#the woods hungers

[coveysongbirds]

idk about you but to me one of the most devastating parts about rewatching the hunger games after the prequel is seeing how dead the hob is sixty four years later. in tbosas with lucy gray and the covey gracing the stage, it was so full of life and fairy lights and music and dancing and silly goose good times. yet in the thg, the music, the ENERGY, it's all gone :( it's so clear that year after year of those damn games completely stole the SLIVER of happiness district 12 had!!11!!!1!!

[teeahra]

i love my termina crew so much

[waywardangel-wilds]

On this episode of morning wood (I’ll make a new blog for this I swear):

“Katniss, describe your ideal man”

“I don’t know. I’m not picky, I think. Just a person? Someone taller than me maybe. Nice. Funny. Smells good. I think I like blue eyes. I don’t know, but good hair? Maybe curly. Curls are nice, waves too I guess. Ummm. Sturdy, for sure. Not someone who’d get blown away by the wind, haha. Uh, and yeah. Just someone nice.”

“I can’t believe she managed to describe Peeta without doing it, yall, get me outta here”

[azeroishere]

It's so fucking funny to see people draw Will Wood fan arts right after he posts instagram stories.

[trashpidgeon48]

There’s just something about Middle-Aged bitches in love

[llovelymoonn]

on desire as hunger

haruki murakami norwegian wood \\ victoria hannan kokomo

support me

[softchouli]

[froskii]

My graffiti I did LOL the last two are my oc frank money$ack and some random edgy cat

[thegreenthepeacetheorange]

"Gale says I never smile except in the woods." - Katniss, THG, Ch. 1.

I present to you: Instances of Katniss effortlessly smiling/laughing around/because of Peeta in the first book:

Peeta unexpectedly laughs. “He was drunk,” says Peeta. “He’s drunk every year.”  “Every day,” I add. I can’t help smirking a little. 

“Where is Haymitch, anyway? Isn’t he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?” says Peeta.  “With all that alcohol in him, it��s probably not advisable to have him around an open flame,” I say.  And suddenly we’re both laughing. I guess we’re both so nervous about the Games and more pressingly, petrified of being turned into human torches, we’re not acting sensibly. 

When we finally escape to bed on the second night, Peeta mumbles, “Someone ought to get Haymitch a drink.”  I make a sound that is somewhere between a snort and a laugh. Then catch myself. It’s messing with my mind too much, trying to keep straight when we’re supposedly friends and when we’re not. 

“I hope that’s how people interpret the four I’ll probably get,” says Peeta. “If that. Really, is anything less impressive than watching a person pick up a heavy ball and throw it a couple of yards. One almost landed on my foot.”  I grin at him and realize that I’m starving. 

Peeta, it turns out, has never been a danger to me.  The thought makes me smile. 

“Lean down a minute first,” he says. “Need to tell you something.” I lean over and put my good ear to his lips, which tickle as he whispers. “Remember, we’re madly in love, so it’s all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”  I jerk my head back but end up laughing. “Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.” 

“Katniss?” Peeta says. I meet his eyes, knowing my face must be some shade of green. He mouths the words.  “How about that kiss?”  I burst out laughing because the whole thing is so revolting I can’t stand it. 

Peeta’s struggling to get up when I reach the cave. “I woke up and you were gone,” he says. “I was worried about you.”  I have to laugh as I ease him back down. “You were worried about me? Have you taken a look at yourself lately?” 

“So that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked who knew the valley song. Your hand shot right up in the air. She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. And I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent,” Peeta says.  “Oh, please,” I say, laughing. 

“What’s the problem?” I say with a grin.  “The problem is we’re both still alive. Which only reinforces the idea in your mind that you did the right thing,” says Peeta. 

“Ah, that’ll be nice,” says Peeta, tightening his arms around me. “You and me and Haymitch. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games’ tales.”  “I told you, he hates me!” I say, but I can’t help laughing at the image of Haymitch becoming my new pal. 

“Hey, Effie, watch this!” says Peeta. He tosses his fork over his shoulder and literally licks his plate clean with his tongue making loud, satisfied sounds. Then he blows a kiss out to her in general and calls, “We miss you, Effie!”  I cover his mouth with my hand, but I’m laughing. “Stop! Cato could be right outside our cave.” 

[writerdoublein]

Drew my sona, it's a seal(with paws).

And added some of my interests as well.

[jizzweiner]

what the freak

[tomthebassoon]

Ok listen. I'm dying. Reading the hunger games, I was vaguely aware that district 12 was supposed to be located in my homeland, but I didn't fully feel it till I read tbosas. Like, that's Appalachian folk music, baby! The music of my people! Lucy Gray talks like me!! The humidity Snow can't stop bitching about? That's my summer!!!

And then the movie came out and let me tell you, the joy I felt hearing the covey speak. That's my accent on the big screen!!! And of course, the music was just how I imagined it!! Straight up, The Ballad of Lucy Gray Baird was *the same* melody I thought of when reading the book!!! (musicology is my passion ok). Every single song killed me I swear. And the cinematography of district 12! I can imagine my home town like that. I know meadows and lakes just like those. That's my home.

[aboutl0ve]

[llovelymoonn]

favourite poems of june

chase twichell the snow watcher: "hunger for something"

hester knibbe hungerpots (tr. jacquelyn pope)

jan beatty an eater, or swallowhole, is a reach of stream

sally wen mao the toll of the sea

peter everwine rain

rebecca lindenberg the logan notebooks: "poetic subjects"

john kinsella native cut wood deflects colonial hunger

katie peterson permission: "the truth is concrete"

linda hogan dark. sweet.: "innocence"

jános pilinszky (tr. george gömöri & clive wilmer) van gogh's prayer

david sullivan the day the beekeeper died: sulaymaniyah

sandra simonds you can't build a child

kari edwards bharat jiva: "ready to receive remains..."

george kalogeris rilke rereading hölderlin

philip nikolayev letters from aldenderry: "a midsummer's night stroll"

franz wright the raising of lazarus

erin belieu black box: "i heart your dog's head"

joseph brodsky collected poems in english, 1972-1999: "the hawk's cry in autumn"

jonathan galassi north street and other poems: "may"

stanley kunitz the collected poems of stanley kunitz: "end of summer"

robin blaser the holy forest: collected poems of robin blaser: "a bird in the house"

liu xia (tr. jennifer stern & ming di) empty chairs

wilfred owen exposure

mahogany l. browne this is the honey

diane lockward the uneaten carrots of atonement: "for the love of avocados"

peter balakian ozone journal: "here and now"

(tw: miscarriage) kathryn nuernberger rag & bone: "translations"

ailbhe ní ghearbhuigh conriocht ["werewolf"] (tr. billy ramsell)

craig arnold meditation on a grapefruit

anzhelina polonskaya (tr. andrew wachtel) to the ashes: "a few words about van gogh"

support me

[softchouli]

[adsosfraser]

turn into dust

everlark one shot, set between the hunger games and catching fire

peeta helps take care of katniss when she arrives at his door one afternoon

wc: 1766

My hands roughly knead the dough on my kitchen island. I can’t stop the shaking in my arms as I repeat the motions that are etched into the very memory of my muscles. Each thwack I aim towards the pliable dough fails to banish the images echoing through my mind. They’ve been sitting there, waiting with a grin to see the final moment I’ll be sent over the edge.

Her grey eyes pierce straight through my chest, like the deadly sharp edges of one of her arrows. Just as my hands are an extension of myself, her bow is part of her very spirit as well. But her fierce eyes drown in the mist surrounding her; it’s choking her essence and scattering it into nothing. Cato grins madly as his hands turn her into crumbling dust the same colour of her eyes. My hands reach for her, desperate beyond belief. Life without my songbird is unthinkable. I punch the dough hard, and watch as my hand flies straight through the boy from District 2. I gasp, ridding myself of the nightmare that still crawls beneath my skin, demanding my undivided attention.

At the knock at the door, my head whips from my abused and sad-looking dough to the front of my house. I can’t see anything through the thick half-circle set in the sturdy oak door except for the slight shadow of movement. My brows pull together in confusion as I grab the hand towel strung up by the oven and wipe down the sweat from my forehead and flake off pieces of dough into the sink. The pieces rooted deep underneath the beds of my fingernails are a lost cause and I don’t bother as the knocking becomes more insistent.

I never get visitors. And none nearly this frantic in demanding I show my presence.

Well, except Prim. But I know she and her mother will be gone for a long while attending a birth in the Seam. They’ll be back if at least not late at night tonight, then early tomorrow morning.

I pull the door open with a polite smile I force on my face and a pleasant “hello” on my lips. I’m sure none of these niceties matter with the state I’m in. Crazed eyes with deep purple skin sagging under them and nails chewed to the quick and sometimes even further than that from nerves and nightmares.

My heart drops at the girl in front of me. I take a gulp and stab my fingers into the flesh of my palms to determine if the sight is real or the start of another dream.

Is it really already noon? The sun high in the sky tells me yes. And she’s always back by now on Sundays after hunting with Gale.

Her grey eyes dart to every single inch of the inside of my house they can see. They land on the vase full of dandelions on a side table near the entrance, then the towel flung across my shoulder, my hands, the clock above my head, and the rug under my bare feet. Foot.

She chews her lip, which already seems to have bled from the habit.

Finally, her eyes dart to mine and hold steady. I let out a sharp breath as my heart thuds faster and faster, like the wheels of the train as it began the start of its journey.

“Hi Katniss.” They’re the first words I’ve spoken to her in a month and three days.

Her eyes break our stare and dart back to my shoulder. Safe.

A dark shade of rose paints her cheeks and she worries her lip even more, pulling a successful strip of skin away.

“Um,” she pauses. “Hi.”

“Did you need anything Katniss?”

Her hands reach towards where her braid normally rests but pull away at its absence. The usual braid is unbound and wound up on top of her head into a clean towel. She’s in a fresh pair of her grey sleep shorts that reach midthigh and in a rich green tank top she normally uses as an undershirt. I’m surprised to even see the white sandals hugging her feet, somehow imagining her as a beautiful creature of the woods, barefoot with grass and flowers growing up underneath her. Reaching into the small pockets of the stretchy fabric of her shorts, she brings out a piece of metal smaller than her finger.

“Yes. Sorry Peeta.”

Her eyes are clear as they look back into mine. I push the hope that swells in my chest that she’s speaking about more than just the current situation, but her eyes express more.

“No need to apologise Katniss. I’m always happy to help.” You.

I grab the tweezers from her hand and move aside to let her into my house for the first time. Her wide eyes take in the foyer and the sturdy oak bones of the house. I guide her into the kitchen and brush her shoulder so she sits down on one of the stools at the counter.

She turns her back to me and shoves the tails of the towel from her back over her right shoulder. She tugs the back of her tank top down further to expose more of the skin on her back. I see it immediately and frown.

I want to burn it alive for harming even a hair on her body.

“It didn’t come off in the shower. Can you get it? I can’t reach it.”

The tick is embedded in the centre of her back between the bottom of her shoulder blades. I look closer. It doesn’t appear to have sunk onto her for long to be engorged by blood, but long enough that it clings to her. Maybe since she headed out into the woods this morning.

“Did Gale not want to help you?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.” She looks back at me; a sad look passes across her eyes. Now I feel bad bringing him up. She probably misses him and he just had other things to do today to provide for his family. They only truly have one day to be together. “Do you not want to?”

“Of course I do. I just thought your boyfriend would be your first choice to do this instead of walking all twenty yards to a different house.”

“He’s my friend.”

A silence fills the room, heavy with all that’s unsaid between us.

“Hold on just a moment.”

I limp with heavy footsteps to the bathroom on the first floor of the house. The prosthetic is helpful, but it still feels like hell to have the tender and still healing part of the end of my leg constantly pressing down and rubbing against it, and to be reminded of what I’ll never have again.

I putter around in the bathroom cabinets until I finally find where the first-aid bin is shoved into a far corner. I come back to Katniss looking at the small lump of dough on the counter, her fingers inches away from it. I smile at the thought of her being tempted to touch the soft and squishy piece of dough to feel what bread is like before it's touched by fire.

She doesn’t startle when I come up close to her back again. I know my clomping footsteps are like land mines to her, the girl who sprung from the forest. I reach around her shoulder to set the bin of first aid supplies on the counter and place the small bandage, antibiotic ointment, and alcohol wipes near it so they’re ready to use.

With the slow and steady hand that I reserve for painting the delicate details of the cakes at the bakery, I lean forward with the tweezers and squat so I’m eye level with the bastard that stuck itself to Katniss. In under five seconds, I have it squirming between the tweezers and plop it into a small empty jar. Some skin pulled off with it as well and I restrain myself from kissing the spot on her back.

I quickly disinfect the area with the alcohol and put a little dash of ointment on it, smearing it with my finger.

She sighs at my light touch. I feel her tremble but continue on with my task.

Next, I peel back the layers of the bandage and stick it to her skin as straight as possible so it doesn’t clump up and fall.

“Can I look through your hair for any more?”

She nods.

“Mmhmm.” Her voice shakes.

I wonder when the last time was when anyone showed her this kind of care.

She pulls apart the contraption on her head and lets her damp waves fall against her back. I carefully bring my hands up to comb through them. It’s silky and smooth with the trace of conditioner still in her hair. It calms me in a way and I can tell she also enjoys the way I lightly scrape through her scalp with the pads of my fingers when her head tilts back closer to me with relaxed eyes.

“If you want, I can bring over some of the cheese buns I’m making. I saw you looking at the dough earlier.”

Her eyes open to look back at me upside down. I continue to look at her hairline and move strands of hair this way and that to get a better view.

“Cheese buns?”

“Yeah, they’re delicious. I’m sure you’ll love them too.”

“Okay.” She nods, closing her eyes again so I can continue.

A soft moan escapes her and my hands softly brush back the hair by her right ear to check for any ticks behind it. It doesn’t mean anything. She just needs a human touch. A friend. After everything she’s been through. And I was the closest warm body she could think of who wouldn’t deny her. I never would.

I lightly push her head forehead so I can check behind her neck as well and I’m glad that I see none. She frowns when I pull away. Sitting up straight, she clears her throat and brushes off her legs.

“You’re all good.”

Her eyes are watery as she squeezes my hand. “Thank you Peeta.”

With the lingering heat of her body and the smell of strawberries, vanilla, and sunshine from her soap, I light a match in the loneliness of my kitchen, her presence lingering long after she slipped away uncertainly back to her house. I watch the tick writhe and struggle under the heat to turn into dust.