using the prompts below, write a drabble (or whatever) a day for the next 30 days. find someone willing to hit you if you miss a day. look back at the end and go ‘oh! i’m a writer!’.
beginning. accusation. restless. snowflake. haze. flame. formal. companion. move. silver. prepared. knowledge. denial. wind. order. thanks. look. summer. transformation. tremble. sunset. mad. thousand. outside. winter. diamond. letters. promise. simple. future.
So, uh, this fails entirely at being a "drabble" but it is a thing. Rokia, at the postwar hearings.
“Collaboration with the regime of President Snow.
Collaboration in the War Crimes of Alma Coin…”
Rokia tunes it all out. She’s been expecting them, these accusations. Yesterday they treated her like a victim: The Games, the…after, the world Snow threw her into.
Today they want to know if she’s a criminal, too.
“You were instrumental in designs of heavy lift hovercraft for delivery of Peacekeeper weaponry.”
The woman’s grey. Grey hair, grey suit, grey eyes, pale skin. Probably not Capitol, maybe Thirteen, who really cares?
“I asked you a question.”
She didn’t, Rokia thinks. She doesn’t say it, because snarky little shit isn’t a good look in a courtroom.
“Yes,” Rokia says. Not-question answered.
“Why?” The woman leans forward. Rokia can smell her perfume. Probably not Thirteen then.
“Because Snow told me to.” As though it wasn’t obvious.
The woman looks frustrated. “You collaborated in Capitol oppression of the Districts,” she snaps. “And that’s all you have to say for yourself?”
“You also built hovercraft for Alma Coin.”
Still not a question, but Rokia nods. “Yes.”
“Hovercraft which were used to commit war crimes.”
Rokia isn’t sure if that’s a question or not, and anyway she doesn’t know how to answer it.
“Why did you switch sides?”
Rokia bites her lip. “I escaped the Capitol, went to Thirteen, they asked me to make myself useful.”
“You disguised hovercraft from Thirteen to look like they were from the Capitol.”
“They were from the Capitol. I repaired them, Thirteen’s pilots flew them.”
The woman looks toward the panel of judges. Rokia glances over too—they look bored. Not, she suspects, what this woman was aiming for.
“So you just do what you’re told?” The woman sneers.
Rokia wants to laugh. Maybe this lady is Capitol, she’s out of touch enough.
“What’s so funny?” Okay, not completely out of touch. Rokia’s mouth must have twitched.
“Yes,” Rokia says, and it’s not funny anymore, because… “I had—have—two younger sisters. I was trying to keep them safe.”
Now the woman’s smiling.
“And where are they now, then?”
Rokia bites down hard on the inside of her lip, tastes blood. “Hidden.” She snaps it off and the woman’s smile turns snakelike.
“So all that work, selling out to the highest bidder, all that’s for nothing.”
Rokia’s fingernails are digging into her palms—if they were any longer she’d be drawing blood. But this woman wants her to react, and she’ll go back to the Arena before she lets that happen.
Besides, it’s almost amusing watching the lady get more and more frustrated, like an engine overheating.
“Counsellor,” the head judge’s voice is bored, and annoyed. “I think we’ve heard enough, let the kid go.”
Rokia imagines the steam coming from the woman’s ears, but she just climbs to her feet, walks out, and heads for the shop.