saylor saylor the mutated eel slayer [fast+bi leisure day 2]
Mar 4, 2021 19:39:34 GMT -5
Post by rook on Mar 4, 2021 19:39:34 GMT -5
and every book you take
and you dust off from the shelf
has lines between lines between lines
that you read about yourself
and you dust off from the shelf
has lines between lines between lines
that you read about yourself
I stand panting in a shadow of blood that stains the dry earth beneath my boots. I lick my cracked lips as I endevour to catch my breath and slow my heart rate - not easy when adrenaline surges through you like an electrical current, thundering in your chest and pushing sweat from your neck. I'm clenching my fists so hard that the brass knuckles dig into my skin and leave impressions under damaged skin.
They say that the Games are supposed to be glorious, but what fame can really be won here? There is nothing sanctimonious about the blood and organs and decay spread out in the mud, there's no glory in the mutated animal limbs floating in the acid lake. Those who die here are forgotten, and the ones that do make it don't make it much longer.
Even my uncle is reverred rather than celebrated. A perfectionist who craved recognition, a revolutionary who sought victory - ultimate, decisive and complete - but found only the end of a blade and an early grave. Victory is not bloodless. Defeat is not escape. Wednesdae was a psychopath and a fool, chasing glory, but there is no glory to be found in a hell like this.
I stare at the figure of Silk adjacent to me. I wonder, now that she's seen what I can do, if beneath her stoney exterior she is beginning to trust me. If she is beginning to respect me. Our tired eyes meet, mine relieved that the bloodshed is over for now, and we begin moving away to safer ground.
I trail the career, watching as her fair hair floats behind her - a chemtrail stained pink in the dirty sunset. I wonder what strategies and thoughts swim around in her pretty little head, and if come the end of the week we'll see them spilled out red on the end of some other tribute's axe.
For my sake, I hope not. She remains my best chance of getting out of here alive and not in another coffin. She's my best shot of saving Ken.
"Silk, wait up." I quicken my pace and draw level with her, tugging my rucksack higher up my back.
"I don't want to be a buzzkill but if we don't find water fast we aren't gonna last much longer out here." I say, feeling the mood drop the instant the words leave my dry mouth.
This place is a wasteland. If we're not careful, we'll waste away with it.
They say that the Games are supposed to be glorious, but what fame can really be won here? There is nothing sanctimonious about the blood and organs and decay spread out in the mud, there's no glory in the mutated animal limbs floating in the acid lake. Those who die here are forgotten, and the ones that do make it don't make it much longer.
Even my uncle is reverred rather than celebrated. A perfectionist who craved recognition, a revolutionary who sought victory - ultimate, decisive and complete - but found only the end of a blade and an early grave. Victory is not bloodless. Defeat is not escape. Wednesdae was a psychopath and a fool, chasing glory, but there is no glory to be found in a hell like this.
I stare at the figure of Silk adjacent to me. I wonder, now that she's seen what I can do, if beneath her stoney exterior she is beginning to trust me. If she is beginning to respect me. Our tired eyes meet, mine relieved that the bloodshed is over for now, and we begin moving away to safer ground.
I trail the career, watching as her fair hair floats behind her - a chemtrail stained pink in the dirty sunset. I wonder what strategies and thoughts swim around in her pretty little head, and if come the end of the week we'll see them spilled out red on the end of some other tribute's axe.
For my sake, I hope not. She remains my best chance of getting out of here alive and not in another coffin. She's my best shot of saving Ken.
"Silk, wait up." I quicken my pace and draw level with her, tugging my rucksack higher up my back.
"I don't want to be a buzzkill but if we don't find water fast we aren't gonna last much longer out here." I say, feeling the mood drop the instant the words leave my dry mouth.
This place is a wasteland. If we're not careful, we'll waste away with it.
and when your friends are talking
you hardly hear a word
you were the first person herе
and the last man on the earth
you hardly hear a word
you were the first person herе
and the last man on the earth
