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Post by zotho on May 13, 2014 5:27:12 GMT -5
 Just one more-
Step.
And another-
Step.
I'm so tired-
Step.
I left Lucy in the snow to be buried by the winter, her sword placed in her hands like a true queen would be buried. (There is no point in trying to be brave when my entire kingdom has fallen down. I fell asleep to the echo of my sobs and awoke flooded with grief.) With trembling hands I taped my axe to the place where my hand used to lie and forced myself up into the open air. Weightless is hard to be when the weight of the world rests on your shoulders but I haven't stopped walking since.
I am so tired. Or even beyond that. In this arena I have aged a hundred years, stealing away the lives of all those children, stealing away all the years they should have lived. There's just one more left, one more to defeat, and I can rule with an empty heart and a missing hand and try to comprehend the world through victor eyes. (They will haunt me, each and every one of them, until the end of my second forever.)
Maybe I have already died, and I didn't quite know it. Maybe I am just wandering through this arena, trapped in it for eternity. I have become weightless, walking with no footprints, treading with no sound, a whisper of a soul before the end reaches me. (Quick, quick, outrun the floods. You'll drown, you'll drown!) Yet I do not feel weightless - I am tied to this place, every piece of me hell-bound. So I drag myself to my final battle and face my impending fate.
I see him - small, at first. In this arena, which I'm sure grew taller and larger with each passing day, we're all so small. District numbers churn through my memory until I find 4 - he's District 4. (Before, I would have worried at the idea of facing no doubt a Career. Now, I am too tired to feel anything except pain and determination.) I dare myself to alert him of my presence and call out with crackling words, wearing a mask of blood, sweat and bitter apologies.
Welcome, I think, to the end of forever.
"Hello," I wave. "My name is Saffron."
Closer. Step. Closer. Step.
"Never forget it."
And I run.
Just one more-
Step.
And another-
Step.
I'm so tired-
Step.
I left Lucy in the snow to be buried by the winter, her sword placed in her hands like a true queen would be buried. (There is no point in trying to be brave when my entire kingdom has fallen down. I fell asleep to the echo of my sobs and awoke flooded with grief.) With trembling hands I taped my axe to the place where my hand used to lie and forced myself up into the open air. Weightless is hard to be when the weight of the world rests on your shoulders but I haven't stopped walking since.
I am so tired. Or even beyond that. In this arena I have aged a hundred years, stealing away the lives of all those children, stealing away all the years they should have lived. There's just one more left, one more to defeat, and I can rule with an empty heart and a missing hand and try to comprehend the world through victor eyes. (They will haunt me, each and every one of them, until the end of my second forever.)
Maybe I have already died, and I didn't quite know it. Maybe I am just wandering through this arena, trapped in it for eternity. I have become weightless, walking with no footprints, treading with no sound, a whisper of a soul before the end reaches me. (Quick, quick, outrun the floods. You'll drown, you'll drown!) Yet I do not feel weightless - I am tied to this place, every piece of me hell-bound. So I drag myself to my final battle and face my impending fate.
I see him - small, at first. In this arena, which I'm sure grew taller and larger with each passing day, we're all so small. District numbers churn through my memory until I find 4 - he's District 4. (Before, I would have worried at the idea of facing no doubt a Career. Now, I am too tired to feel anything except pain and determination.) I dare myself to alert him of my presence and call out with crackling words, wearing a mask of blood, sweat and bitter apologies.
Welcome, I think, to the end of forever.
"Hello," I wave. "My name is Saffron."
Closer. Step. Closer. Step.
"Never forget it."
And I run.
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Post by zotho on May 14, 2014 6:06:35 GMT -5
"Piss off" are the first words that leave your mouth today. Although muttered under quiet breaths to be heard by nobody else but yourself, they still leave with a satisfying taste. You take flight, leaving your pathetic, murdering excuse of a father trailing in the dust. Threats of dragging you down from the sky do not phase you, nor do promises of leaving flowers at her grave. (You've been going by yourself for the past 4 years - why should this year be any different?)
Your thoughts are bruises. Any chance they get to press against your conscience hurts and it bleeds into your brain. You take a leap across your roof and ascend from the world, a staircase of chimney-tops, bricks and corrugated iron that leads you away from your Father and all of his terrors that lie underneath calloused hands, fingers that once did the work of the devil and stole away your future. There aren't a lot of things you run away from with light feet and nimble posture, darting in and out of sight from the ones down below, but your Father is most certainly one of them. Bitterness clouds any attempts he makes to warm to you - and maybe you let it blind you. So grounded in the decision never to forgive him for what he did all those years ago it's a wonder you can lift off from the ground so easily.
People swarm through the streets and back-alleys below you. Business peaks back up after reapings (the only knowledge your father has ever given you has been how to gain, whatever the cost) but you take caution regardless. There is no hustle for product that keeps eyes drawn to the ground and fixes wandering attention to anything other than you. In a blink you have stolen an apple and thrown a coin into the till of a stall, leaving behind no trace of your existence except the rattling of metal on metal, already in the sky once more. (A little boy might tug at his mother's hand and say "Look! I saw a boy fly!", but they'll tut at his words because they'd never believe him. You know that first hand.)
And so you dance, up in your paper-plane world of air and chimney smoke. Like fingertips against piano keys you touch down and bounce off architecture in split-seconds, flying in-between blinks of eyelids. Swiftly you dart over gardens and risk falling through the gaps where the buildings break apart (never touching, should they risk forming bonds so strong it would hurt too much to rip themselves open again), but you never fall. Not ever.
But birds do, however, have to land from time-to-time. You learnt long ago that if you spent too long with your head in the clouds you may never come back down. The air above may be a safe-haven, but people start questioning you when the earth begins to yearn for your feet to play against it's grassy keys. Not that you'd dare to fly away just yet - there's a tombstone sitting in the graveyard that holds you down, pulling you back again and again. (You don't mind, though. A heavy heart can't make you weightless no matter how many times you try to let the wind carry you away.)
It's the familiar sound of music filtering through the open morning air that leads you back down to the ground again. (If you were ever to fall towards the ground you'd hope there would be music to cushion the fatal blow.) Quietly you climb back down from your peaceful world and seek out the source of the piano's song, pausing in your motion to decipher protesting childhood arguments next door. Almost drowning out the music altogether, two small voices battle for victory. Threats and reasoning their weapons, until one claims their championship and rides off on the bike. The other slumps to the ground in defeat and catches sight of you in the process, eyes widening in shock at the boy on the rooftop.
A press of your finger to lips halts their almost-cries. "Shhh!" you order, motioning to the window before raising a hand to cup your ear. "Listen!"
And he does. A smile blooms upon his face, and in the hypnotic symphonies that have captured your attention his concentration of you withers away. As you throw the the apple in your pocket towards him it lights up in delight as the fruit lands in his hands, but when he looks up again you're gone. The master of distraction, the illusionist, a magic man on the rooftops - that boy will tell the story of you for years to come.
And you'll listen to the piano player's song.
"Not bad," you begin, hanging from the drain upside-down with clinging white knuckles. Your head pokes through the window as the figure finishes and mischief alights in your eyes. "Bit jumpy in parts - but you're pretty good, you know."
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Post by zotho on May 14, 2014 6:32:02 GMT -5
He stopped going to school when he realised there was no truth to education. In a classroom you pretend to care enough about pretend facts and pretend to listen to pretend history that we are to pretend actually happened, surrounded by people you pretend to care about.
He grins. "Normal people get caught."
(let's ignore the fact that this is 5 months overdue) |
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Post by zotho on May 25, 2014 1:27:23 GMT -5
| Lorem Ipsum is simply dummy text of the printing and typesetting industry. Lorem Ipsum has been the industry's standard dummy text ever since the 1500s, when an unknown printer took a galley of type and scrambled it to make a type specimen book. It has survived not only five centuries, but also the leap into electronic typesetting, remaining essentially unchanged. It was popularised in the 1960s with the release of Letraset sheets containing Lorem Ipsum passages, and more recently with desktop publishing software like Aldus PageMaker including versions of Lorem Ipsum.
Lorem Ipsum is simply dummy text of the printing and typesetting industry. Lorem Ipsum has been the industry's standard dummy text ever since the 1500s, when an unknown printer took a galley of type and scrambled it to make a type specimen book. It has survived not only five centuries, but also the leap into electronic typesetting, remaining essentially unchanged. It was popularised in the 1960s with the release of Letraset sheets containing Lorem Ipsum passages, and more recently with desktop publishing software like Aldus PageMaker including versions of Lorem Ipsum.
Lorem Ipsum is simply dummy text of the printing and typesetting industry. Lorem Ipsum has been the industry's standard dummy text ever since the 1500s, when an unknown printer took a galley of type and scrambled it to make a type specimen book. It has survived not only five centuries, but also the leap into electronic typesetting, remaining essentially unchanged. It was popularised in the 1960s with the release of Letraset sheets containing Lorem Ipsum passages, and more recently with desktop publishing software like Aldus PageMaker including versions of Lorem Ipsum.
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Post by zotho on May 25, 2014 1:37:15 GMT -5
[/font][/td][/tr][/tbody][/table]
| Lorem Ipsum is simply dummy text of the printing and typesetting industry. Lorem Ipsum has been the industry's standard dummy text ever since the 1500s, when an unknown printer took a galley of type and scrambled it to make a type specimen book. It has survived not only five centuries, but also the leap into electronic typesetting, remaining essentially unchanged. It was popularised in the 1960s with the release of Letraset sheets containing Lorem Ipsum passages, and more recently with desktop publishing software like Aldus PageMaker including versions of Lorem Ipsum.
Lorem Ipsum is simply dummy text of the printing and typesetting industry. Lorem Ipsum has been the industry's standard dummy text ever since the 1500s, when an unknown printer took a galley of type and scrambled it to make a type specimen book. It has survived not only five centuries, but also the leap into electronic typesetting, remaining essentially unchanged. It was popularised in the 1960s with the release of Letraset sheets containing Lorem Ipsum passages, and more recently with desktop publishing software like Aldus PageMaker including versions of Lorem Ipsum.
Lorem Ipsum is simply dummy text of the printing and typesetting industry. Lorem Ipsum has been the industry's standard dummy text ever since the 1500s, when an unknown printer took a galley of type and scrambled it to make a type specimen book. It has survived not only five centuries, but also the leap into electronic typesetting, remaining essentially unchanged. It was popularised in the 1960s with the release of Letraset sheets containing Lorem Ipsum passages, and more recently with desktop publishing software like Aldus PageMaker including versions of Lorem Ipsum.
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[/div][/div][/div] |
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Post by zotho on May 25, 2014 1:38:22 GMT -5
| Lorem Ipsum is simply dummy text of the printing and typesetting industry. Lorem Ipsum has been the industry's standard dummy text ever since the 1500s, when an unknown printer took a galley of type and scrambled it to make a type specimen book. It has survived not only five centuries, but also the leap into electronic typesetting, remaining essentially unchanged. It was popularised in the 1960s with the release of Letraset sheets containing Lorem Ipsum passages, and more recently with desktop publishing software like Aldus PageMaker including versions of Lorem Ipsum.
Lorem Ipsum is simply dummy text of the printing and typesetting industry. Lorem Ipsum has been the industry's standard dummy text ever since the 1500s, when an unknown printer took a galley of type and scrambled it to make a type specimen book. It has survived not only five centuries, but also the leap into electronic typesetting, remaining essentially unchanged. It was popularised in the 1960s with the release of Letraset sheets containing Lorem Ipsum passages, and more recently with desktop publishing software like Aldus PageMaker including versions of Lorem Ipsum.
Lorem Ipsum is simply dummy text of the printing and typesetting industry. Lorem Ipsum has been the industry's standard dummy text ever since the 1500s, when an unknown printer took a galley of type and scrambled it to make a type specimen book. It has survived not only five centuries, but also the leap into electronic typesetting, remaining essentially unchanged. It was popularised in the 1960s with the release of Letraset sheets containing Lorem Ipsum passages, and more recently with desktop publishing software like Aldus PageMaker including versions of Lorem Ipsum.
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Post by zotho on May 28, 2014 0:51:13 GMT -5
Just one more-
Step.
And another-
Step.
I'm so tired-
Step.
I left Lucy in the snow to be buried by the winter, her sword placed in her hands like a true queen would be buried. (There is no point in trying to be brave when my entire kingdom has fallen down. I fell asleep to the echo of my sobs and awoke flooded with grief.) With trembling hands I taped my axe to the place where my hand used to lie and forced myself up into the open air. Weightless is hard to be when the weight of the world rests on your shoulders but I haven't stopped walking since.
I am so tired. Or even beyond that. In this arena I have aged a hundred years, stealing away the lives of all those children, stealing away all the years they should have lived. There's just one more left, one more to defeat, and I can rule with an empty heart and a missing hand and try to comprehend the world through victor eyes. (They will haunt me, each and every one of them, until the end of my second forever.)
Maybe I have already died, and I didn't quite know it. Maybe I am just wandering through this arena, trapped in it for eternity. I have become weightless, walking with no footprints, treading with no sound, a whisper of a soul before the end reaches me. (Quick, quick, outrun the floods. You'll drown, you'll drown!) Yet I do not feel weightless - I am tied to this place, every piece of me hell-bound. So I drag myself to my final battle and face my impending fate.
I see him - small, at first. In this arena, which I'm sure grew taller and larger with each passing day, we're all so small. District numbers churn through my memory until I find 4 - he's District 4. (Before, I would have worried at the idea of facing no doubt a Career. Now, I am too tired to feel anything except pain and determination.) I dare myself to alert him of my presence and call out with crackling words, wearing a mask of blood, sweat and bitter apologies.
Welcome, I think, to the end of forever.
"Hello," I wave. "My name is Saffron."
Closer. Step. Closer. Step.
"Never forget it."
And I run.
I left Lucy in the snow to be buried by the winter, her sword placed in her hands like a true queen would be buried. (There is no point in trying to be brave when my entire kingdom has fallen down. I fell asleep to the echo of my sobs and awoke flooded with grief.) With trembling hands I taped my axe to the place where my hand used to lie and forced myself up into the open air. Weightless is hard to be when the weight of the world rests on your shoulders but I haven't stopped walking since.
I am so tired. Or even beyond that. In this arena I have aged a hundred years, stealing away the lives of all those children, stealing away all the years they should have lived. There's just one more left, one more to defeat, and I can rule with an empty heart and a missing hand and try to comprehend the world through victor eyes. (They will haunt me, each and every one of them, until the end of my second forever.)
Maybe I have already died, and I didn't quite know it. Maybe I am just wandering through this arena, trapped in it for eternity. I have become weightless, walking with no footprints, treading with no sound, a whisper of a soul before the end reaches me. (Quick, quick, outrun the floods. You'll drown, you'll drown!) Yet I do not feel weightless - I am tied to this place, every piece of me hell-bound. So I drag myself to my final battle and face my impending fate.
I see him - small, at first. In this arena, which I'm sure grew taller and larger with each passing day, we're all so small. District numbers churn through my memory until I find 4 - he's District 4. (Before, I would have worried at the idea of facing no doubt a Career. Now, I am too tired to feel anything except pain and determination.) I dare myself to alert him of my presence and call out with crackling words, wearing a mask of blood, sweat and bitter apologies.
Welcome, I think, to the end of forever.
"Hello," I wave. "My name is Saffron."
Closer. Step. Closer. Step.
"Never forget it."
And I run.
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Post by zotho on May 28, 2014 0:53:53 GMT -5
"Piss off" are the first words that leave your mouth today. Although muttered under quiet breaths to be heard by nobody else but yourself, they still leave with a satisfying taste. You take flight, leaving your pathetic, murdering excuse of a father trailing in the dust. Threats of dragging you down from the sky do not phase you, nor do promises of leaving flowers at her grave. (You've been going by yourself for the past 4 years - why should this year be any different?)
Your thoughts are bruises. Any chance they get to press against your conscience hurts and it bleeds into your brain. You take a leap across your roof and ascend from the world, a staircase of chimney-tops, bricks and corrugated iron that leads you away from your Father and all of his terrors that lie underneath calloused hands, fingers that once did the work of the devil and stole away your future. There aren't a lot of things you run away from with light feet and nimble posture, darting in and out of sight from the ones down below, but your Father is most certainly one of them. Bitterness clouds any attempts he makes to warm to you - and maybe you let it blind you. So grounded in the decision never to forgive him for what he did all those years ago it's a wonder you can lift off from the ground so easily.
People swarm through the streets and back-alleys below you. Business peaks back up after reapings (the only knowledge your father has ever given you has been how to gain, whatever the cost) but you take caution regardless. There is no hustle for product that keeps eyes drawn to the ground and fixes wandering attention to anything other than you. In a blink you have stolen an apple and thrown a coin into the till of a stall, leaving behind no trace of your existence except the rattling of metal on metal, already in the sky once more. (A little boy might tug at his mother's hand and say "Look! I saw a boy fly!", but they'll tut at his words because they'd never believe him. You know that first hand.)
And so you dance, up in your paper-plane world of air and chimney smoke. Like fingertips against piano keys you touch down and bounce off architecture in split-seconds, flying in-between blinks of eyelids. Swiftly you dart over gardens and risk falling through the gaps where the buildings break apart (never touching, should they risk forming bonds so strong it would hurt too much to rip themselves open again), but you never fall. Not ever.
But birds do, however, have to land from time-to-time. You learnt long ago that if you spent too long with your head in the clouds you may never come back down. The air above may be a safe-haven, but people start questioning you when the earth begins to yearn for your feet to play against it's grassy keys. Not that you'd dare to fly away just yet - there's a tombstone sitting in the graveyard that holds you down, pulling you back again and again. (You don't mind, though. A heavy heart can't make you weightless no matter how many times you try to let the wind carry you away.)
It's the familiar sound of music filtering through the open morning air that leads you back down to the ground again. (If you were ever to fall towards the ground you'd hope there would be music to cushion the fatal blow.) Quietly you climb back down from your peaceful world and seek out the source of the piano's song, pausing in your motion to decipher protesting childhood arguments next door. Almost drowning out the music altogether, two small voices battle for victory. Threats and reasoning their weapons, until one claims their championship and rides off on the bike. The other slumps to the ground in defeat and catches sight of you in the process, eyes widening in shock at the boy on the rooftop.
A press of your finger to lips halts their almost-cries. "Shhh!" you order, motioning to the window before raising a hand to cup your ear. "Listen!"
And he does. A smile blooms upon his face, and in the hypnotic symphonies that have captured your attention his concentration of you withers away. As you throw the the apple in your pocket towards him it lights up in delight as the fruit lands in his hands, but when he looks up again you're gone. The master of distraction, the illusionist, a magic man on the rooftops - that boy will tell the story of you for years to come.
And you'll listen to the piano player's song.
"Not bad," you begin, hanging from the drain upside-down with clinging white knuckles. Your head pokes through the window as the figure finishes and mischief alights in your eyes. "Bit jumpy in parts - but you're pretty good, you know."
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Post by zotho on May 30, 2014 5:15:36 GMT -5
"Piss off" are the first words that leave your mouth today. Although muttered under quiet breaths to be heard by nobody else but yourself, they still leave with a satisfying taste. You take flight, leaving your pathetic, murdering excuse of a father trailing in the dust. Threats of dragging you down from the sky do not phase you, nor do promises of leaving flowers at her grave. (You've been going by yourself for the past 4 years - why should this year be any different?)
Your thoughts are bruises. Any chance they get to press against your conscience hurts and it bleeds into your brain. You take a leap across your roof and ascend from the world, a staircase of chimney-tops, bricks and corrugated iron that leads you away from your Father and all of his terrors that lie underneath calloused hands, fingers that once did the work of the devil and stole away your future. There aren't a lot of things you run away from with light feet and nimble posture, darting in and out of sight from the ones down below, but your Father is most certainly one of them. Bitterness clouds any attempts he makes to warm to you - and maybe you let it blind you. So grounded in the decision never to forgive him for what he did all those years ago it's a wonder you can lift off from the ground so easily.
People swarm through the streets and back-alleys below you. Business peaks back up after reapings (the only knowledge your father has ever given you has been how to gain, whatever the cost) but you take caution regardless. There is no hustle for product that keeps eyes drawn to the ground and fixes wandering attention to anything other than you. In a blink you have stolen an apple and thrown a coin into the till of a stall, leaving behind no trace of your existence except the rattling of metal on metal, already in the sky once more. (A little boy might tug at his mother's hand and say "Look! I saw a boy fly!", but they'll tut at his words because they'd never believe him. You know that first hand.)
And so you dance, up in your paper-plane world of air and chimney smoke. Like fingertips against piano keys you touch down and bounce off architecture in split-seconds, flying in-between blinks of eyelids. Swiftly you dart over gardens and risk falling through the gaps where the buildings break apart (never touching, should they risk forming bonds so strong it would hurt too much to rip themselves open again), but you never fall. Not ever.
But birds do, however, have to land from time-to-time. You learnt long ago that if you spent too long with your head in the clouds you may never come back down. The air above may be a safe-haven, but people start questioning you when the earth begins to yearn for your feet to play against it's grassy keys. Not that you'd dare to fly away just yet - there's a tombstone sitting in the graveyard that holds you down, pulling you back again and again. (You don't mind, though. A heavy heart can't make you weightless no matter how many times you try to let the wind carry you away.)
It's the familiar sound of music filtering through the open morning air that leads you back down to the ground again. (If you were ever to fall towards the ground you'd hope there would be music to cushion the fatal blow.) Quietly you climb back down from your peaceful world and seek out the source of the piano's song, pausing in your motion to decipher protesting childhood arguments next door. Almost drowning out the music altogether, two small voices battle for victory. Threats and reasoning their weapons, until one claims their championship and rides off on the bike. The other slumps to the ground in defeat and catches sight of you in the process, eyes widening in shock at the boy on the rooftop.
A press of your finger to lips halts their almost-cries. "Shhh!" you order, motioning to the window before raising a hand to cup your ear. "Listen!"
And he does. A smile blooms upon his face, and in the hypnotic symphonies that have captured your attention his concentration of you withers away. As you throw the the apple in your pocket towards him it lights up in delight as the fruit lands in his hands, but when he looks up again you're gone. The master of distraction, the illusionist, a magic man on the rooftops - that boy will tell the story of you for years to come.
And you'll listen to the piano player's song.
"Not bad," you begin, hanging from the drain upside-down with clinging white knuckles. Your head pokes through the window as the figure finishes and mischief alights in your eyes. "Bit jumpy in parts - but you're pretty good, you know."
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Post by zotho on Jun 3, 2014 5:04:25 GMT -5
 Just one more-
Step.
And another-
Step.
I'm so tired-
Step.
I left Lucy in the snow to be buried by the winter, her sword placed in her hands like a true queen would be buried. (There is no point in trying to be brave when my entire kingdom has fallen down. I fell asleep to the echo of my sobs and awoke flooded with grief.) With trembling hands I taped my axe to the place where my hand used to lie and forced myself up into the open air. Weightless is hard to be when the weight of the world rests on your shoulders but I haven't stopped walking since.
I am so tired. Or even beyond that. In this arena I have aged a hundred years, stealing away the lives of all those children, stealing away all the years they should have lived. There's just one more left, one more to defeat, and I can rule with an empty heart and a missing hand and try to comprehend the world through victor eyes. (They will haunt me, each and every one of them, until the end of my second forever.)
Maybe I have already died, and I didn't quite know it. Maybe I am just wandering through this arena, trapped in it for eternity. I have become weightless, walking with no footprints, treading with no sound, a whisper of a soul before the end reaches me. (Quick, quick, outrun the floods. You'll drown, you'll drown!) Yet I do not feel weightless - I am tied to this place, every piece of me hell-bound. So I drag myself to my final battle and face my impending fate.
I see him - small, at first. In this arena, which I'm sure grew taller and larger with each passing day, we're all so small. District numbers churn through my memory until I find 4 - he's District 4. (Before, I would have worried at the idea of facing no doubt a Career. Now, I am too tired to feel anything except pain and determination.) I dare myself to alert him of my presence and call out with crackling words, wearing a mask of blood, sweat and bitter apologies.
Welcome, I think, to the end of forever.
"Hello," I wave. "My name is Saffron."
Closer. Step. Closer. Step.
"Never forget it."
And I run.
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Post by zotho on Jun 7, 2014 8:42:35 GMT -5
 Contrary to popular belief, Lorem Ipsum is not simply random text. It has roots in a piece of classical Latin literature from 45 BC, making it over 2000 years old. Richard McClintock, a Latin professor at Hampden-Sydney College in Virginia, looked up one of the more obscure Latin words, consectetur, from a Lorem Ipsum passage, and going through the cites of the word in classical literature, discovered the undoubtable source. Lorem Ipsum comes from sections 1.10.32 and 1.10.33 of "de Finibus Bonorum et Malorum" (The Extremes of Good and Evil) by Cicero, written in 45 BC. This book is a treatise on the theory of ethics, very popular during the Renaissance. The first line of Lorem Ipsum, "Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet..", comes from a line in section 1.10.32.
The standard chunk of Lorem Ipsum used since the 1500s is reproduced below for those interested. Sections 1.10.32 and 1.10.33 from "de Finibus Bonorum et Malorum" by Cicero are also reproduced in their exact original form, accompanied by English versions from the 1914 translation by H. Rackham.
Contrary to popular belief, Lorem Ipsum is not simply random text. It has roots in a piece of classical Latin literature from 45 BC, making it over 2000 years old. Richard McClintock, a Latin professor at Hampden-Sydney College in Virginia, looked up one of the more obscure Latin words, consectetur, from a Lorem Ipsum passage, and going through the cites of the word in classical literature, discovered the undoubtable source. Lorem Ipsum comes from sections 1.10.32 and 1.10.33 of "de Finibus Bonorum et Malorum" (The Extremes of Good and Evil) by Cicero, written in 45 BC. This book is a treatise on the theory of ethics, very popular during the Renaissance. The first line of Lorem Ipsum, "Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet..", comes from a line in section 1.10.32.
The standard chunk of Lorem Ipsum used since the 1500s is reproduced below for those interested. Sections 1.10.32 and 1.10.33 from "de Finibus Bonorum et Malorum" by Cicero are also reproduced in their exact original form, accompanied by English versions from the 1914 translation by H. Rackham.
Contrary to popular belief, Lorem Ipsum is not simply random text. It has roots in a piece of classical Latin literature from 45 BC, making it over 2000 years old. Richard McClintock, a Latin professor at Hampden-Sydney College in Virginia, looked up one of the more obscure Latin words, consectetur, from a Lorem Ipsum passage, and going through the cites of the word in classical literature, discovered the undoubtable source. Lorem Ipsum comes from sections 1.10.32 and 1.10.33 of "de Finibus Bonorum et Malorum" (The Extremes of Good and Evil) by Cicero, written in 45 BC. This book is a treatise on the theory of ethics, very popular during the Renaissance. The first line of Lorem Ipsum, "Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet..", comes from a line in section 1.10.32.
The standard chunk of Lorem Ipsum used since the 1500s is reproduced below for those interested. Sections 1.10.32 and 1.10.33 from "de Finibus Bonorum et Malorum" by Cicero are also reproduced in their exact original form, accompanied by English versions from the 1914 translation by H. Rackham.
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Post by zotho on Jun 7, 2014 22:42:21 GMT -5
 The storm bade me a brief farewell, too-long hugs and proud words that felt foreign in their mouths filling the room. They've spent too much time yelling and screaming to know what kindness tastes like. kindness tastes like the sun on your skin and cherry-coloured lollipops and carrying arty all the way home when she fell off her bike and her knees ran red like scarlet this is not kindness this is an excuse i am not an excuse this is thunder and rain and cloudy days and all i want is the sun. I'll miss the thunder, as strange as it sounds. It's made me who I am. Before it reached our home Dad would teach me everything he knew about being a Career and he's why I stood with my head held high upon that stage because they'll seek out your weakness, every little slump, every little shift of your eyes, the moment the cameras find you. i always thought i would stand in the lines until i grew old enough to fall into the crowds instead and let the tides of age carry me away and pray for arty and grow older and maybe have one or two or five or sixteen kids and laugh and smile and not die i won't die i won't i refuse i'll win i'll win i'll win i swear it.
She flies through the door and tunnels into me, clinging to my middle and almost knocking the wind out of me. I wrap my arms around her curly head and bury my head into her hair - my Artemis, my sister, my best friend. I can feel her shaking, holding back the fury that will surely soon spill from every opening and crevice and pore in her body. If it were her, I'd be exactly the same.
"Do me proud" she says oh arty i have always tried to make you proud not dad not even mom just you always you there's a hundred thousand people in this world and the only person i'd run or climb or jump or laugh or cry or hurt or kill for is you and I smile, refusing to let go. Not 'we', for my parents have always been disconnected from us. Just her. "Only you" I reply with a smile and break away to look at her.
She breaks my heart, but I'll be okay. i'll be okay i'll always be okay the sun is up and i'm smiling and ive always been okay we've always been okay like two peas in a pod but just two girls in a house not a pod because we're not green we're pale faces when the fine china hits the wall and green when we walk past happy families and red-faced when we're arguing but we're okay. I tell her too, "I'll be back soon enough. You know that. They'll love my cartwheels, even if you don't."
Seeing my sister cry is a phenomenon I haven't seen in years, but as she laughs at my comments my heart swells. "Don't fall off the stage" she hiccups and our laughter fills the room they can't take this away from us they might take me away for a little while but i'll be back and our laughter will swim out of the victors village and through the district and right back home again twisting and turning and tumbling like my cartwheels and maybe our parents will learn to love and laugh again god knows we try and I smile, tilting her head up.
"Chin up Chautin" I laugh, our Father's words sweeter in my mouth than they ever were in his. "I'll be back. You know I will."
"Yeah," she says, stiffening her posture. Unclipping our necklaces we drape them over each-other's heads when i turned twelve we made a promise to do this if our names were ever called and her arrow-heart would fall across my chest and my pawprint would fall across hers so we'd never really leave if our hearts were still on chains and my fingers find the cool metal, entangling it in my hands. A Peacekeeper knocks on the door and the old Artemis appears, blunt and brash and hardened steel. I kiss my lionheart on the head and let her go.
There's no need to tell her to be brave. She already is.
if you must wait
wait for them here in my arms as i shake
if you must weep
do it right here in my bed as i sleep
if you must leave
leave as though fire burns under your feet
if you must speak
speak every word as though it were unique
if you must live, darling one, just live
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Post by zotho on Jun 10, 2014 4:19:24 GMT -5
 Contrary to popular belief, Lorem Ipsum is not simply random text. It has roots in a piece of classical Latin literature from 45 BC, making it over 2000 years old. Richard McClintock, a Latin professor at Hampden-Sydney College in Virginia, looked up one of the more obscure Latin words, consectetur, from a Lorem Ipsum passage, and going through the cites of the word in classical literature, discovered the undoubtable source. Lorem Ipsum comes from sections 1.10.32 and 1.10.33 of "de Finibus Bonorum et Malorum" (The Extremes of Good and Evil) by Cicero, written in 45 BC. This book is a treatise on the theory of ethics, very popular during the Renaissance. The first line of Lorem Ipsum, "Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet..", comes from a line in section 1.10.32.
The standard chunk of Lorem Ipsum used since the 1500s is reproduced below for those interested. Sections 1.10.32 and 1.10.33 from "de Finibus Bonorum et Malorum" by Cicero are also reproduced in their exact original form, accompanied by English versions from the 1914 translation by H. Rackham.
Contrary to popular belief, Lorem Ipsum is not simply random text. It has roots in a piece of classical Latin literature from 45 BC, making it over 2000 years old. Richard McClintock, a Latin professor at Hampden-Sydney College in Virginia, looked up one of the more obscure Latin words, consectetur, from a Lorem Ipsum passage, and going through the cites of the word in classical literature, discovered the undoubtable source. Lorem Ipsum comes from sections 1.10.32 and 1.10.33 of "de Finibus Bonorum et Malorum" (The Extremes of Good and Evil) by Cicero, written in 45 BC. This book is a treatise on the theory of ethics, very popular during the Renaissance. The first line of Lorem Ipsum, "Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet..", comes from a line in section 1.10.32.
The standard chunk of Lorem Ipsum used since the 1500s is reproduced below for those interested. Sections 1.10.32 and 1.10.33 from "de Finibus Bonorum et Malorum" by Cicero are also reproduced in their exact original form, accompanied by English versions from the 1914 translation by H. Rackham.
Contrary to popular belief, Lorem Ipsum is not simply random text. It has roots in a piece of classical Latin literature from 45 BC, making it over 2000 years old. Richard McClintock, a Latin professor at Hampden-Sydney College in Virginia, looked up one of the more obscure Latin words, consectetur, from a Lorem Ipsum passage, and going through the cites of the word in classical literature, discovered the undoubtable source. Lorem Ipsum comes from sections 1.10.32 and 1.10.33 of "de Finibus Bonorum et Malorum" (The Extremes of Good and Evil) by Cicero, written in 45 BC. This book is a treatise on the theory of ethics, very popular during the Renaissance. The first line of Lorem Ipsum, "Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet..", comes from a line in section 1.10.32.
The standard chunk of Lorem Ipsum used since the 1500s is reproduced below for those interested. Sections 1.10.32 and 1.10.33 from "de Finibus Bonorum et Malorum" by Cicero are also reproduced in their exact original form, accompanied by English versions from the 1914 translation by H. Rackham.
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Post by zotho on Jun 17, 2014 3:54:36 GMT -5
 Just one more-
Step.
And another-
Step.
I'm so tired-
Step.
I left Lucy in the snow to be buried by the winter, her sword placed in her hands like a true queen would be buried. (There is no point in trying to be brave when my entire kingdom has fallen down. I fell asleep to the echo of my sobs and awoke flooded with grief.) With trembling hands I taped my axe to the place where my hand used to lie and forced myself up into the open air. Weightless is hard to be when the weight of the world rests on your shoulders but I haven't stopped walking since.
I am so tired. Or even beyond that. In this arena I have aged a hundred years, stealing away the lives of all those children, stealing away all the years they should have lived. There's just one more left, one more to defeat, and I can rule with an empty heart and a missing hand and try to comprehend the world through victor eyes. (They will haunt me, each and every one of them, until the end of my second forever.)
Maybe I have already died, and I didn't quite know it. Maybe I am just wandering through this arena, trapped in it for eternity. I have become weightless, walking with no footprints, treading with no sound, a whisper of a soul before the end reaches me. (Quick, quick, outrun the floods. You'll drown, you'll drown!) Yet I do not feel weightless - I am tied to this place, every piece of me hell-bound. So I drag myself to my final battle and face my impending fate.
I see him - small, at first. In this arena, which I'm sure grew taller and larger with each passing day, we're all so small. District numbers churn through my memory until I find 4 - he's District 4. (Before, I would have worried at the idea of facing no doubt a Career. Now, I am too tired to feel anything except pain and determination.) I dare myself to alert him of my presence and call out with crackling words, wearing a mask of blood, sweat and bitter apologies.
Welcome, I think, to the end of forever.
"Hello," I wave. "My name is Saffron."
Closer. Step. Closer. Step.
"Never forget it."
And I run.
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Post by zotho on Jun 18, 2014 6:26:42 GMT -5
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