Posts by hgfreak

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  • PLOT WITH CLARITY?! [o]

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    hey guys, i'm on now more because of the summer, but at one point i have to be a counselor at walcamp near me so i gotta be inactive but ill have fun.


    what i WILL do;
    hunger games [MY SPECIALTY]
    gxg
    bxb
    bxg
    mythical
    youtubers
    medical/mental problems
    fairytale [like cinderella, alice in wonderland, etc]
    mysteries
    schools
    pokemon
    apocalyptic
    other, just ask!


    what i WONT do;
    incest
    rape
    any sexual things
    animals
    bullies
    doctor who [as idek about it that much]
    [other, just ask!]

  • PLOT WITH CLARITY?! [o]

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    hm, um, probably submissive, but i don't mind either way. c:


    and as for plots, just making sure, is it a bxb apocalyptic?

  • PLOT WITH CLARITY?! [o]

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    ok, cool c:


    so i was thinking for the plot, my charrie and your charrie have no family left and are the few people alive on earth that aren't turned into zombies, and they form an alliance, and eventually fall in love?


    sorry if that wasn't superman-worthy but my plotting-muse isn't the greatest.

  • this world's INSANITY [p;insomniac]

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    alex was just like any other kid, that is until the aopcalypse started.
    everything turned scary, and to survive, you had to be tough, fit, and brave.


    he had watched with his very own eyes his brother and parents turned into zombies, mindwashed beings trying to kill him.


    alex wasn't one to cry, but for the first time in 7 years, he cried. alex wandered the streets now with [INSERT YOUR GUY], a friend from school he met up with.


    he had been surviving on the streets and decided two is betters than one, and he couldn't leave a friend behind.


    alex had heard [YOUR GUY] say he was going to go look for food, and if he wasn't back in 10 minutes, to call him, and looked at his watch.


    the time was 9:47, two minutes past the limit. he flipped open his cell phone and dialed [YOUR GUY]'s number.

  • this world's INSANITY [p;insomniac]

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    alex heard the phone being picked up.


    'hello? oh, i just wanted to see if you were alright, since its already 9:47,' he said into the phone.


    alex heard a pounding at the door of the abandoned farmhouse they were in. 'crap, hunter, hurry home quick.' and heard another pounding. 'there's a zombie at the door, i gotta go.'


    alex hung up and grabbed the pistol by the closet. he aimed towards the door, and opened it


    alex quickly shot the zombie and kicked away the dead body, hoping not to attract others.

  • the 92nd annual hunger games ( sign ups ) OPEN

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    Display Spoiler


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    Name: jacqueline malay
    Gender: female
    Age: eighteen
    District: four
    Traits: The next time you happen to stumble upon a cat playing with a mouse, letting it go and scurry off before pouncing on it's tail again, trapping it between the cage of it's claws and staring at it's to-be meal with a purr, just stop. Watch how the mouse knows, how it realizes that these are going to be the last few minutes of it's life, that as long as the cat is entertained it will keep the poor thing alive. Some of them will stop playing, will stop trying to escape. It will welcome death like an old friend, and fall gracefully into it's open arms. Others will try to sink their little teeth into the cat's paws and squeak when they're batted off without a single care.


    Others still will try to run, run, run, without any idea of where they're going. They'll just know that they want to get away, and won't care where they go as long as it's not there. It doesn't matter if it's safe or not. It'll feel safe, if only for a minute. They could be running right into another trap and they wouldn't care. Not for a split second of complete bliss.


    She was never a strong girl. She was never brave. She was nothing but fleeting, a wisp of cloud floating away on the wind. She runs, runs from nothing and from everything, runs just because it's something to do. When she speaks her voice is a whisper, a breath like the puff of wind that flutters a sail on a dock, the gust of wind off of a sparrow's wings as it takes off into the trees. When she can't run, she hides. When she can't hide, she runs. When she can't do either, she folds in on herself and hopes to disappear.


    Next time, when the stars align just right, look to the sky with a piece of sea-glass to your eyes. Oh, I'm sorry, did I say sea-glass? I meant see-glass. You can only find it when you're not looking, can only see through it when you want to be blind. Look at the world through her eyes, just for one second. Can you see them? The monsters that haunt her dreams? The girls with torn wings, the boys with their ribs exposed, threaded through with festive ribbons? Can you see how they dance and sing?


    They're beautiful, aren't they?


    This is her world. These shadow creatures are all her children. They climb into bed with her and braid secrets and whispers into her hair. Can you feel their breath upon your skin, the nectar-sweetness of their lips on your's? These are the things that wake her up at night and lull her back to sleep. They climb out of the ocean and parade across the beach in all their finery. They kiss her forehead and let her dream.


    Try to hide from everything in the world, including the people you love. Wind your hair around your shoulders and put blinders on yourself, so you can at least pretend they're not there. Now try to keep going forwards without being able to see a thing. Can't do it?


    Didn't think so.


    Instead try this. Make the dark things your friends. Love them; shower them with adoration. They'll drain you of your mind, make you insane. But it's the price you pay. At least you can move forwards, even when everything around you is terrifying. Even when you can hardly breathe for fear. At least you're keeping something alive.


    Terror.


    It's your best friend now, your kindred spirit. Closer to you than any soul.


    It's easy to be afraid of the dark. At least you can say you don't know what's there.


    Being afraid of your own twin?


    That requires an explanation that you cannot give.


    That requires courage that you do not have.


    Stay with the shadow things, darling. At least they can only terrorize you while you still breathe.


    Don't forget to run.
    Clothing style: whatever she feels is comfortable, and cute-
    Hair: usually worn in one long french braid, or a ponytail, or leavs it down.
    Eyes: her eyes are blue, a pale robin egg blue, not like the sea, but a pale misty color.
    Past life:
    What would you do if you woke up when you were nine and everything was turned upside down? Sure, you still had all of your little comforts. Your still had your health, or so everyone thought. You still had your home, even if it was too small for the eight people that lived in it. You had a meal on the table, even though you would never be able to divide it by the family that all shared your tiny home.


    What if you learned that it wasn't eight but seven that everything had to be divided by? What if you woke up to screams and wails, to the lost sobbing of a mother whose child went missing? Nothing else. Not a single other noise, not even the shuffle of feet on the dirty floor. It's the afternoon. There should be brothers hollering, a four year old boy asking for a lunch that can't be supplied.


    There is no four year old boy anymore. He disappeared. Right into thin air. He did what you had tried to do since he was born.


    What do you do when you come out of bed and see footprints on the floor, and a single, tiny smudge of blood on the bed frame? Sitting there on your sister's side. A little promise. A little warning?


    She would never know.


    After that, she unravelled like an old sweater. Bit by tiny bit, slowly at first, then faster and faster and faster. Now there's hardly anything left. She still pretends though; people make excuses for her, call her shy, modest, sweet, even. They compare her to sugar and treats, say that she must be a breath of fresh air in a home full of such loud personalities.


    Not the peacekeepers though. They stare right through you and see your treachery. They see how your mind has fallen apart, and they know that you could be dangerous. Not because you know you are, but because you don't. She tells stories, nothing more, but replay them in your mind.


    Start from once upon a time and go to happily ever after. Stop. Don't repeat it, or you'll be the next on the whipping block. Happily ever after isn't allowed anymore. Happily ever after is hope.


    You cannot feed the districts hope, even if you're a crazed little girl who lets the words tumble out like escaped things, creatures that kick and scream and scratch at your insides until you let them out. Even if it means one, two, three lashes on the back. Four, five, six. The peacekeepers aren't so bad, the whipping can be bared. She's never even cried out.


    It makes them angry, but all they can do is hit her harder, and she can only retreat farther in on herself.


    Then she goes home. She's coddled and loved. Especially by her sister. Every time her twin touches her, she can hear the gasps of her brother's lungs as they try to swallow air, his nails along the sides of a stolen boat as he tries to find purchase on the water-soaked wood. She can see where the edges cut him, where he's swatted away. She can feel rusty streaks on her skin, lines that she scrubs at until she's raw when she gets the chance.
    Family members: Ana, her mother, and Henry, her father.
    Crush/Love interest: None yet.
    Strengths:
    -fast
    -stealthy
    -good at hiding to gain info
    Other:
    will make male soon

  • the 92nd annual hunger games ( sign ups ) OPEN

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    Display Spoiler


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    Name: jacob [jake] partridge
    Gender: male
    Age: seventeen
    District: seven


    Traits: What do you do when you can't tell between real/fake/here/there? What can you do when you forget how to tell what's a story and what isn't? Do you let go of everything you can't touch, or do you just accept your fate? Can you let go of all of those years of believing in the make believe, let go of the explorers and conquerors and warriors that have always been your heroes? Is that even an option? What would you be without all of these beings that made you the person you are, who make up your skin and your bones and your flesh as much as your very own mind? They're entwined so tightly into your life that it's not a simple method of saying goodbye. There's no easy way out anymore, and maybe it's not so bad after all. You're still yourself. You can still tell between right and wrong, and that's what matters, right? Values make a person. Not sanity.


    Then again, it can't be proven. He's still normal enough to smile, to laugh. Everyone says he's gotten over the death of his grandfather well. He went to his funeral and he shed a few tears, but no one could blame him for that. He still shows up to work, as reliable as ever. Everyone above him on the field tells him how well he's doing, coddles him now that he has no one left in the world. He still waves them off and tells them all that it's just part of life. No one can really tell that there's something going on with him. No one can tell that he's slipping, sliding, falling with no idea of where he'll land. When his eyes stay somewhere for too long or his head suddenly snaps to the side they just think he's a little bit paranoid. It makes enough sense. Work isn't easy in District 7, there's always dangers to look out for. Average. He's perfectly average.


    As average as he's ever been, anyways. If there's anything a bit off-kilter about him it's with his grandfather and his stories to blame. Everyone recognized him as a crazy old bat, someone senile. Maybe he'd had bad experiences with a Peacekeeper, was questioned by the Capitol, almost got turned into an Avox, had a bad father/mother/sister/brother. The rumours are endless, and to be honest, his own grandson doesn't know which one is true, or even if any of them are. He never asked. He asked for a lot of stories, but never ones of his own family. He just didn't want to know. Maybe if he had he wouldn't be where he is now, but it's too late. The damage has already been done, and there's no one left to question. Any stories to be told where taken to the grave, any secrets had died and were now trapped in a casket with no body to keep them company.


    At least for all that he sees and hears he can still fake it. As long as he does everything that's asked of him. As long as he stays at the orphanage, where no one is quite right in the head. Maybe that's it. Maybe it's just the water. Maybe there's something in the walls seeping into his mind and poisoning him, bit by tiny bit, turning him into one of them. One of the ones that has really lost it, who can't seem to tell the difference between up or down or left or right or dead or alive. For now though, he's still the same boy who isn't the biggest conversationalist and isn't a fan of affection, but he's up for a good joke. A laugh. Maybe he can turn all of the strange happenings inside of his mind into a fairy tale for his children and grandchildren, or maybe he'll take it to the grave too. Maybe he won't get that far. Or maybe this is just the start.
    Clothing style: rugged, comfy, usually holey jeans and a plaid shirt.
    Hair: he is brunette.
    Eyes: jacob's eyes are hazel.


    Past life: Children love stories. It's a basic component of life. They don't like to be trapped somewhere, especially somewhere as awful as District 7, where there's the thuds of trees falling all too often, the horrific screeches of power tools that would never pass a safety regulation test. The cries of those who end up on the wrong side of a falling log, who have their legs crushed or their lungs caved in by a branch. The wind knocked out of them as their skulls crack on the ground. No one would want to stay in a place full of risk, not when there's no good guys and no bad guys and no way to fight off the things that hide in the dark. So his grandfather made them up. Stories of things that could be chased away or slaughtered, things that snapped and gnashed but never won. Most importantly, things that you can run away from.


    His grandfather was all he ever had, and he became all he ever wanted. He didn't need a mother or a father, not when he had one man to create a thousand different figures that could save him from the monsters that hid under his bed, in his closet, in the shadows at the corners of his room. He was even well provided for. Food, shelter, water. He had to work, sure, but he didn't mind. Not when he had the idea in his head that some day he'd turn into an immortalized character, someone who would inspire children after him. He wanted to be eternalized in the same way that he knew his grandfather would be with all of the tales surrounding him. For a little boy with no parents, he did well. He had a good life, and he didn't know when it all changed. He didn't even know why. He just knew that one day he woke up, expecting his grandfather there, and he wasn't. That was okay. He left sometimes. For hours, days, weeks. He came back with new legends, even when he got older and started to ask for explanations, even when he accepted them as fiction. He would come back. It would be okay.


    They found the body later, torn apart by beasts. Mutts, they'd said. That was when he first noticed that there were things creeping in the corners of his eyes, things that ran away when he tried to look at them. They wouldn't stay for long, but he knew they were there. They taunted him just often enough to make him question what was going on. They wouldn't leave him alone, and they followed him to the Peacekeepers who landed him in the orphanage and threw away the key. He didn't know who his old house was given to. He had no say in it. He wasn't old enough to have his own property. It wasn't like he received an inheritance. Just his grandfather's journal with all it's blank pages which he hadn't even bothered cracking open since he'd received it. He got nothing. Absolutely nothing at all but the creatures that began to haunt him in the night without his grandfather to remind him how to chase them away. And now he has no idea what to do.



    "I know this is my final way of crossing over into the realm of the unreal, that this is the final straw and nothing past this point can be recognized as normal. I'm deciding to accept the fact that I'm just as distorted as the realities my - our - grandfather fed me. I want you to know, possible future me, that once upon a time there was a boy. A normal boy who sat on his grandfather's knee to listen to fairy tales where the good guys always won and the bad guys always died. One where people fell in love and it triumphed over everything. I want you to know that once you believed in all of those things, and that's probably why you are who you are now. What you are now. Because you welcomed the monsters and beasts. You begged for your chance to fight them head on, and that's what you're doing right now. If I don't win against them, maybe you'll have to. Maybe by the time this gets around to you, you won't want to win. I don't know what these things want from me, or if they want anything at all. I don't know if they'll go away. I don't know if the people in this orphanage will make me want to lose my last connection to sanity.


    Right now, I don't even know what's sane and what's not.


    At least I know what I'm afraid of. Maybe I'm better off than everyone else in this District. Maybe you are, too. Maybe we all are up in this orphanage. The forgotten, discarded, unwanted. Maybe we're better off than you all. At least I know my place. At least they're a family where everyone else fights and torments each other, too afraid of the Games to enjoy their own company.


    (And there's a girl, you see, and I don't want to be terrified - I don't want to think they'll take her away. I hope you remember this girl, because I swear, she's worth remembering. Even with everything going on I know she's worth that much, and probably so much more. She's different just like everyone else here, but she's beautiful. If you've forgotten, I hope I've reminded you. I really do. She's gorgeous in the way that broken things often are. In the way that you become infatuated with the idea of fixing something and putting it back together just to see if you can, but I don't want to fix her. I just don't want her to look so sad. If this will help, then I think it might just be enough to keep me from fearing change, because that's all this is, right?)


    Tell me when you figure out, though, won't you? Tell me when you find your grand journey and your happy ending. Then write it down and burn it, burn every last ash, because you don't want to do this to anyone else. You asked all of your questions. Maybe now you're getting all of your answers.


    Was it ever worth asking, Jacob? Tell me, was it?"
    Family members: grandfather-dead
    Crush/Love interest: noah ella smith


    Strengths:
    -fighting
    -the mace
    Other:

  • frost on your WINDOW--62ND HUNGER GAMES--JUMP ON IN

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    [please be advanced to semi-advanced, [4-6+ well developed sentences per post]


    if you do not meet the requirements 3 times, you will be eliminated.


    [i will randomly select a person to die at a random stage from a random picker machine--
    randompicker.com, and they will sit out. each day, 1 person dies. you may make two people, but if you make a boy and a girl, to keep the genders even, you will get fk. :)


    also, the arena is in a tundra land, with part of it being the taiga, and part in a forest with a small lake.


    you do NOT have to make a form, but if you want to, go ahead.


    to post, please include a picture, and your charrie's age and district.


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