steel tearing into dummies. But I have learned to block out the noise and focus in on every slight movement I make, critiquing my technique and position. Combat is an art, or so I have been told. I call bullshit on that one, just another attempt to drill the aggressive career nature into my mind.

My parents have always sucked at governing me.

They nearly drag me to training, coercing me to swing swords and throw daggers for grueling hours. Training is redundant. Throw these knives. Decapitate this dummy. Wrestle with this kid. Listen to the instructor. Continue to toss weapons everywhere - but with technique and grace, of course. Each day of training is a rewind of the previous day. It is reliving a Hell of boredom, though not necessarily immense suffering over and over again until your brain aches with the strict words the instructor forcefully crammed in.

My Mother and Father's attention has never been focused on my progress or the glory I could receive if I was reaped and thrust into a deathtrap to bathe in the blood of children as sick entertainment. I am not a shining golden trophy adorning their shelf. I am the shame they shove into the dark closet along with their betrayals. My pyromania leaves me marred in the eyes of my parents. It is a hideous scar on their once perfect golden boy, and it abhors them.

Training is both a distraction from the flames that entice me and a punishment for constantly breaking their rules and experimenting with fire despite their strictures and countless warnings. (They should know I do not listen to liars.)

So this is how I waste my days.

Of all of the movement in the training center, a certain clumsiness catches my eye. A boy, of a round figure uncommon among the fit careers of District Four, slips right off of the rings, his weight sending him crashing to the floor. His fall and the instructor's disapproving eyes turn the corners of my lips down into a frown out of embarrassment and pity for the boy. Failing in the training center is the first step to becoming a laughing stock of District Four.

But within a few moments, the boy brushes off his failure and rises to his feet. He darts towards a beam. His instructor calls after him, "Boy I don't think that is the -" but his words do not seem to reach the boy's ears, and if they do, he pays no mind to them. As he walks across the beam, his form and balance not once faltering from the steadiness.

And then he spins, twirling through the air with poise that reminds me of a ballerina. After watching him topple over into clumsiness, I am surprised - impressed, even - by his grace, how he cuts through the air as if he is a blade and it is a stretch of silk. I have honed my skills in combat - I could throw a punch and in my wake leave black and blue - but gymnastics took grace and flexibility that I do not have.

When the boy lands squarely on the floor with a thud. He places the fries in his hands - why would he snack during gymnastics? - on the ground and strides towards the thin cement wall, where judges with narrow, scrutinizing eyes spectate. He smiles to them and twirls once more into the air, landing onto the floor without losing his gracefulness.

I find myself gravitating closer to where he stands, pulled by my own astonishment at his recovery from failure. "That was quite the comeback," I remark.

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