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Post by Deleted on Apr 22, 2017 15:39:08 GMT -7
As I walk through the streets of my new city My back feeling much better, I suppose I've reclaimed the use of my imagination For better or for worse, I've yet to know Gwyn hated leaving his old life behind. He left his mother to fend for herself. He left his job that he honestly liked. He left District 3, though he knew District 3 didn't lose him. He was a nothing there, but that was exactly what he wanted. Gwyndelon wasn't a rebel or a fighter, he was passive and timid. He didn't belong in this camp, though he supposed he didn't belong anywhere. Nonetheless, he couldn't worry about the negative stuff in his life. He was alive, after all. If he stayed in District 3, he would've been dead. Maybe he could live a normal life in the camp. That was all he wanted, really. If he could wait out the upcoming rebellion and just stay hidden in the shadows, he could finally live in a home where he could lay low. He didn't want anything else.
The brunette was given a name, and he knew it was appropriate. He was no longer Gwyn, but rather his name was Freckles. He thought it better than "four-eyes" or "stupid," so he went with it. Gwyn knew nobody at the camp, but he was glad that he was assigned cook. He didn't have the strength to carry wood or the smarts to do technology. He didn't have the accuracy to shoot animals or the guts to skin them. Gwyndelon just had to make food for all the campers. Mr. Alias was nice enough to let him into the camp, so he had to return the favor by trying his best despite his lack of strength and social skills. He was assigned a tent to another young man who didn't have anyone else either. Gwyn wished he brought his mother with him, but he figured that she would be safer without him.
The man didn't have much when he came into the camp. He had a backpack that had three pairs of his clothes, an extra pair of shoes, and some matches. He was told that he would be given a bedroll and a pillow, so he was definitely thankful for that. He was glad that there was also a river nearby for him to take baths so he could be clean and sanitary when he cooked for the group. He knew he wasn't the youngest here, being nineteen years old, but he was still in the younger range for people in the group. He even saw a pregnant woman walking around (though he hoped he didn't mistake her for just being a little bit bigger), so he hoped that she would be okay and well-fed.
Gwyn walked into his new tent, seeing his roommate in there. He looked around his age, maybe a little younger if anything. He flashed one of his awkward smiles at him. "Hello," he said to the other young man. "I'm Gwynde--I mean, Freckles. Um, I'm your new roommate I think. I think Mr. Alias told me your name was Link?" He hoped he didn't have the wrong tent. That would be the worst and most awkward thing ever. The brunette saw his bedroll next to him, gently putting down his backpack on it. He brushed off his clothes and sat down, taking a deep breath. He was finally at the camp. There weren't Peacekeepers chasing after him. He was alive, and he was very happy. WORD COUNT: 592 TAG: @barbodes
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Post by Deleted on Apr 22, 2017 17:22:42 GMT -7
Everett was talking again, but that didn’t somehow refashion him as social or happy. After his moment in the woods with Cypress weeks ago, Everett started to warm back up to life. The others in the camp realized that he was not, in fact, an Avox. To them, it probably made him a bit more strange. Seeing as their were actual Avoxes at the camp, some probably saw it as horrifically rude to electively not speak when he still had the capability. This thought, along with many others, were ones that Everett was realizing as he shifted out of his entirely mechanical lifestyle. He still partially relied on a measure of detachment, for he couldn’t fling himself into the throws of life all at once like he had in the woods. It hurt too much. Instead, he responded when others spoke to him. Sometimes, Everett even managed a small smile at Cypress’s jokes. Most people felt that he was making progress, but he was still very aware of the cost it came at.
Though the reminders of his pain were constant, they weren’t distributed proportionally throughout his day. Work was easy. Everett could easily focus on swinging his axe at the trees, on chopping the wood into perfect quarters, or on the others’ voices. The nights, though, were hell. When he was alone in his tent, Everett would stare up at the waxed canvas, trying to will away the tears that burned in his eyes, remembering Fable, or maybe remembering the way that the flames had felt in his single moment of consciousness as they licked his spine, the heat of the explosion as it seared his face. He felt too much. Most of the time, he wanted to shove any feeling he had back into the cold, hard box he’d managed to lock it away in at the prison.
It was close to one of those times. Night had fallen, leaving the camp mostly empty. Of course, some people stayed outside to stand watch. If they were discovered, no amount of watchmen - or even the whole camp, for that matter - could do anything. Everett supposed that it was an attempt at self-reassurance, the grappling for some sort of idea of having control in their situation. Everett rarely did night shifts. His main job was finding firewood, chopping trees. At night, animals lurked beyond the clearing. His place was on his bedroll. Everett rolled over, not really feeling the hard ground beneath the thin pad. From beside his roll, he picked up a small piece of wood that he’d pocketed a few days ago and his knife. Sometimes, he carved things to keep the thoughts at bay. On his hardest nights, he didn’t sleep at all. Everett carved the figures until dawn when he would step out of his tent and go back to work. The result of this was a small pile of various carvings. Compared to his earlier work, they were garbage. Everett found that his hands didn’t move in the way that they used to. Carvings took longer, and they were never terribly intricate as they once had been. Although the regression of his skill both frightened and annoyed him, it was still calming to settle into the familiar pattern: whittle away at the hunk of wood until something (somewhat) beautiful came from it.
Just as he was moving in to start details on a wolf, much like one he’d seen in the woods a few days earlier, Everett heard the fabric on the front of his tent move. Everett pushed himself up rather quickly, not quite expecting the intrusion into his space. Just inside the tent was another person, looking about his age. The breath that caught in his throat slowly worked his way out. There was always the residual fear that someday, Peacekeepers would march into their camp. Everett didn’t particularly fear for his own life. There was a measure of security in knowing that the worst had already happened: there wasn’t much else Everett could lose, and even if he did, he was already numb to fresh pain. His apathy didn’t stop the brief moment of fear, though it subsided just as quickly as it came. He remembered Cypress speaking to him about new recruits coming in to the camp and needing space for them. Camp filled up quickly, and Everett was one of the few people remaining that had a tent for himself. Before the other man spoke, Everett already recognized him as a roommate.
Everett watched as his roommate awkwardly gave an introduction. He was quiet for a moment, trying to think of an adequate response. The racing in his mind hadn’t fully slowed yet, so that meant that part of him wanted to roll over and face towards the other side of the tent and pretend to fall asleep. Before that part of his brain could force him to do that, though, he caught sight of his expression as he sat down. An exhale. Relief. Sometimes, Everett forgot that everyone at the camp was no stranger to tragedy. He softened slightly. ”Yeah, I’m Link.” Everett agreed quietly. Even though his throat stopped hurting when he spoke, he’d adopted the habit of speaking quietly. Realizing that his introduction probably seemed too cold, he glanced back over. ”So, Freckles? Alias is usually much better at giving non-offensive nicknames.”
It was by far one of the longest sentences Everett had spoken to another person in months, and in a way, it was also the most normal he’d felt in months. Even though he felt somewhat awkward about having to share his room (and a following part of his life) with someone else, a part of him insisted that it was going to be a good thing.
Words: 992 Tags: @gwyndelon Notes: Here's ur novel as promised
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Post by Deleted on Apr 22, 2017 18:35:11 GMT -7
Gwyn never really had any friends. He had the occasional acquaintance that would hang out with him and not make fun of him. He also had coworkers, who worked with him when they had to get their jobs done. He knew he was lame, but he hoped he could make a fresh start at the camp. Maybe the blond man in front of him would want to be his friend despite his social flaws. Gwyndelon wanted more than anything to just fit and blend in. He didn't want to stand out in the crowd, both in a good or bad way. He just wanted to be like everyone else and make everyone else happy. He was the food guy , so he hoped that his cooking made everyone happy with their soon-to-be full stomachs. He was told that he would learn the ropes and do his own shift in a couple days. After all, it did take time to adjust from a cozy home to a middle-of-nowhere camp.
The man went through his backpack, grabbing his clothes and setting them at the end of his bedroll. "It's nice to meet you, Link," he said, nodding. It made him wonder about the boy who called himself Link. Was he popular at the camp? Did he have friends? Was he helping Alias a lot with the upcoming rebellion? There was a million questions he wanted to ask, and yet despite his social awkwardness, he knew better than to straight up ask him. He didn't know if he even had family here, but he wasn't about to ask to make him feel uncomfortable.
Gwyn laughed slightly when Link called him out about his offensive nickname. "I don't think it's offensive. I mean, it was my idea to call myself that. I have lots of freckles and people called me that in school, so I thought that it was fitting." That was his logic for a lot of things, and if he didn't want to be called that, he was sure that Alias would be more than willing to give him another nickname. There was a lot of people who seemed very nice at the camp, and Alias was one of them. He wasn't mean or harsh, but rather an inspiring leader. He was glad that he came to a camp where he would be understood rather than pushed aside. Gwyndelon crossed his legs and put his hands in his lap and he looked around the tent. It was a place he could call home.
"How...hm, how long have you been here?" He said as he looked at him, almost forgetting what he was going to say mid-sentence. In all honesty, he didn't know how long the camp had been around. For all he knew, it could've been there for several years or several months. It was a well established camp with very kind and hard working members. If he could have friends and work hard, he could start a new life. That was all he wanted. WORD COUNT: 507 TAG: @barbodes
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Post by Deleted on Apr 22, 2017 19:12:57 GMT -7
Polite, maybe even kind: that’s how Everett would describe the roommate in the mere seconds of having seen him. He found that when he didn’t speak and just listened, he learned very quickly how to read people. Most of the time, everyone was far too caught up in themselves to take the time to actually observe others. Everett had perfected the skill. Although he wasn’t attempting to scrutinize his roommate, he still felt the now unconscious function kicking in.
Everett nodded. He couldn’t imagine nicknaming himself that highlighted one of his insecurities, however small those were in comparison to the rest of his troubles. Really, though, he figured that it was relieving to think of something so mundane in a camp such as this. Anything that kept someone tied to any degree of normalcy. He nodded, the ghost of a smile on his lips. ”Freckles, then. Nice to meet you, too.”
For a moment, he wondered if Freckles would grow to resent him as a roommate. Of all the people on the camp, he could’ve gotten someone that was easier. Sure, they all came with their issues, but in terms of their severity and the coping methods - or lack thereof - that followed, Everett was likely one of the worst. It was even more unfortunate, seeing as Freckles seemed to be a genuinely good person. If he hated Everett enough, he could probably be moved away.
Everett wasn’t surprised at the question, and he also wasn’t angry about it. Somehow, it was the first question that anyone in the whole camp had asked him about himself. Freckles didn’t have the experience of seeing him when he came in. Sure, the scars from the whipping and the explosion still did their part to nonverbally tell his story, but when he entered the camp, he must have been beyond ghastly. This, in a way, could be a new start. Maybe Freckles wouldn’t think he was insane as he was sure that the others did.
Making a conscious effort to try to be sociable, Everett put an amount of energy into the reply, just as he had with his previous words. It was an entirely new feeling for him while at the camp. “I’m not exactly sure, actually,” Everett answered with a surprising amount of honestly and openness for himself. The only way Everett measured time was through the seasons. The games happened in the Summer. Alias broke him out of prison in the late fall. Now, the first hints of spring were beginning to blossom in the woods. ”To be honest, I don’t even know what month it is. I’ve sort of lost a grip of time while being here, I guess. What I do know is that it’s been a few months, or at least I think it has been.”
Words: 502 Tags: @gwyndelon
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Post by Deleted on Apr 22, 2017 20:39:12 GMT -7
Gwyndelon wanted to be comfortable around people. He wasn't ever really the comfortable type, as he wasn't even comfortable with himself. He was a slender man who was usually made fun of because of his looks. He didn't really think he was bad looking, but he wasn't handsome either. The boy in front of him could've been a model if he wanted to. He had the nice blond hair with the shiny blue-grey eyes and perfectly pale skin. He might have even been a model and a Capitolite as far as Gwyn knew. He even wondered why he didn't have a girlfriend since he was an attractive guy. But he knew he shouldn't think or say those things. He didn't even know the boy, and he didn't even know why he was thinking those thoughts. Gwyn's mother always wanted grandchildren, so he vowed that he would marry a girl and have children so he could make her proud. Even if he wasn't entirely into women, either.
When the boy said that he didn't know what month it was, he smiled. He could actually help out someone for one of the first times in his life. "It's February, actually." He wasn't extremely smart, but he was good at telling time. "February 21st, if you want to be specific." Gwyn was able to grab a pen and paper before he left too, and he had been tracking the days one by one. He knew that if he didn't track the days, he might as well go crazy. It had been one year, six months, and fifteen days since his sister died in the games.
He took off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt. He couldn't wait to take a bath after he helped serve dinner tonight. He felt so dirty when he always liked feeling clean. People used to say he looked dirty despite him washing himself every day. Even if he was in the middle of the woods, he vowed that he would clean himself every day. Link looked clean for being at the camp for a couple of months.
"So what do you do around here? That's a cool carving...thing that you're working on." He said, looking at the carving and motioning his head towards it. He didn't know anything about carvings, but he tried to compliment it anyways. The boy seemed smaller than a lot of the adults here, so Gwyn wondered if he did a mundane job. He also might have helped Alias out, maybe even running for him or something. He put his glasses back on, being able to see a lot better with them. He wondered if he would ever have to shoot a gun in the camp. He hoped not because he knew it was a bad idea for him, especially with his poor eyesight. WORD COUNT: 479 TAG: @barbodes
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Post by Deleted on May 24, 2017 9:09:29 GMT -7
February 21. Of all the things that had happened, the date seemed like something insignificant, so Everett never asked. Knowing it, though, gave him an unexpected measure of stability. February 21. It felt like a link to the “real world,” a place where people remembered and noted trivial things like the passage of time, instead of the world he’d come to know where he instead counted the passings of people. Everett allowed the date to roll around in his mind for a few moments. Even though he remembered the dates of the Games, he had no idea how long he’d been in prison in the Capitol and when he’d been broken out by Cypress.
When Freckles spoke again, it was another pull into the realm of normalcy, as he’d come to know it. The conversation was mostly idle, just talking for the sake of talking. The whole concept still seemed slightly foreign and required some effort on Everett’s part where it had once taken none. He glanced down at the piece of wood beside him, lifting it into his palm again, but leaving the open blade laying beside his thigh. ”This?” Everett asked. ”Thanks, I just started on this one a bit ago.”
Everett closed his hand around the small wolf and began turning it around in his palm. He ran the tip of his finger over the smoothed wood, taking a small comfort in the feeling of his small creation. ”For the most part, I chop wood.” One of the tenants of Alias’s camp was secrecy. The logic was that if one person were to be caught, they wouldn’t have any real information to reveal about others. It wasn’t a surprise, though, that some of the others heard whispers of rumors of what Everett did back in 7. It wasn’t every day that someone lit up a district production building and lived to tell about it. Besides, even if there weren’t the stories, Everett’s jobs would give away his past life. Who else but a 7 would chop wood during the day and carve pieces at night?
”It’s… quiet here,” Everett said after a moment. ”Here, we all just try to keep each other breathing and fed, hope that the Peacekeepers don’t come, and try to plan things with Alias in hopes that we won’t have to live in a place like this again.” Everett opened his palm, examining the wolf for a moment. After considering his carvings, he picked up the knife and began whittling away at the remaining wood, refining the shape. He realized that the question was probably born of worry. Fleeing some horrible life and approaching an unknown was terrifying. In a way, Everett felt obligated to provide some consolation. ”Don’t worry, though,” he said quietly. ”The only people that come here are people that are running away from bad places. So, it’s always going to be better here than wherever you came from, if that’s any consolation.”
Words: 515 Tags: @gwyndelon
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Post by Deleted on Jul 26, 2017 13:54:38 GMT -7
Gwyn had never been so tired in his life, to be honest. He was glad he was bale to be in a new place with new people and new jobs to do, but he was just so tired. He hoped it didn't show. He obviously wasn't an athletic build, and walking all the way from District 3 to the camp was awful. His legs hurt and he was more than sunburned. He was dirty and smelly, sweaty and achy. When walking to the camp, there were many days where he just wished to turn back and cook in his air-conditioned bar again. But alas, he messed everything up as usual. He never would've come to the army if it wasn't for that dead guy in the street. All he wanted was a comfortable, chill life in his cluttered home of District 3. He knew that now, since he had a roommate, he would need to be clean. He was so divided on his new life now, dwelling far more on the past than what he should. He couldn't help it though. He missed his mom and his work and easy access to technology. But, at the same time, he was glad that he was able to start new and do something that might actually make a difference.
He smiled when Link held up his carving. It was talented and really cool from what Gwyn thought. He could never be that talented at anything, really, though he loved seeing other people succeed. That was what he was good at--cheering people on and watching them rise while he was cheering them on. Gwyn never cared to be in the spotlight, especially not in this camp. When Link then said that he chopped wood the camp, he wasn't surprised. If he was that good with carving and took an interest in it, he must have been good at the lumber business. He kept listening to Link, waiting for a good moment to speak.
Link started talking about how good Alias' Camp was, and Gwyn smiled. He loved listening to people talk, trying to understand every word they say. He wasn't very good at speaking, but listening was something he was always good at. "Yeah, I like this place a lot. It's very peaceful and everyone seems to nice." Gwyn fidgeted with his fingers, trying to break the silence. "You must be good with wood," Gwyn said. "I don't think I could ever life up an ax, much less take a tree down with one." But he didn't...oh god. His face turned beet red. Nope. He didn't mean that. Oh god. No. He was the worst. WORD COUNT: 447 TAG: @barbodes
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