I practiced yesterday.

 

:blank:

ANNA WHY DO YOU HAVE TO ONE UP MEEEE :|

...and I was practicing Chasing Cars.

 

:escaping:

GOD ANNA.

That reminds me... I have to figure out the first song I will learn how to play.

NO I'M NOT THAT FAR YET OKAY :bigcry:

I'm not actually that far yet, either, but Chasing Cars is really easy. :P

 

I only know two chords. :blank:

I'm not actually that far yet, either, but Chasing Cars is really easy. :P

 

I only know two chords. :blank:

 

This. :nod:

D and either C or G.

 

I don't even know if the chord is C or G. :uhoh:

hello

I know G and D :awesome:

C is really weird...

CEL! :hug:

 

D is really easy, though.

D is really easy.

It's just 3 fingers all next to each other (almost).

I just realized how bad I am at explaining things.

I know what you mean, Madison. :blank:

Yaaaaay.

Because looking at it, I thought Oh God what am I saying.

...because I already know what a D Chord is.

True.

:|

*practices Chasing Cars*

BWAAAH I'LL PRACTICE LATTTTTER.

*gives up*

 

Calluses haven't formed yet. :disappointed:

:(

Oh my gosh my friend just wrote the most amazing thing ever.

I might post it.

MIGHT.

It's about the Hunger Games.

I just got home from my little trip today and on the radio in car This Isn't Everything You Are was playing :blank:

:(

Oh my gosh my friend just wrote the most amazing thing ever.

I might post it.

MIGHT.

It's about the Hunger Games.

Please.

 

POST IT.

 

I just got home from my little trip today and on the radio in car This Isn't Everything You Are was playing :blank:

My influence must be everywhere. :blush:

^:nod:

 

Btw hi :nice:

 

I sat in the commons of the Public Building, well, only if you can call it public. It's in the middle of nowhere. Stark white walls, void of any color, or anything interesting. Officials striding around the room straight-backed in tight fitting suits with patches signifying rank, with metallic dog-tags that usually glistened in the unnatural, and blinding light, tucked inside of their high-ranking jackets.

I thought about my family as my thumb felt the indentations of my name, age and where to bring my body to. My family has always been a tough nut to crack. My mother had passed after giving birth to my younger brother, Little Phil, we called him. Who only seven months later, died of a fever. I had been nine at the time, and I still remember his round, plush face seven years later. My brother's death was the last straw, that proverbial straw that breaks the camels back, and us loosing our home didn't help. My father turned to seclusion and alcohol. He had always been found with a bottle of cloudy liquid in his unwashed, drunken palms. As a result, his mind was fading. My once sane, kind, hardworking and loving father had been reduced to a shell, a husk of uncleaned, and unshaven guilt. You can imagine how I felt when I found him floating face-down in a lake a week later.

Nobody really cared. Some tried to, pitying a small, orphaned eleven-year old, but I wouldn't let my mind wander. I soon learned how to lock years of my life away, so I would never be prey to them again. I went about life as well as I could. I lived with my mother's step-brother, who wasn't all bad. He just had many things go wrong for him, and I just would avoid him most day anyways. I survived, I learned how to go about life without being noticed, how to easily slip through a throng of people, and how to make a living. People tend to keep to themselves in Seven. It's just trees, after all.

These thoughts, a cascading blue wave of pain, and irrefutable suffering, suffering that burns my skin like acid, caused me to do something I haven't done in a long while; I pulled out a small newspaper clipping that I always keep in a hidden jacket pocket. This clipping, tawny with dust, and age, and crinkled with abuse is my father's obituary, followed by the police report. My brows furrowed as I focused on the distorted words. Reading sentences over, and over. The same sentences I have read scores of times before. As I read, I didn't notice my friend walk up to me until she spoke. I call her my friend because, I don't know her name, nor does anyone. Victor and I picked the “around fifteen year-old” up after a science facility was bombed. She may be a Capitolite, incognito, and she may be jeopardizing the entire rebellion, but I feel nice around her. I feel like the storm clouds around me lift, and the sky never seems as blue then when she looks at me. Her blond hair curls slightly at her shoulders, and it shimmers like a field of wheat when she walks. She walks with confidence and pride, even in a place full of straight-backed sticklers who wouldn't loose an ounce of sleep if she was dead, but I can still see the fear, and sadness in her eyes when she thinks no one is watching her.

“A newspaper?” The word sounded foreign when she said it in her unusual Capitol accent. “Someone still prints them?”

I paid only the minimal of attention to her question, and I didn't want to get into the clipping itself, so I replied, “My uncle.” Which wasn't a complete lie.

She didn't enjoy my lack of interest in her and sighed irritably, and rolled her eyes. She paused for a few minuets, then continued with a shaky breath, “my name's Finna.”

My eyes widened. My mouth opened, as if to say something, but it closed quickly. “Finna?” I asked startled, my brows furrowed even more, and my head was tilted to the side.

“Yeah.” She shrugged in an attempt to hide blushing, sanguine cheeks. “I don't seem like a Finna to you.” She said with a disappointed undertone to her voice, as her face fell.

“No, not quite...” I let my voice drift off as I studied her face. Gorgeous glittering sea-green eyes, rosy cheeks, hair framing her face perfectly, and her flawless porcelain skin. These wonderfully precious aspects of her physical person made my skin crawl, for I now knew what to call them by. My thoughts turned negative. If Finna's told anyone else, she could be hurt. “Have you told anyone else yet? Anyone besides me?” I asked. The urgency in my voice was confusing for me to hear. I haven't sounded like that since the day my mother died.

She grinned at my worry. “I've told Friend, but that's the extent of it, though.” Finna nodded towards the small black bird perch on her shoulder. “I designed him. For the Capitol.” I don't know if she was tying to be executed, but I started to panic on the inside. I took in the amount of Straight-Backs walking around us, their heels clicking on the tiles, like some sort of orchestral piece preformed by crickets.

I pointed to a nearby janitor's closet and mouthed “private”. Finna understood me as she frowned, then blushed with embarrassment, and nodded. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the small, dimly-lit, and unorganized rom, full of mops and toilet paper rolls. I shut the door, and made sure to lock it. I turned back to face Finna, our bodies were forced uncomfortably close, but I don't believe either of us minded. I looked at her and she told me everything that she has lived through. I felt dumbstruck. I mean, I knew she must've had it tough, but, I've never imagined it like this. I felt like if she could tell me all of this, I could tell her my life. That's exactly what I did. I even showed her the news article I keep in my jacket. When she cried, I lent my shoulder, and when I cried, she listened to me, and that's much more than I'd ever asked for. When both of our tales had been told, and some time had been spent in silence to reflect upon all this new information. I stuck out my hand. “ Hello, I'm Ian.”

She smiled. “I'm Finna.” She shook my hand.

And I kissed her.

 

STACY WHY ARE YOU SO BRILLIANT :bigcry:

Hi Fran!

 

*goes off to the library, will be back within an hour*

Hi Fran!

 

*goes off to the library, will be back within an hour*

 

BUT YOU DIDN'T READ THE THING YET.

GRRR.