Harlan Buckram
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The name's Harlan, seventeen years old. I spent my entire life living in a tiny apartment in downtown District Eight with my parents. It was 'rustic' at best, but hey, it was home. We lived a quiet life for the most part. I spent most of my time back home working in the factories. Yeah, I'm kind of one of those 'all work, no play' types. I'm rather good with my hands and I can fix just about anything and textiles are my specialty. I preferred to just stay home and work on my art when I wasn't at the factory. Friends might be for some people, but the streets of District Eight aren't exactly safe so I was probably better off staying inside anyway. Can't say my life is exactly glamorous but hey, who can complain?
reblog posted 1 year ago with 20 notes →
Paint Me Like one of Your French Girls || Hadrian

The day had finally come to a close and I couldn’t be happier. Training had exhausted me and all I wanted to do was relax. In an act of good faith, Mindie had actually managed to get me a set of paints in exchange for keeping Camilla calm. It certainly wasn’t my intention, but I can’t say I mind. Sitting out in the living room, I unscrew one of the caps, squeezing out a bit of blue paint. I stare at it. Back home I didn’t have access to this kind of stuff. I twirl the paintbrush around in it, mixing it with a bit of white. Closing my eyes, I try to recall the sea from today. Even if it wasn’t real, it was beautiful. And let’s face it, that’s probably about as close to an ocean as I’m going to get. I’ve barley put  few strokes on the canvas before I hear a knock on the door. Curious, I go to answer it. I couldn’t be more surprised. “Adrian?” I ask. “What are you doing here?”

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