30 days of writing: Day 7

beginning. accusation. restless. snowflake. haze. flame. formal. companion. move. silver. prepared. knowledge. denial. wind. order. thanks. look. summer. transformation. tremble. sunset. mad. thousand. outside. winter. diamond. letters. promise. simple. future.

Playing catch-up because I had a 2-day course that took up all my time and more than all of my energy. This one could have stopped at 104 words and been a nice little drabble but it didn't...and became a kind of horrible thing about Jo and a ~client~ at the end of the 67th Games (hi Claudius). The horrible is under the cut.

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The crowd at the President’s mansion is sedate, for the Capitol, high-class formalwear and fancy food and drinks that taste like fruit and sugar, classical music from an orchestra on stage.

She shook the new Victor’s hand, earlier, and he gave her a practiced smile, just a little too sharp, even though his eyes were glassy from whatever they were keeping him full of to handle the parties.

His mentor was standing behind him, tall and stern with her arms crossed over her chest, and her eyes were cut-glass sharp, watching anyone who got too close.

Johanna’s mentor is back in Seven.

( warnings from here on for rape/forced prostitution and drug use )

30 days of writing: Day 8

beginning. accusation. restless. snowflake. haze. flame. formal. companion. move. silver. prepared. knowledge. denial. wind. order. thanks. look. summer. transformation. tremble. sunset. mad. thousand. outside. winter. diamond. letters. promise. simple. future.

Rokia and Sara, also right after the 67th Games. Typical Rokia's-childhood warnings of child abuse/neglect and drug use. (BOY I AM CHEERFUL TODAY!)

( babies with babies )

30 days of writing: Day 9

beginning. accusation. restless. snowflake. haze. flame. formal. companion. move. silver. prepared. knowledge. denial. wind. order. thanks. look. summer. transformation. tremble. sunset. mad. thousand. outside. winter. diamond. letters. promise. simple. future.

Looking ahead to the "Tractors..." sequel.

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When Zea was six years old her family moved from Fairview to Enid. When she was nine they moved to Inman, twelve to Guyman, fifteen to Okeene. When she was eighteen they moved to Salina, while Zea went to the City to train on combines and from there to apprenticing with Durum and traveling the length and breadth of the district, cutting and planting and moving with the seasons.

She’s never stayed in one place long enough to put down roots, doesn’t really see much point. The way Lucerne tells it though, the land used to matter, back before the Dark Days.  Used to be folks out in the depots’d trace back generations on the same piece, knew every tree and rock on every quarter section, walked the fields when the wheat was young and crumbled the soil in their hands.

It’s a strange thing to think about, fifteen feet off the ground in a stuffy combine cab. Only dirt Zea sees is the dust that settles gritty on her sweaty skin, sticks in her boots, turns to tire-sucking mud if they get rain while they’re trying to cut.

She tells Lucerne all this, and the old woman smiles, blue eyes faraway. “You’ll see,” Lucerne says, a dream and a promise. “It’s different when the land is yours.”

Zea’s skeptical, but she looks around at the little camp, the shelters dug into the riverbank where the hovercraft can’t see them, their little crew drying out in the sun after last night’s storm. It’s not much, but it’s theirs, and maybe Lucerne is right. Lucerne usually is.