i kinda want to go to bed but that’s exactly what the government wants is for me to go to bed at a reasonable hour and i can’t let them have that
Yesterday’s paper.
Yeah I can deal with that.
I’m good with this. This is good.
I just feel bad for the rest of Tumblr that can’t stand Sherlock.
Well screw them, they can avoid the Sherlock tags and fanstuffs or whatever, and we an avoid their stuff too if we want. IF IT’S NOT OFFENSIVE THEN I’M BLOGGING ABOUT WHATEVER THE HELL I WANT. SHHHEEERRRLLLOOOCCCKKKK 5EVER ♪( ´θ｀)ノ
THIS IS UTTER HAPPINESS.
I’ll be watching Sherlock till I’m 30.
I’ll be posting the first chapter of the Percy Jackson fanfic this weekend! Keep your eyes peeled! Meanwhile, check out my Hunger Games fanfic!
- American: I want to live in the UK.
- Asian: I want to live in the UK.
- Indian: I want to live in the UK.
- African: I want to live in the UK.
- Hispanic: I want to live in the UK.
- Canadian: I want to live in the UK.
- Filipino: I want to live in the UK.
- British: wat
I vote for this as the next tumblr interface change:
No no it’s okay just fucking pick your boyfriend over your bestfriend.
Just whine to everyone about how I couldn’t handle my first ever relationship and I had to talk to you over the phone about it.
Talk about how I’m stupid and of a lower level than you because I’m dark skinned.
Thanks man. That’s how a best friend should be.
RUBY
I could smell the boiling stew from outside my house. The warm June air suffocating me even though it was 6 in the evening. From inside, I could hear my mother telling Jude to get ready for dinner, her voice calm and soothing, it always feels good to get home. There weren’t any mud-lined boots on the stone ground outside the door, so I knew that my dad wasn’t home yet. With a sigh, I took off my shoes and unlocked the main door.
“Mom, Jude. I’m home,” I called out as I dropped my shoes on the parqueted floor.
“Oh, wonderful! Now we can have dinner together! Ruby, call your brother down. The table will be laid in 15 minutes and I want both of you to be down on time,” she said the last part sternly in the hopes of getting us to abide her rule. Obviously, I wouldn’t follow it.
I walked up to my room and threw my bag on the ground. The floor was icy for whatever reason, but I couldn’t be bothered, because I liked it. I sat on the edge of my bed, stared at my purple wall and sighed. I had so much to do, and only so little time.
After a few minutes of tuning out, I decided to get undressed, and wore my favorite red shirt and black shorts. As soon as I was done changing, I walked out of my room, and into the study. My dad’s books were all lined up in his shelves neatly according to height beside my shelf, that had books stacked on one another, looking barbaric in comparison.
The study smelled like pinewood. New, polished pinewood. My dad had a new desk and shelves installed just last weekend. Because my mother never opened the windows of the study, the smell of yellowing books and new furniture enveloped the room. It was nice, in a way. It was different.
I grabbed a book, about flowers and sat on the little sofa placed between a ceiling-length window and a standing lamp. I had an assiagnment about flowers due in three days, and I had to get reference for my essay. The pages of the book had pictures of flowers and plants; whether they were edible or not, where to find them, and how to get them. My fingers traced the outline of a purple flower I immediately knew the name of. The only flower that was so small and delicate, yet calm and kind. The evening primrose.
The sun started to set, and room got darker - not metaphorically, but literally. I looked out the window and examined the other white-painted houses in the Victor’s Village. Their windows tall and clean. Lights on most houses were turned on, while the rest were off. I couldn’t tell if no one was home at that point in those houses or if they were just unoccupied.
I looked at the house right next to mine, my brand new neighbors. God knows why they lived right beside me, but they happened to. Our houses weren’t placed in chronological order of the years. A little boy was laughing and talking to his parents, a little girl sitting on the bed in the room, staring at her parents over-dramatic brother. The parent’s son, standing at the door of the room and laughing at his younger brother. Looking at the happy family, I sighed. My family was never like that: so joyous and united. There was rarely a day when my brother got along well with my dad. They hardly ever agreed on anything.
I glanced at the children playing down below, their parents standing side by side, holding hands and smiling at their children. How nice it must be, to have someone whom you know understands you and would do anything just to keep you happy. Then again, people do so many idiotic things in the name of love. When their stupidy gets mistaken for bravery. Their bravery to do anything and everything under the sky for their other half.
The window felt cool when I placed the back of my palm against it. I didn’t realise that I’d dropped my book on the floor when I was looking out the window, so I bent down to pick it up. As I sat up on the chair after getting the book, I lightly ran my hand through my hair and glanced at my neighbor’s house again. This time, there wasn’t anyone left in the room, except for one person. His dark brown hair flying in the wind, his guarded green eyes scrutinizing me as he stood in his balcony, a lot like I had just a few minutes ago to his family.
My eyes met his and a shudder ran through me. On his face were scars so deep, they left marks that seemed permanent, yelling at him as a constant reminder of the people he’d killed to get home to his family.
Then everything flooded into me. His name, his story.
He was Matte Stanner.
Winner of the 73rd Annual Hunger Games.
