ghosts .| mccarthy/emberly
Jul 1, 2017 22:01:03 GMT -5
Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Jul 1, 2017 22:01:03 GMT -5
EMBERLY
"GHOSTS IN THE PHOTOGRAPH NEVER LIED TO ME, I'D BE ALL OF THAT, I'D BE ALL OF THAT"
I have lost count of all the times I have longed for home. District Ten — it was a clear image in my head . . . the golden grass swaying in the soft currents of summer breezes, flowers falling like snow from Clementa's hair as she and I race horses through the valley. The air in Ten tastes nothing like it does in the Capitol; here the air is musky and smells of street water, but in Ten the air is full of lemongrass and wildflowers.
The Capitol is a different world, indeed.
There is nearly nothing from home here save for Saffron and the flowers and other vegetation at the plants training station. I recognize them all — models of belladonnas, nightshade, daisies, buttercups, burdock and yarrow. Daisies and buttercups grow in the field outside of our house; belladonnas in a grove on our ranch; nightshade hidden deep in a forest by beneath bramble bushes by the creek; yarrow and burdock in our gardens.
In my free time, rather than indulging in Capitol food and other luxuries, I find myself weaving flower crowns at the plants station. It reminds me of home, of District Ten and the fields I love and my sisters' red hair. (Ment's hair always smells like daisies and Kiara's like violets.)
They seem to have more harmful plants than benevolent at the plants station — probably to teach what not to eat. I weave belladonnas, nightshade, buttercups, and daisies into a crown of flowers, a deadly but beautiful display. In my childhood, I remember doing a similar thing with poisonous flowers; my parents had to take the crown from me and burn it.
Those were the times, weren't they? When I knew nothing of poison and death and my only desire was to create and run wild with Myara and Ment.
The Capitol is a different world, indeed.
There is nearly nothing from home here save for Saffron and the flowers and other vegetation at the plants training station. I recognize them all — models of belladonnas, nightshade, daisies, buttercups, burdock and yarrow. Daisies and buttercups grow in the field outside of our house; belladonnas in a grove on our ranch; nightshade hidden deep in a forest by beneath bramble bushes by the creek; yarrow and burdock in our gardens.
In my free time, rather than indulging in Capitol food and other luxuries, I find myself weaving flower crowns at the plants station. It reminds me of home, of District Ten and the fields I love and my sisters' red hair. (Ment's hair always smells like daisies and Kiara's like violets.)
They seem to have more harmful plants than benevolent at the plants station — probably to teach what not to eat. I weave belladonnas, nightshade, buttercups, and daisies into a crown of flowers, a deadly but beautiful display. In my childhood, I remember doing a similar thing with poisonous flowers; my parents had to take the crown from me and burn it.
Those were the times, weren't they? When I knew nothing of poison and death and my only desire was to create and run wild with Myara and Ment.
