the flowers bloom, full and bright;
rain falls and creates.
As the Spring awakes
the flowers bloom, full and bright; rain falls and creates.
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Peacefully dozing
away in a sunbeam, the sky whispers pink at dawn. Distantly, melodies form from a windchime to reach tired ears, and blearily, sleep blinks away from our heavy eyes. My name is Njǫrd Elding, but people refer to me as many things, the boy with the trident, the 76th Hunger Games victor, one of the Elding brothers, all names of which I will humbly accept. Winning the Hunger Games would be the biggest moment of my life. It would bring me great pain and many restless nights, but it would also leave me a life of comfort and ease. Through all the fame and glory, I would always deep down remain the same boy with his fathers fishing boat, trying to fill his fathers shoes, and a I always will remain that person, for i am Njǫrd Elding. The boy with the trident.
This is my story. Boom! The ship's hull crashed over the wave. The ship rocked reslestly from side as it tumbled over each powerful wave. The deck vibrated as each heavy rain pellet struck the oak surface. “WE GOT ONE A LIVE ONE,.” screamed Dad over the violent sounds of the sea. I thundered down the brig gathering all the harpoons we had. “FASTER,.” yelled Dad once again trying to make his voice heard over Mother nature's raw power. I could see the beasts sapphire looking skin against the black water of the sea. I grabbed the harpoon and took a deep breath. With years of experience and the perfection of whale hunting, I aimed at the beasts rib cage right where the heart would be. “FIRE” Veiðr screamed. It would take another second before I would decide to fire. A second too late. The harpon struck the whales back. The whale cried out in pain before returning to the icy depths from where it returned. Moisture streamed down from my face. Whether from Sweat or Rain, I could not tell. The feeling of disappointment crept into my chest as I put an empty harpoon on the ship's deck. It was raining, yes, but it felt quiet as I returned to the inside of the boat. Suddenly, tThe whale jumped out of the water and crashed on the deck shattering it into pieces. I sank into the icy depths of the sea and felt the pounding of my heart grow weaker as my eyes fluttered shut. I woke up drenched in sweat. Sun stabbed at my eyes as I tried to make out what was around me. It took a second before I realized I was on the boat. I closed my eyes and swore under my breath. It had been another restless night of nightmares. Dreams of mother nature finally winning, and memories of dad dying. It had been a recurring dream, the day that Dad died. My mother had died while delivering Veiðr and I, and thus I never metgot to meet her, but from what my father told me, she must've been the most beautiful woman in all of Panem. I longed to be in my dad's presence again, for it had been four4 years since he passed, and we had to take over the whaling business. I wearily hoisted myself out of bed and groaned as I stretched, lifting up my arms and brushing my fingertips against the rough wood on the ceiling. I carefully treaded across the room and put my clothes on. What I wore was nothing special. Just your basic white tank top, and canvas pants, for we weren't rich as some people in Ddistrict 4, but in no way were we poor as those in District 12 are. Before leaving, I would make sure to grab my necklace. It was a trinket worn by my father and my father’s father. It was an old Maui fish hook strung through a piece of string. From what my father told me I had learned that it symbolized a connection between the wearer and the sea and would bring great strength and prosperity to the wearer. Unfortunately, it did not appear that the pendant had magical powers as my dad suggested;, however, it did serve as a pleasant memory of my father and so I would wear it wherever I went. I stepped outside and the sea breeze I was so familiar with struck me as I knew it would. I walked down the deck and spotted a large shark off the edge of the boat. I had been accustomed to these creatures for quite some time and was not afraid of the lingering sharks as I once was. I grabbed a nearby trident and bounced it in my hand getting a familiar grip. I would proceed with the same routine I had been used to and had practiced for such a long time. I cocked back my arm and shoulder backwards and stuck out my other hand in front and used it to aim. I thrusted my arm forwards launching the trident into the shark's ribcage. Although it tried to swim, it would be to no avail, for I was too accurate with a trident to miss. The next step would be to fire a net around the creature and hoist the beast up. This would be no easy job, for lifting a 250 pound shark out of the water was a hard task, a task that I was accustomed to. I hoisted the shark up and dropped it on the deck. The sShark landed with a loud thud, which shook the deck. “Couldn’t sleep?” Veiðr said. My head whipped around,. “Yea. Somethin like that,” I did not look in his eyes but instead turned my head back around and scanned the sea. Veiðr had always been there for me, I would even go as far as saying he was the best brother a person could ask for;, however, the nights of restless sleep were not curable by any means he had suggested. “Neither could I,” Veiðr remarked, “ With the reaping and all,” The reaping of course! I had completely forgotten all about the reaping tomorrow. Between the burden of my daily duties and nights of restless sleep, it had whizzed right over my head. We were not poor by no means and as such did not have to apply for tessaretassare, but still the thought of having to fight in the Hunger Games brought shivers down my spine. “Well we better get going if we don't wanna be late,” Veiðr said, “ Wwouldn't wanna keep President snow waiting,” The location where the reaping took place was always far away from where we were hunting, and as such took around a day to sail into port. No matter how many times we would sail into town, I always dreaded the long trip into town. This would be my 6th time going to the games as I was 18 this year. I would be happy to finally be done with the suspense of the occasion. It was a quiet sail that day, and we hadn't seen any large sea creatures. and I hadn't seen any edible plants while cutting through the waves. It had been something I had gotten pretty good at, identifying edible sea plant, for it never hurt to put some greens on the table and the Capitol went crazy over rare seaweeds and sea “delicacies” of course these delcesis were almost always your common sea plants, but I didn't mind the Capitols dense nature;, in fact Ii had encouraged it for the more money I receivedgot the merchants to pay for the plants the more food it meant for Veiðr and I. The sun started to dip under the ocean line and so I knew it was time for bed. I always liked the sunsets at sea and took the time to appreciate them. After a long day of throwing pointy objects, it was nice to take off my shoes and watch the pretty colors along the horizon paint a pretty picture. As if they took a painting from the Capitol itself and transformed it into the sky. However I would make sure to watch this sunset extra carefully for it may be the last I see as a free man. I slipped into unconsciousness that night and wished that wouldn't be confronted with another restless night. A wish that wouldn't come true. I sank further into the bottomless black abyss that was the sea. My slowing heart beat turned to an almost unnoticeable trace of life. Deeper and deeper I went, I lost track of time and the throbbing pain in my lungs started to increase until the pain pushed ever and ever closer to my unconscious. “I'm going to die,” I thought. “I’m going to die,” however i wasnt panicking while I thought that, it crossed my mind more as a fact. I was going to die. I was going to die if not for Veiðr finding me. Veiðr’s arms wrapped around me as he kicked his legs up in a consecutive pattern. As he swam upwards my heart became slower and the consciousness that I had faded. Bum buh, went my heart. Veiðr was 30 feet from the surface. Bum buh, 20 feet. Bum buh, 10 feet. Bum buh, 5 feet. Veiðr's pace slowed just before he would reach the surface, for Veiðr had succumbed to the effects of trying to hoist not only himself, but me as well, out of the water. We both sank gently to the bottom, are limp bodies like dead weights. Nothing would save us now it would take a miracle. I woke up to the sound of bells, I knew I was at the port. Each household, market, and boat in District 4 had bells on the day of the reaping. They all rung in a ghostly moan that echoed across the beaches and port. As Veiðr docked the boat, I dressed in my nicer clothes. Everyone going to the reaping got dressed up. If we were going to be seen on live television we might as well look out best. Veiðr would constantly remind me. I knew this tradition for what it was, a way for the Capitol to mock the lower districts. I wore a loose white linen shirt, a denim vest and jeans. It had been customary for all of the Elding boys to wear this traditional garb;, a tradition I would make sure to follow. For if we were going to be mocked, we would do it with dignity. I put on my necklace and stepped outside. I was confronted with a fast wind that whipped my face. I looked up and saw massive stormy clouds and a massive cyclone starting to form. Wind whipped around the port running through the bells making their moan into a howl. How….fitting. I snickered. Veiðr and I boarded the dock, it creaked underneath both of our tall statures. While we passed some of the vendors packing up shop looked at us. I could feel their stares in the back of my head. I couldn't blame them however. Veiðr and I both stood around 6’,4 and our bodies were covered in heavily toned muscle, a menacing sight to behold. As we made our way through the port and closer into the town, the wind started to pick up, what started as a mild breeze started to become a fast wind. After a short walk we had made it to the city center. We went through the routine finger prick and then the peacekeepers directed us to our spots. District 4 is known as a Career district when it came to the Hunger Games, however the people in District 4 knew this had not been the case for decades now. District 4 used to take great pride in the Hunger Games, but as the fish industry rose more and more, sons and daughters focused more on making money off of fishing than training for the Hunger Games. As time went on, more and more people crowded into the city square. These people were posh. Unlike Veiðr and I, these people looked very wealthy. Many of them had clothing made out of silk that would cost a whole whale. “HELLO EVERYBODY!” screamed Norman Purpleberry, district 4’s escort. “WHO'S EXCITED?” The comment was then followed by complete silence. “Well I know I am!” said Norman once again trying to get life from the crowd. He would not be successful. “Well, I suppose we should just dive in, eh? I should remind everyone that this year we are picking two tributes from one gender,” said Norman “This should really spice things up, am i right.” Norman gave his signature over-dramatic smile and looked around the crowd. Once again nobody said anything. “Well i'll be darned it looks like nobody is awake yet,” Norman said, “Wake up District 4 it’s not sleepy time,” Norman gave an uneasy laugh. It was painful at this point, as it is every year. “The gender will be picked through this wheel here. Let's get started, shall we?” Norman walked to the wheel and spun it. A breeze pushed the wheel fast. It flashed from boy to girl what felt like every nano second. “Who will it be? Nobody knows!” Norman said, still trying to get a reaction from the crowd. The wheel slowed and with it the annoying ticking sound it made after passing each different section. Tik....tik...tik..tik.tik. The wheel landed on a spot that read boys. “Well looky here it looks like it's the boys turn to be tributes this year!” The adrenaline coursed through my veins the same nerves that were with me every year scratched at my logical thinking. “Now for the fun part,” Norman said, still managing to smile after the crowd's brutal treatment towards him. Norman picked two cards at the same time, another “signature” move he always liked to pull, the trick was expected as it is every year and so would not push the crowd to any reaction. Just as he removed his hands from the large glass bowl a howling gust of wind swept across the stage. The wind swept up all the cards in the bowl and flung them up in the air. Each card danced fluttering towards the ground like a maple leaf leaving a tree in the fall. Each card represented a person's future on this earth, due to this it caused an eerie sight. The pure white cards fell on the ground as the skies darkened. At this point even Norman's smile was gone, he just stood there like an innocent child at the opening of his parents door after a nightmare, he closed his mouth and put a manufactured smile on his face and read the cards. He looked at the cameras with glassed over dead looking eyes. “Ladies...and gentlemen.” Norman sounded like he always did bright and cheery, “ “the tributes for this years games, are Veiðr and Njǫrd Elding.” Like a prisoner sent up to an execution block, I stumbled up to the stage. A million emotions crossed my mind. Fear, anger, rage, worry. buried themselves in my brain. I looked out into the crowd there had to be at least 15,000 people. All with the same expression. Nothingness. At that moment I realized how brutal the Hunger Games were. People were stripped of their dignity and forced to put on this show for the Capitol every year. We were not people, but instead pawns of the Capitol. However my thought would be cut short as a powerful breeze swept in. The breeze tipped over the glass bowl off its podium and by the time I realized it was falling it was too late. The bowl bounced off my head, knocking me out cold. I once again slipped into the dream world. My father was the bravest man I knew; he battled sharks and brung down whales with one harpoon. He was the best father sons could ask for, he taught me how to be a man and taught me that my morality was the only thing that separated me from being someone from the Capitol. Having a dad as amazing as that was a miracle of its own So what was stopping another miracle from happening too. Dad wrapped us over his shoulders and swam to the surface. He put us on the only piece of driftwood large enough to support the both of us. He slipped his necklace in my pocket before sinking into the waters never to be seen again. there was a cottage in the woods
and by the window sat baked goods, ivy grew along the wall cream-colored flowers, graceful and small, mushrooms line the crooked stone path fairies hide within the grass, in the kitchen stood my friend and now, dear reader, we're reached the end. "Grand" can't begin to describe Her Majesty Queen Yelged's gold-frosted ivory castle, nicknamed Se Mudep Yozen, the Floral Palace, for the same flower pattern - lilac, monkshood, and dogwood - appearing throughout the castle, first found carved on the outside of the 20-foot door at the castle's main entrance.
When the doors open, the sight of the majestic, expensive First Hall unerringly overwhelms visitors. An unseen band, usually consisting of the royal children's favorite string quartet but occasionally the King's yirmae, his brass players, fills the hall with traditional Urpùoian music. Huge paintings with thick gold frames depicting meadows and musicians cover the bright, cream-colored walls. The high, sky-blue ceiling shows off more of the purple and white flowers, as well as haloed angels. Up the grand stairs at the end of the First Hall lies the throne room. Towering white columns, also marked by the Queen's signature design, line the golden door. A long emerald carpet spreads across the marble floor to the thrones, two huge wooden chairs stained a deep brown with fern-colored green cushions. Servants bustle near the walls, scurrying around to the various doors lining the three walls in front of the thrones. Behind the immense chairs lays only one small, barely noticeable door. Through the door sits a private epria tùlzin, a music parlor, for the Queen. During particularly dull or unnecessary events, she slips in, sometimes bringing a few lucky guests to please her with their musical talents. Faint piano music invariably drifts into the throne room from the left of the Queen's seat, where some child of the court can always be found receiving obligatory zazis le epria zesa, traditional dance and music lessons, from one of the castle's many minstrels. Usually, Queen Yelged, who spends quieter evenings lounging in her epria tùlzin with the door open to hear the lessons, tries to guess the age of the child based on the songs played. She played the game as a girl with her sister Pirma. Now, she stares at the familiar floral pattern on the uncommonly low ceiling in her cozy room, feeling again like a vibrant girl in a dying kingdom, quietly vowing to save the drowning place she's found herself in. Through heavy rain and fog, an adventurer spots a crumbling castle resting on craggy clogs above a storming sea. With her cloak wrapped tightly around her head, she sprints up the grassy hill to the entrance of the stone ruins. The tall oak door hangs from the hinges, leaning inwards and creating a gap large enough for the woman to slip through. She crouches as she enters, straining her ears to prepare herself for her surroundings, but the only sounds that reach her ears are the skittering of mice under fallen stones and the rushing of rain outside. Slowly, she creeps through the entrance, her footsteps echoing through the empty halls. In various places, the ceiling is caved in, letting rain trickle into puddles on the uneven and cracked marble floors, but the shelter is enough to keep her safe from the storm until morning. The traveler settles in a room she assumes was once a great dining hall. A long wooden table sits in the center with chairs blown around by the sea wind and knocked over by animals searching for shelter. Two faded tapestries shift in a draft created by the large stained glass windows on the wall looking out over the sea. The woman breaks up a few chairs and creates a small fire to help her cloak dry. She lays a bedroll down to protect herself from the cold, mossy floor and gazes out the window, imagining what the view might have looked like on a sunnier day, when this hall was full of warm food and the gold trimming on the walls still shone. Cozy little garden,
dotted with bitter white dandelions. With the beginnings of a sigh, a gentle breeze leads them away into a circle dance in the wind. The pond sleeps, under a sugar maple sequestering you away from the sun. Away from those loud, spinning colors; And from that music that mocked your pounding head. And those lights-- so many lights-- green and red and green and red and yellow, flickering over your head, on and off and on and again and again, giving you no regard. That world that spun around and pushed over and left behind the you who it found too shy and too slow ever to be a part of it. So it's okay to let your wishes drift off, as long as you can take solace here, in the sweet, serene somnium of the mourning doves' song. It's okay... The wind whistles through the slanted boards of the abandoned shed I have made my home. It’s tucked away in a cluster of trees behind an old shop that last saw business before I was born when money wasn’t always short and the scramble for jobs wasn’t constant. Lila, my broad shouldered golden retriever who’s stomach had gradually slimmed down since I left home last June is sleeping restlessly at my feet. Technically, I didn’t leave home, my home left me. Or at least the man who made my house a home did. You see, three months after my sixteenth birthday, my father was found crushed under our newly refurbished dining room ceiling. There was some confusion between the construction workers a week prior when one had to be put off the job after catching smallpox. A new man came, and he tried to pick up where the other left off. According to the extremely apologetic manager of the company, a few support beams hadn’t been put in, which therefore threw off the proportion of weight distribution, caused the middle third to be disproportionately placed, and eventually crashed down on my oblivious father who had been sitting at the table reading the newspaper. Or something like that - I stopped paying attention after the third unemotional “I’m terribly sorry” that he gave me. The only other family that I had was a great aunt who lived in England, and to quote the letter that she sent in response to the head of the orphanage, she “had no idea that Thomas’s wife had died, or that Lilian hadn’t found a husband yet.” Of course I hadn’t found a husband! Either way, she wasn’t going to be taking me any time soon. So there I was, alone in an orphanage full of children who had gone through way too much in such a short time. Lila, who I had snuck out to our back porch to escape the commotion of onlookers and inpatient businessmen discussing my fate. I was assigned to a kitchen job at the orphanage, and in the few hours of daylight that I wasn’t working, I was taking care of the young kids. It was grueling. One day, I’d just had enough. I left when the quarter moon had risen to nearly the top of the sky, and the soft June breeze blew the sticky air through the open windows of my shared room. I found my way back to my house, which was currently abandoned. Soon after opening my front door, I heard Lila’s soft footsteps padding down the eerily silent halls. She loyally followed me out the front door and down my front steps to the great unknown. That’s how I ended up here, in a remote town three thousand miles from my old home.
I had watched hundreds of young men jump aboard steam engines to make their way across mountains of the Yukon Territory, but since I had Lila with me, I had to do it the old fashioned way - hitchhiking. I caught a ride with a nice old man who was carrying a cart full of pigs to his brother’s farm. Lila and I sat in the back on the trip that took us close to the Yukon River, then hopped out and set up camp on the shore. All along the coast, there were men building ships to use to cross the river. We waited for what looked like the sturdies boat to be completed, then hopped in the back then prayed that it wouldn't hit a rock and sink. Thankfully, after close to three hours of being tossed and turned in the frigid rapids, we grounded. Now I’m here in Alaska, resting for a bit while I try to find the best place to search for gold. The gold rush here has been brewing for a few years, and I’d read about it in the newspaper over my father's shoulder sometimes, but I had never paid much attention to it before now. I have no way of getting a job as an under qualified sixteen year old girl with no family. Finding gold is all I could do to survive. Besides, Lila doesn’t complain about having to hide all day (even though she is a dog and can’t speak english), but I know that she would be better off in the wild, away from the egregious townspeople that try to kick her off the streets. I don’t just want to find gold. I need to. I guess I didn’t ever really know what I wanted to do with my life, but I’m sure it wasn’t this. For the past few weeks, I had been setting scraps of food from the trash outside a few restaurants aside. I had been starting to get more daring in what I stole, thinking that Lila and I would both need to strengthen up in order to make the journey to the wilds. I was planning to wait out the winter to leave my safe haven, but Lila has been getting stir crazy and quite frankly, so have I. I was a bit of an explorer from an early age, not at all what you would expect from the daughter of a successful businessman. Since my mother had died when I was about four, my father had all control over raining me. He had never had an aptitude for parenting, so he just raised me the way that his mother raised him out on their farm house - freely. I was an explorer, and I would sometimes spend the night in the patch of woods in my backyard, but I always had my warm, comforting home to come back to. Now, I’m going to be all alone in the Alaskan wilderness with no company but a dog. I have no idea what to expect. Why did I ever get talked into hiring that kid as an intern? The great blacksmith, Quinn Malorman, a 16-year-old aplomb female prodigy, has lost her future to a 10-year-old fool. He comes in for a lesson but before I even get started he had dropped a scolding hot hammar on his bare feet. The closest hospital is 3 miles away, so I carry the whining child to his house, knock on the door, and hand him over to his parents. The parents don’t notice how the boy jumps up immediately as if he hadn’t been hurt in all before he tells his imaginative, exaggerating story. I remember the day the sheriff delivered the news like it was yesterday (which it was, but that’s not the point). There was no need to use a fancy letter if all the House was going to say was that I was sued by the overprotective parents of that kid and my possessions would be taken away to pay off the money. Luckily Callie wasn’t taken away from me. I rescued the sociable pup when she was at a young age. As crazy as it seems, I believe the world throws obstacles at you for a reason and to get your attention, not just for the fun of it. So when the paper headline said “Man discovers GOLD in remote Alaska'', Callie and I got right to work figuring out the fastest route to the Klondike by foot and packing the necessities.
By now, you may have assumed that I wanted to dig for gold to buy back my possessions and to become rich. If so, that is partly wrong. Since I was a kid, geology and nature have been pertinent to my surviving and thriving in this world, always igniting the ember of happiness in my little brain. When my parents died a few days after my 13th birthday, surviving became the top priority, knocking rocks to rock bottom. I became a blacksmith, one of the most well-paying jobs in the 1890s for young women. I need to find gold so I can survive, as it is so rare and valuable, however it also will take me back to the times where I could do what I love for hours on end, not what I need to do in order to live. The luminous and fascinating concepts of geology will engross my mind when I am digging for gold, which in turn will help distract me from digging and therefore allow me to dig longer. Most importantly, Callie deserves more than being a blacksmith’s companion-she has got me through such hard times that I regret not being able to feed her and take care of her as well as I should be, considering she saved my life when I was about to be picked apart by foxes a few years ago. Up until they passed away, my mother, father, and I would go camping once a month for a week in summer and a few times during the school year, so I had plenty of experience surviving in the great but grueling outdoors. No need to lug one ton of supplies to the Yukon-the Canadian government have their hopes up pretty high if they plan on having to rescue me. I have never been to Alaska, but Maine must be quite similar with its cold winters and dense forests. Callie will become useful as we venture farther North-”Danger lurks in remote, virtually undiscovered places” my father used to say, and the route to Alaska is filled with thick forests and shrubbery. I hope to glimpse furtive creatures you don’t come across in daily life in Maine: foxes, deer or caribou, moose, bears, wolves, and the occasional snowy owl. Fishing will come in handy when we start to run out of food (I am a big salmon gal). A close friend of mine told me to hop on a train with an empty boxcar for part of the journey-thank goodness that fool of a kid isn’t coming with me or Callie might have had to catch the cuff of his shirt between her teeth to keep him from being grinded apart by the train wheels. Other than that, Alaska is an outlandish stranger. I do expect to find gold though, even if it is the last thing I do. You should know,
my hands aren't that great for holding. For starters, they're constantly ice cold to the touch from anxiety, as if ghosts have my palms in a death grip; they don't take kindly to sharing. And my fingertips are callused and rough from the ukulele. It's a bit small for my hands, and I'm only just good enough to string along a few lullabies, but their dissonance is lost on my tone-deaf ears, anyway. And my hands are always all covered in ink or paint, and I'm scared that if I touched you, you'd be tainted as well. And so I just thought you should know. Dear Reader,
There was only one day in my trivial life worth remembering. I can still recall the scent of flourishing wisteria from outside my bedroom window where I awoke that morning. It carried through my room, shrouding all of my senses and all of my furnishings, like an ashy cloud of smoke. Consequently, as soon as I gained consciousness, I had to trek to the window and close it, since although I did love the smell, it was becoming overwhelming. And, at once, the cloud of floral-scented smoke evanesced, and I was able to begin my day. I always started my days with a soak in the clawfoot tub that sat in my bathroom. My legs were too long for the bath, and my feet would dangle from the end of it, over the old tile floor. When I was finished, I dressed in my usual attire - khaki dress pants, shiny, black shoes, and of course, my cobalt button-up shirt with tiny, black polka dots. I had a rather small and slender figure, so my eccentric attire allowed me to stand out in public. Even though I looked electrifying, all of my days were dull. My mornings and afternoons were spent selling carpet door-to-door, which had been my job for the past eight years. Moreover, I spent my nights driving my blue truck around town, rolls of carpet in the back left unsold, until I wore myself out enough to fall asleep as soon as I crawled into my bed. Now, this day began like any other, trying to sell rolls of carpet to exasperated housewives and their irritated husbands, until I decided to travel out of picket-fence territory to the more rural side of town. It was raining, I remember, when I arrived at my first house: a small dark-oak cottage. I knocked on the door, and after a few moments, a startled man came to the door. He was burly and tough-looking, with a large, brown beard adorning his chin. When he saw me, he seemed nervous, and I supposed he didn’t get many visitors. However, after rambling on with my usual routine, I noticed he was sweating profusely, and his cheeks were red as roses. “Is everything alright?” I asked him, with genuine concern. He stood still for a couple of seconds before he responded by tugging my arm and pulling me into his abode. In my eight years of carpet selling, nobody had ever invited me inside their home. When I saw the interior of the home, I immediately noticed why he was skittish. Sitting on his dusty, pine coffee table was a homemade bomb with red and white wires sticking out all over the place. After examining it, I realized he was gone. But, then I heard loud footsteps coming from the other side of the house. When he finally approached me, he was holding a massive, metal ax: I thought he was going to kill me! He must have been scared I would reveal his secret contraption, but he was entirely unaware that I, too, made bombs. Door-to-door carpet salesmen only get paid ashes compared to what someone can make selling homemade bombs. I had never told anyone my own secret, but when he held his ax over my head, I immediately spewed out every detail of my illicit night job. Then, he smirked, and I realized that I wouldn’t be selling carpets for the rest of the day. “Well, as you can see here,” he gestured his hands to the bomb, “it’s a bit rough around the edges. I had to start making it under short notice, and I need it for a job in a few hours. Would you be able to help me finish it?” I nodded enthusiastically. Finally, after years of the dullest profession, I had been awarded a day of utter fulfillment. So, we worked on the bomb for a couple of hours: fixing wires, programming timers, and placing it all into a neat cover. It looked truly remarkable. While we worked, he filled me in on the purpose of the bomb. He told me that there was a man who lived in the suburbs that owed him some money. I was a little startled when he told me where the man lived since he lived right down the street from me. But, he assured me that he had tested numerous prototypes of the bomb, and he was positive my house wasn’t in its radius. When we finished, he asked me if I would like to help him deploy the bomb. “Do you think I spent all of this time working on this bomb to not see the destruction it’s going to cause?” I laughed. I walked out of the house with him, and we boarded his car. I kept our prized possession in my lap, while he drove down the rough, country road. There were large fir trees on both sides of the road, which were swaying violently. The rain from the morning had only become worse by the time we left his cottage. Stray branches and twigs lined the dirt we drove over. Soon enough, the dirt road turned into a paved road, and we were nearing the home of our victim. Although we wanted to place it quickly, we decided to wait until the storm subsided to deploy the bomb. “Are you sure you want to do this?” the burly man asked me. “Why are you asking me? It was your idea,” I responded, staring out the window. “Exactly, so I’m prepared if I get caught. If you stay with me you’ll be incriminated too, if they figure out who did it.” “I have nothing to lose,” I retorted, curtly. After we talked, I gazed out of the front car window. We were near enough to my home that I could see the wisteria in my front yard. The brutal storm had turned the plant to shreds, and there were only a few purple flowers delicately swaying in the wind. I watched them tumble with the wind, always staying rooted in the soil until the storm abated. The burly man nudged me out of my trance, and he told me it was time to begin our deployment. It only took ten minutes to find a spot where we could lodge the bomb. We found the perfect place in between the house’s foundation and its porch. I allowed him to place the bomb since he had worked on it longer than I did. After we positioned it, we returned to the car. “I set the timer to go off in four hours. He should be home eating dinner when it explodes. I can’t wait for him to learn his lesson.” the strong man enthused, as we drove back to his house. I simply nodded and smiled. When we returned to the cottage, I said goodbye to the man, and I thanked him for the joyous day. Then, I went back into my truck, and I drove back into town. Before I came home, I decided to sell some carpet until sunset. None of the irritated customers suspected what I had just done prior, which made the job more exciting than usual. At the end of the day, I went home, and I began to do the routine I had been doing for a decade. The remaining wisteria softly swayed outside, while I continued to fade back into mundanity. I almost forgot about the bomb I helped plant down the street from my home. Actually, I only remembered when I heard a deafening clamor, while the room shook calamitously. After regaining my composure, I trekked over to the kitchen window, and I saw the blazing inferno that had become of my neighbor’s home. I watched it burn into a pile of ashes for a few minutes until I grew drowsy and decided to head to bed. When I sunk into my bed, I noticed my window had swung open from the storm. I was too exhausted to rise up from my spot and close it, so I let the cold wind travel into the room. Within a couple of moments, the scent of smoke carried into the room and covered my senses and furnishings like the aroma of wisteria. As I sank into a deep slumber, it shrouded my nostrils and neck and my lungs, until I fell into the deepest sleep of all, under a blanket of ashy smoke. I may have taken my last breath that day, but those few smoky breaths bestowed me with more life than any I had ever taken before. Sincerely, A Free Man |
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